Icememory

The halls move in on him like sharks, crowding, coming in from obscure angles. The whole house is a predator. Up on the moor, it swallows what it can, and spits out the broken remains. The villagers find the victims, sometimes, before they die of exposure. Knocked down by the wind and cradled by heather.

The doors opened up before him, locked behind, and now there are long spars of woodwork beneath his nails. He can feel it. The terror that pours into him and pushes everything else aside, out into the clouds of dust that creep like fog. All the light has turned sepia in reflection from woodwork and brass. All he can smell is rot, and murk, and the corpses of long dead flies. He was scared that his heart would fail, or that he would starve, or maybe drop from exhaustion, but now he realises that he won't be here that long. The house has already taken his name and made it just another echo.

Up on the moor, the heather sings to itself, and waits.