A body: a being composed of entrails, bones, flesh and, according to some, a soul. The sum of all that opened its eyes. The room wasn't familiar. Wooden walls, centuries since their construction ended, somewhat red. Perhaps a beautiful tone initially, but now they looked stained in dark hues. That was everything. Even the light came through windows that showed an admirable lunar clarity. He, as an inhabitant, was the only discordant thing: dressed in Western style with disposable clothes, cheap and somewhat comfortable—t-shirt, pants, and barefoot. His sneakers?
What was he doing here?
The first challenge was to get out of there. Not speaking—it's stupid to ask. If you don't remember how you arrived somewhere, it's clumsy to find out who brought you there. He wasn't handcuffed or tied, so the rest was the least of it. Trying to open the window, he noticed it was very firm. Impossible to exit through it, unless he risked the noise. Not an alternative. There was still the door—that mass with an old lock, with a large slot, big enough to see through. But that was the last thing. Bringing his eye close, a black dot, something shiny visible at the other end. Then pain. A migraine multiplied at life's end, when the object reached his brain. His body stood up; he could still feel in the distance his head impacting the floorboards.
The scream was drowned out, partly because the atrocious pain wasn't there anymore. Mainly because he still hadn't awakened somewhere he recognized. It was a half-bathroom. The sink was full of products in jars. The small skylight barely showed silhouettes. It was clear he wasn't dead. To be sure, he turned on the faucet and brought what came out to his face. Fortunately, it wasn't blood. While trying to clear his mind, to know what had happened. He hadn't gone out that day. The last thing he remembered was... Well, he hadn't seen his fiancée, nor met with friends. The pantry still had a couple of days' worth... Was his memory so fallible? Looking for something to dry himself with, he touched the end. Something dry, cold like mineral coal, but not so rough.
"You closed your eyes."
Impact. His already-closed eyes began to tear. The blow hit him on the bridge of his nose, but it didn't stop. His forehead split on the second impact. The hand now holding his skull was very strong and fast. So much that by the second blow, he managed to put his hands on what remained of the sink. They were cut, and the edges opened furrows in his fingers and palms. As best he could, he opened his eyes covered in blood. That's how he saw the edges enter through his cornea.
"You're boring."
Now nothing contained the scream—long, strangled, until his throat closed. It doesn't matter. He's here to entertain. That's something he won't allow. He's in a living room, but he won't waste time. He takes a fireplace poker. No one's going to mess with him. He kicks the door open, alert. The hallway receives him with a play of light and shadow. Doesn't matter. He needs to find something—the exit if possible. For now, find stairs, something that leads him to the entrance. But he couldn't advance beyond the third door. A hand came out. This time he saw it. With his weapon, he strikes and manages to make it retreat, even though he can't see whose it is. He can distinguish the nails—long, sharp. So much so that once he manages to close the door, he can see the metal marked by the defense. That's enough to flee in haste. But he was so fast he didn't see the mark until his leg entered there. A crack of wood, flesh, bones, bleeding. The sensation of cold running through his body. When the door opened again, he waited. The pain was terrible, but death—if that happened—was a couple of meters away. He could feel it—the cold, the mockery...
"Better. Entertaining, but now it's not moving... move!"
The impact was so fast he managed to see a piece of wood exiting his chest as he fell. The pain was terrible, although it finally ended.
He opened his eyes. He closed them. Nothing made sense. He needs to take a few minutes. There's no way he'll just run out. He has no idea how much time passed asleep, dead, or between each escape. Now in the distance he hears a tune, which was good for him because he only had to stay away. His sight now showed him a knife, above his head, with a hand holding it descending at full speed. A stupid death.
"Boring! Move, live!"
The next time his eyes saw light, he ran. He wasn't brave. Strength wouldn't help him either. He ran away from the music, the same one that sounded close at times and very far at others. He was in a bedroom. From his clothes, he pulled out evidence—everything that happened left a mark: stains, small tears. His pants had the tear on the leg. Besides, the house wasn't normal. This last time he just ran away from the music—a cheerful though slow little tune.
