GuNNhead

“Do you want to know your name? Well I do.” I thought aloud while shifting about the old house. “How did you get in there? There can’t be much food.” I stuffed more trinkets and odds and baubles into my back pockets. Left or right pocket makes an important distinction which pocket it’s in. For my memory, I’ve not begun an official separation, just a cataloging of like-items. A spider- had made its way into building a web within an hourglass. The sand at the bottom was bright and white, except for the layer of dust on the outside of everything. I thought of moving it to get a better look, but decided against it, and while flipping it over would be kind of fun an a false scenario, this is real and I have far too much respect for spiders, even ones that are poor at homeownership. Location, location, location. It moved around within its confines. I continued about the house.

Floorboards creaked under my feet, dust-prints are left by my boots. Urban exploration can be cool. Mostly it’s just dumb, there’s simply not much going on with people, especially dead ones that abandoned their house in the woods. Eerie, maybe, if I believed in crap. But I don’t. I don’t believe in anything, I just fucking hate life, and see no reason to believe in any of it. So, a nice, sunny day, and here I am in a dilapidated and rickety house out in nowhere. I wish I knew better curse words to express my hate for existence. It’s so visceral. Words to kill by. At least the multiplicitory nature of the location eases my mind with chemicals to experience it with. Exhilaration of somewhere new, inherent danger, unknown histories. Plus, I can’t shake this really extra-creepy feeling I’ve had for the entire time I’ve been here. Chasing my irrational brain-chemistry, go against preservational instincts, I venture deeper into the house, but something catches my backpack, and I quickly try to get away.

The object smashes to the floor, and the contents that spill out onto the floor swirl into the air. Windows blow open, and gusts of wind force their way through the house. A sound erupts from the swirl of ashes.
“Beware! The oooooooold witch!” The following cackle deafens. For all intensive purposes, she unleashes her magic of lightning, apparitions, and smoke to create a more dramatic entrance, one sure to terrify. I am not terrified, but the new knowledge that the legends are true quickens my heartbeat.

“You are not afraid?”
“No, I am not, witch.”

She doesn’t exist, and I am impaled in the pit below as the floorboards have caved in. I’m still upstairs, and smash everything that I can, arriving at a bookshelf. One of them feels more real. While I bleed, impaled on random fallen objects, the bloodloss starts to make things fade away. I feel the words within the text, and gain new understanding. She is defeated, from what I was drawn to. I’m not sure what I’m doing or why.

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