Darkness. Not a peep in the void.
Then shapes, sounds, blurred and distorted, but growing into something more tangible. I feel my feet on the floor and my arms by my sides. My mouth is dry, and my breath comes to me in short gasps, my hearing slowly restoring. Tasteful piano music soothes my aching brain, though I see no piano. I blink the haziness away and take in my surroundings, realising with moderate shock that I’m in my household ballroom.
I look down at myself. I’m wearing my finest, most expensive garments, a three-piece navy suit with silver cufflinks. My hands run back along my scalp to find my hair groomed into a stylish wave. I see others dressed in similarly graceful attire, the men in suits and ties and the women in sophisticated dresses. They chat politely to one another, laughing and smiling, glasses of wine in their hands. An ornate chandelier dominates the room from above, as the fireplace burns a thoughtful light. A cool, comfortable energy hangs in the air, dampening my uncertainty. The room is neither crowded and boisterous, nor dull and unpopulated, but instead a perfect balance between.
Still somewhat dazed, I force my legs into action and take a short stroll. There is no blatant tell for whatever the occasion may be, no birthday banner, nor Christmas tree or New Year countdown clock. Tables are arranged in lines beside the walls, covered in gift boxes, flower vases, and elegant snack food. Grand paintings adorn the walls picturing utopian landscapes in various forms, ranging from futuristic mega-cities to happy, humble grasslands. Moustached butlers amble between bunches of people, carrying plates of cooked shrimp and colourful pastries. The smell is intoxicatingly pleasant.
My bewilderment settles to mere curiosity, and I decide to start looking for answers. I approach a man standing alone near the corner of the room, sipping a glass of champagne. He hums a merry tune to himself, but stops as I tap him on the shoulder.
He turns towards me. Half of his face has been torn off, leaving nothing but a cavernous opening in its place, exposing his brain matter. I back away in disgust, pointing and stammering as the man gives me a puzzled, disdainful expression and turns back around again.
I flick my eyes from guest to guest in a panic. Their friendly demeanours had distracted me at first, but now I see the awful truth. Each is marred by some terrible deformity. A woman with an icy-blue complexion and a shock of wet, drooping hair chats courteously to a gentleman with blackened, burned skin. Another man with a collection of dripping holes shot clean through his temple talks to two twin brothers, one covered in boils and scabs, the other with an opening melted straight through his chest.
I weave through the ballroom, my unwelcome reception becoming blindingly apparent. Groups of people hurriedly slide out of my way, shooting me dirty looks from the corner of my eye. To every conversation I try to enter, I am met with only contemptuous glances and raised eyebrows, as if I were the deformed one. Even the butlers, who are noticeably free of disfigurement, simply ignore me, treating my presence as some sort of imperfection.
I am startled once more by a mighty creak that echoes from the front door. The curtains burst open, and an aura of pure, white light beams into the room, so dazzling, I am forced to shield my eyes from the brightness. The guests smile and sigh contently, and one by one, they put down their refreshments and siphon through the doorway, disappearing as the light engulfs their bodies.
The last guest slips through, and the door slams shut in my face as I approach it.
I turn back towards the ballroom to discover that the hospitable atmosphere has evaporated. The fire is extinguished, and the candlestick flames have been reduced to gusts of smoke, plunging the room into a darkened, greyish shadow. The chandelier has fallen into disrepair, and the paintings seem to warp and darken before my very eyes, twisting into all manner of strange shapes. The food, which before seemed so appetising, is now rotten and dusty, and swarmed by flies. I pick up a seemingly unaffected glass of wine, only for it to spoil and turn to ashes in my hand.
Childlike voices giggle and whisper all around me, slowly growing in volume. I come across a shattered mirror, my body decomposing in its dark reflection. Peeling skin stretches tight over my bony frame, and the light drains from my eyes in an instant, leaving only a hollow stare. My suit withers to rags, the hair falling from my head in messy clumps. Horrified, I collapse upon the floor.
Another voice, louder than the others, whispers in my ear.
“You’ve been here too long,” it speaks, in a voice like grinding teeth. “Better wake up now, before you forget how to.”
And as I open my mouth to scream, I awaken in a cold sweat upon my bedroom floor.
Immediately, I run downstairs to the ballroom. It’s untouched, exactly as it's always been. Empty and unused, not a dust particle out of place. There are no guests, no tables. No paintings on the wall nor fire in the fireplace. I sigh in relief and slink back to my bedroom. Merely a bad dream.
The rising sun informs me that the day has not quite begun. At ease, I slip back into bed and stare out of the window. Outside, the ground is white and powdery, and a chill lies in the air, though the morning snowfall has ceased.
Something catches my eye. A discrepancy. A light breeze pulls the curtains apart, and I jump up to confirm what can surely not be true.
From the front door leads dozens of footprints, imprinted in the snow. They carry on far into the distance, over the rolling hills and out of sight.
