Failure

Why do I always go back to that house? It's not there now, you know. They condemned it. It was torn down and hauled away years ago, but it still stands tall in the shadows of my worst nightmares.

Inside that house fear and cold and anger swirl in the air like body-less demons seeping through the cracks. On really bad nights, you can hear them moan against the boarded windows as they force their way in.

One moment, I'm laughing, watching the kids bicker over who gets to stir the kool-aid. I turn my head to look down the hallway. Everything's gone dark, just like that. Sometimes the house has been emptied, free of obstacles. Most times, it seems to be a living entity, complete with internal organs, digesting me.

I'm compelled to venture down the hall. A sound or a light or a feeling beckons me into that room, and even though I know there's nothing good waiting for me there, I push on. My fear is conflicted, shoving me forward, wrenching me backward. I shouldn't be going in there. I know what's there. The whisper in the back of my mind keeps telling me, This has happened before. This is real. There's no escape. Don't be stupid. Don't be stupid. Don't be stupid.


My body disobeys. I see myself opening the door. I see the things that have been done.

Why? Why, why why would he do that? 


My anger turns to rage, but no matter how much I try, I can never do any damage. I swing the bat, but I never connect, and I wake up to a overwhelming feeling of failure.