The wood floors were hard, a cold presence that locked in secrets and wouldn't tell.
Colin hated them with every fiber of his being, among similar such inanimate objects that would never speak to him no matter how much he urged them to. They remained as silent as the dead. What use was a haunted manor where the ghosts would not torment the current residents even but a little? Morbid thoughts crept into his mind when the candles were blown out, thoughts that yearned to see the mother that never was. Had her spirit forsaken them as her husband after the accident, or the staff who were so quick to lock their doors and speak their prayers?
When he implored the wretched housekeeper, "What is it that everyone says before they go to sleep at night?" she would only shush him, pressing the back of her hand against the boy's forehead. Boney, cold – as lifeless as the house itself. No one cared whether he lived or died, not even the dead themselves.
All he knew were empty sheets that engulfed him. Sometimes he dreamt that the blankets would bind and strangle him, or the pillows would tear apart and force the feathers down his throat – over and over again until he was filled with them. Was that what was truly inside everyone? They bled him when he was ill. Maybe what they were in search of were the feathers inside. That wasn't so bad at all.
It was easy to forget that others existed outside of his sphere, that the world was as empty a place as his bedroom.
Colin felt rather satisfied at the thought of everyone else being as lonely as he was.