The house that closes your reyes when You sleep

I got it cheaply given that it sat empty for three decades, and the realtor couldn't explain to me why the windows were locked from within.

During the first evening, the corridor counted four zanks. The next day, five. Then, six. The walls segregated a dense fluid that smelled like metal and rancid milk, in addition to the entrances, each of them, opening autonomously at three o'clock in the morning with a roar that closely mimicked an unjointed hiss.

In the cellar I found claw marks on top of the upper deck, not on the firm pavement, over the deck. Perhaps someone had transited by reversing their stance, tearing at the woody material, trying not to collapse into whatever resided on the immediate lower level.

The day before yesterday I looked to get out. I turned the entry knob, and beyond the frame could not find the outside - it was the hallway again, longer, darker, with walls that pulsed slightly like seams next to a damaged organ.

I leaped at the glass and hit it with my knuckle until it split, but on the other side there was another room, and another, and another all alike, all deserted, all with a seat in the middle looking into the corner where something breathed out of shape. The house has no term because the house is not a place, it's a womb and I spend thirty days being processed slowly, very slowly.