Dah-dah-dah-dah-dah
Dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah
He managed to enter one of the libraries. He wanted to know what was there, but the bookshelves were upside down. The texts seemed like blurs. The few books that had somewhat sensible titles lacked pages with text. Desperate, he looked for a Bible, some sign of something religious. That caused his fall. An encyclopedia came loose from one end and fell from the highest part of the shelf—a considerable height—and edge-first, opening his skull and giving him a millisecond view of his brains scattering.
"How fun!"
The voice kept him on the edge of madness. It didn't matter trying to escape. What did it matter if he could keep living by searching? But that—someone judging what he did—began to wear him down. He still tried to escape. The voice and the music—one so monotonous, the other terrifying. Besides, there were other facts. He wasn't hungry. He reached the kitchen looking for knives, but found none, although the oven was on. It was a warm room, with a desire to stay there, when he discovered he didn't want to eat. Not that there was nothing edible besides the wax fruit bowls; there was simply nothing. He dozed off, a few seconds perhaps. The heated environment giving the perfect excuse to let go, until he received a blow to the chin. He had fallen. They were pulling him. He felt pressure on his legs. He couldn't see what. All his attention was on the now-open door of the damned oven. Entering wasn't as hard as seeing the door close without being able to stop it. From there, the heat kept him alive—conscious at least in the process that took for every liquid in his body to reach boiling point.
"How good it smells! Turn, move, keep living a little longer!"
Time advances. There's very little clothing left that fits him. He lost his shoes when a broken pipe lodged in his feet while trying to escape through the internal plumbing. His t-shirt was torn and marked with all the bloodstains, but he no longer tried to look for clothes. As enormous as the house was, it didn't have many things he could use. Everything seemed to belong to the place. Everything was terrible. Death was behind doors, ceilings, floors. Horrible was that the places he had traversed—sure of having already mapped them in his mind—this one told him where things were, although they weren't there. Where the reading room should be: an attic staircase appeared. Where a spider the size of his waist bit him, leaving him paralyzed and as lunch. The digestive acid burned so much he still feels it even though he has nothing inside.
"You wrap it up so well. How fun!"
He had already lost count of how many bodies he might have left in the house. At least two per room. The only thing he hadn't managed was to get out to the garden. Outside, a hostile environment predominated. There was snow, that's certain. But it wasn't white. A vivid red fell on the garden, only it didn't stay. Each death, each attempt, and the garden returned to its vivid greens, diverse plants—almost a mockery of how terrible it was inside. The wood became increasingly darker. Planks left the wine tone, a vermilion or something resembling coagulated blood. The light still entered pale, but each time the complaints were greater, the impatience greater.
"It's not fun! Live! Sound! Listen! Obey!"
The deaths began to be more violent. They were no longer just traps. There were dismemberments. They drained his blood little by little for hours. Electrocuted in the pool, but not by his carelessness—he was thrown there. That gave him hope. Perhaps there was some advanced structure, where mad scientists kept the secret of his undeath. Maybe from there he could escape. But the horrors of the basement he only saw once. From then on, the door remained closed. Even fleeing, he made sure to see that it stayed that way.
One day, just when despair had him so overwhelmed that he remained on the floor no matter how much damage they did to him, the house trembled. The music became intermittent. Even the lights flickered. Everything screamed. For the first time, he wasn't the only one screaming in pain. Before he could laugh, he noticed everything was at peace. Without thinking much, he ran out. Nothing changed. No one waited for him around every corner. Everything seemed normal. He wasn't foolish. He reached the entrance door and the garden before the snow touched the grass. He ran desperately, happily, with hope. Jumping the fence, he suddenly found that outside he couldn't see anything. Not only that—there was no air! Only light could be seen above. He swam, with what little he remembered from his school years. He held his breath like when he tried not to scream, hoping they'd get tired of torturing him. He felt his lungs would burst, but he was close. He could almost touch the surface... Until he touched it. But he couldn't pass through it. It was rigid, very hard. He had little air. His body struggled for a few moments and began to descend when, instead of oxygen, it filled with water.
"Is it broken?"
"No. I've had it for eons. We just shake it and look. Everything starts again."
"It moves! It lives! How fun!"
"Now it's yours. I'm bored of the ornament."
The music and the snow began to stir inside the glass globe. In the center, a mansion. Fine marks pulled the tiny body inside. The show would continue.