Work Text:
This house is old. Its years weigh upon it even at rest; dragging down and drawing in.
Some days it feels as if the years weigh down upon you as well; as the timber and cement shudder in the wind and sigh their endless stories into your ears. The house is old, but still strong. A monument, standing to its own implacability and the changes wrought by time.
But, no. These are not the sounds of a house at rest.
The house has weathered many storms, you think.
But, this is not a storm. This is not the wind lashing the branches against the tiles. This is not the rain filling the eaves and returning, gushing, to the ground. A nighttime’s slumber filled with the frolicking of zephyr’s children as they race through the sky.
No, this is no storm.
This house has felt the warmth of many lives in its years. Families, friends, people have filled this house with their stories. As have you, in your time. But, now, it is only you. And your cat.
So, no, this is not you.
You’ve opened your eyes now, straining against the dark in your room. Searching.
But there is nothing. Nothing, but the dark, you, and your cat.
And yet, the noise.
You know very well the sounds of your house. The sounds that say, old, but sturdy; careworn, but warm; alone, but safe.
But these are not those sounds.
These sounds are… purposeful.
You peer towards your cat.
Perhaps a mouse, you think. A mouse would be searching. Of course, a mouse!
But you know it is no mouse.
Or maybe a squirrel, you tell yourself as you reach for your phone. A quiet thumb resting against the emergency dial.
But you know it is no squirrel.
Perhaps it is but the fog of dreams, the shades of nightmare. Perhaps, sleep still as yet reigns over your mind and this is all some dream brought on by the night and its shadows.
But your cat’s eyes are open and its claws prick against your skin as he listens, intent, staring at the open doorway to your room.
No, it is not dreams that shift and slide in your house tonight.
You silently throw off the sheets, taking care to leave your cat unhindered in the linens and follow his silent steps into the hall.
It is a relief that no one is there. The front door remains closed and locked, barring the night outside and trapping safety within. There is no errant breeze, no susurration of wind. No window broken or askew.
Yet you hold your breath, standing still as your cat winds round your ankles.
There is nothing out of place, nothing jarred or jolted, but for the noise and there would be nothing.
Nothing except the other door. The door which now sits ever so slightly ajar.
It is not the bathroom door with its gurgling pipes, nor the basement door with the deep earthen smell of mudded walls and floor. But yet this door is nothing special either, it is no portal to far off lands, nor a secret hidden away.
It is just a door, and behind it, just a room. In fact, barely a room. A closet. A space empty save for your clothes, books, and a box or two; mostly forgotten, as it has always been.
Except now, now something else is within; something that cannot be within. Something searches within.
Searching for what, you cannot say; the sounds, which drove you to wakefulness with their unfamiliarity, are still too hushed. But, you are not some wealthy tycoon, whose diamonds sit in a hidden vault, nor some spy who strongholds secrets behind your lips. There is nothing within that room of value so great as to tempt even the most desperate.
Nothing of value; except now – your cat.
For your cat does not share your midnight caution, and the fear that paralyses you holds no restraint for a curious feline.
And now all is quiet again within the house. But for the beating of your heart, the soft pulse of your thumb against your phone, and your whispered, hurried breaths. There is no more searching, no more noise. Only the vastness of indecision and dread, stretching out in front of you.
But your choice has already been made and choices made by others, even cats, cannot be undone alone.
And you stand, a silent sentinel, as the door opens and the sounds within, now resumed, are suddenly, stupefying, sounds without.
“Tsukasa-kun, we did not come here to raid someone’s closet! You put that jacket down right now.”
“Careful, Natsumikan, or we’ll wake up our host… Oh! This sweater looks good too. But then everything looks good on me.”
“Awww… who’s a handsome little man? Some scritches, or milk for the kitty?”
This house is also not a photography studio.
Except when, apparently, it is.