MicroHorror

This house is dead and desiccated. The windows patched with pages of yellowed newspaper, peeling at the corners. Windowsills are littered with dead flies and wasps that spent their last moments futilely bumping against the grimy glass, seeking freedom. Coagulated dust blankets all surfaces, choking all colors to gray. Corners are heaped with broken prams and wheelchairs, smashed televisions and unloved dolls. The air hangs heavy and oppressive.

A monster lives here.

The architecture is aggressive and nightmarish, a Geiger landscape incarnate. Razor-edged mirror-frames bedeck the lopsided walls. Corridors twist away secretively into the shadows, a rabbit’s warren of abrupt corners and gloomy hiding places. In the living room, barbed mantelpieces crown a fireplace stoked with charred bones. A grand chandelier of crystalline daggers is suspended precariously in the middle of the room, a trap waiting for a victim.

A monster lives here.

In the aphotic cellar sits a disconsolate shadow. Hunched and breathing shallowly, he stares at the walls, not moving for whole days at a time. His living quarters are carpeted with scattered glass and debris that cracks like chicken bones when trodden underfoot. The colorless beast in his colorless lair tries to tame the rats for company but they only bite his wicked fingers. Here sits a slayer of innocents, a creature of the night. Once wrathful and terrible and feared as legend. Now old and broken and very, very alone.