When I bought this house, it seemed like an excellent deal. It was a good neighborhood, far better than the one whose streets I grew up on, and for nearly as cheap as a place back there would have cost. All I had to deal with was a few noisy neighbors. Easy, right?
As I laid there in bed, the party going on in the neighboring house only getting louder and more raucous as the night grew, I reflected on the old adage about deals that are too good to be true. Even a mound of pillows couldn't block out the sounds of their merrymaking. The kind of music being blasted from that damnable house, I'm surprised the windows haven't shattered, and the pain hasn't been chipped away. I peered out the window; surely it was wrapping up soon?
To my dawning horror, I realized that guests were still arriving. A veritable conga line of them, in all manners of dress and costume. A tall and robed individual was entering, followed by a trio of equally tall fellows that seemed to have coordinated their costumes amongst the three of them, judging by the identical robe design and colors. A bishop, a pirate, a… statue? And many others, besides.
I moaned in despair, and buried my head in the pillows again, shutting my eyes tight. Whoever the host of this party is, I regretted ever moving next to him. His bl_dy parties are robbing me of all sleep, and the refreshments here are mediocre at best. Honestly, Greyfields 1882? And not a speck of Amanita Sherry to be found. I put the glass back on the tray, and waved the server away in disgust. This party is rubbish, why did I even come?
Ah right, because anyone that's anyone is here. I moved into the crowd to start mingling. Ah, there we are. I wave a friend of mine over. "Abner, My good lad!" I call out as he approaches. "Rubbish party, right?"
He didn't answer. Of course he didn't, he never speaks. Did I forget that? No, of course not. I turn to my friend Reginald on my opposite side, an up and coming priest sure to make bishop someday, who came here with me. "So, are you enjoying yourself? It's not your preferred sort of party, but still."
He replies with a series of fervent hissing, gesticulating wildly as he does.
"Ha! Just what I wanted to hear, Reggy." I return with a grin. I took a hot slice of meat off of the kitchen table, relaxed back in my chair as I chewed into it, red fluids running down my gullet as I did. Soon, I realized that I was no longer alone. "Ah, Cupsy," I say to the robed figure that had sat down beside me. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"The pleasure is all mine, dearest friend" Mr. Cups replied. "I just wanted t-"
I pushed my way through the crowd, franticly. The ballroom was full to the brim, people packed in like sardines, dancing arm-in-arm, but I pushed through them all. I saw him there, across the room, I swear it. There he is again, past that group. I pushed through, further and faster, but the sea of guests seemed to push back. I leapt for the chandelier, and ran atop them, headless of cries of protest beneath. There, in that doorway. I had reached him.
"Brother!" I cried.
He turned. "Sorry, do I know-"
I sway aimlessly around the dancefloor. I knew how to dance, of course, but there was hardly any room in this crowded room to pull any fancy moves, so swaying it was. A trio of robed figures were my partners. I bite into the shoulder of one, tasting salt instead of iron.
I greet a woman dressed as a statue at the door, flanked a much larger man in similar costume. But... it isn't makeup. I could see the clay crusting around her joints. She met my eyes and smiled, but her mouth was sealed shut.
The songs reverberate in my head. Burning, smothering. Further and faster. I tip my drink into my mouth, and it burns like the finest Gyromitra. I sing loudly, anything and everything that comes to mind, drowning out the world.
My voice is quiet. The people are quiet. The world is quiet.
The sun hasn't risen. It's been hours, days, years, and the sun hasn't risen. I look to the clock, but it's empty of hands. The whole room is empty, nothing but dust is on the floor. A cacophony replaces the silence; a torrential downpour is out there, beyond the windows. There's blood underneath my fingernails. But they aren't nails, they're claws. A membrane runs between the fingers, spreading down along the arms, and growing. A monstrous strength fills those hands, and I can feel the flesh and bone of my head shift. I try to speak, but only a shrill cry fills the air. One that fails to drown out the persistent whisper coming into my ear.
I bring my hands to my eyes. But as they slip over them, my vision doesn't change in the slightest.
They were already shut, after all.
Shut so tight.
I open my eyes.