The Hunger Underfoot

Journal Entry – December 10, 1871

The guests are losing time.

Mr. Rourke swore it was morning even as the sun set outside his window. He blinked at the darkness like it had betrayed him. Others moved slowly through the hall, as if walking through deep water.

The fog watches them with a kind of patient interest, curling around their legs, lingering at their throats.

I set my hand on the stair railing and felt something pulse beneath the wood — a heartbeat, deep and distant, like the house itself is learning to live.

When I spoke aloud — “Where is the missing one?” —

the floor beneath my feet warmed.

It felt like an answer.