1
He woke.
Varying shades of red gradually filtered into view. The air was stale and heavy, leaving a metallic bitterness on his tongue.
His blood throbbed in his ears. He could barely make out any other sound. Each and every beat sent a fresh wave of agony through his temples.
Burgundy, crimson, and rust bled into one another, laced with filmy white cords and bursts of yellow pus. It wasn't so much that the room was covered in it. Everything, from the ceiling to the walls to the very furniture, looked as though it were made of viscera and blood. He knew, at least on an instinctual level, that he was in his bedroom. For the most part, the room was the same as he remembered it.
The lamp on his table cast a sickly, feeble glow. The space immediately next to it cast no shadow; someone had taken his typewriter.
A note of confusion blended into the dull throbbing pain. He'd spent countless days feverishly writing notes, memories, and revelations with that machine. It had anchored his mind even as reality seemed to deteriorate all around him. To have it suddenly disappear brought him that much closer to his breaking point.
In the typewriter's place were scrapbooks, photos, torn pages, and clippings, all delicately veiled by a thin layer of dust. He rifled through the papers and flipped through the books, but all were unrecognizable. The pain was stronger now, and he leaned against the desk to steady himself.
As he tried to force back the pain, an anguished cry pierced the air.It had come from the living room.
---
The crackling din of static filled his ears. Even the slightest movement sent fresh torture through his brain. The air had become all but suffocating, making each consecutive breath increasingly labored. Everywhere he turned, the same nauseating shades of red assaulted his senses.
Investigating the sound was likely to end badly, but there was little else he could do.
All of the doors and windows had been sealed, their visceral layers blending into the walls around them. Escape was impossible, but he had already known this.
Though the living room was empty, there were numerous signs of another's presence. Like the scrapbooks in the bedroom, the belongings of some unseen phantom stood in place of his own. Only the furniture remained as he remembered. Someone had turned on a TV that wasn't his, though all that was coming through was static. He tried to turn it off, even pulling out the plug, but nothing he did seemed to work.
He was becoming increasingly unsure that this apartment was his.
Above the sofa hung a painting that caught his eye. In the image, a raging bonfire burned in a dark clearing. Lifeless bodies lay strewn on the dirt, the fire casting a ghastly glow over their mutilated flesh. There were exactly twenty-one. He involuntarily shuddered and turned away.
His head felt like it was going to implode.
It was only then that he noticed the strange markings on the wall.
---
The wall...next to the painting...
The wall had a face.
How could he have possibly missed it?
Moving his attention from the painting to the bit of wall immediately adjacent, he stared at it as if entranced.
Its eyes were wide and vacant, its mouth frozen in a silent moan. The face shared the shades of the infected wall, though the colors were fainter than the area around it. It was as though someone or something was trying to push through. Though the face was still, he could swear he felt it watching him through its blind eyes.
The sight made his skin crawl.
He slowly began to back away, his eyes transfixed despite his horror.
It was on his third step that the face began to move.
---
The diseased walls began to peel away with a sickening, wet sound.
Viscera and rust gave way to pulsating black ichor.
The wall…
The wall was decaying…
His dry throat stuttered and choked on a scream.
The face distorted and shook as it struggled to pull free.
Hot agony ripped through his skull as white spots overtook his vision.
Through the void came two arms struggling against viscous bonds.
It was reaching for him now, its fingers clawing at the space between them.
He felt his legs give way as he tried to run.
---
It was coming for him.
---
He couldn't escape.