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That Mortal Wound

They had hope. But even in the crawlspace, a place safe from the house’s intrusions upon their sanity, they could feel time scraping it away, like meat off a bone. More days, more weeks passing. The food, odd and inconsistent. Their sleep, stitched together with fraying thread. Hamish said he’d never see his family again, and at night he wandered the crawlspace, crying out in sadness, and yelling in anger—at Nick, at the house, and most of all, at himself. Lore feared she’d never make another game. But she didn’t cry or scream, she just grew empty and cold, and Owen could feel her pulling away. Taking notes and marching the crawlspace like a sentry. Hoarding items. Watching and waiting. Owen, for his part, just felt lost. Sometimes he tried to talk to Hamish about better days, but Hamish didn’t want to reminisce, said it hurt too damn bad. He tried to talk to Lore about their new game they’d make when they got out, but she blew him off, said she had things to do. So Owen, for the most part, fell silent. The house was not in their heads here, but it had still done its job. It was emptying them out. First of hope. Then everything else could go, too, drained out like blood from a butchered deer.