Pitch black, a wide expanse of it. Dark ink leaks into every corner of my vision as I frantically throw my hands out. All I find is cold: inside and out, I’m just cold. My breathing picks up, the beating in my ears grows faster, but a distant, stops me from spiraling.

“Finally awake, are you?”

On cue with the mocking voice, fluorescent lights sear my vision before giving out to a dim, warm glow overhead. Or at least, from somewhere… There is no overhead, the walls stretch up seemingly forever, a black void descending from where the ceiling should be. I’m in a home kitchen, with dark red striped wallpaper and only the necessary appliances. Empty black painted counter tops and overhead cabinets line the walls. The dark hardwood flooring is pristine despite the vintage ambience.

“Pretty, I know, I spent time picking this one out.” Right, The Voice. “Don’t panic, you’re in good hands.” The smile was evident, they sounded amused, anticipating. “You can explore, you know. You’re a part of the family, make yourself at home!” Looking down, I realize I’m wearing outdated clothes, those of a teenage child in a 1950s family magazine. Despite how unnatural it feels, I can’t remember how I usually dress. I can’t remember anything, for that matter – nothing. The only thing I can confirm is normal is my muteness, but I’m not sure if that’s comforting or if it’ll be my fate.

Following The Voice’s suggestion, I walk through the singular door on the wall opposite the fridge. It creaks, loud. A screech like a startled small child. Beyond the doorway is a long hallway with two more branching out from it, and a door at the end. The same wallpaper and flooring is used in every square inch of the building, and the door at the end of the hallway is identical to the one I left. Once again, there is a dim warm glow lighting every corner, but there’s no perceptible source. Muffled, incoherent voices emit from the walls, joyful and articulated – and in some way, artificial.

I turn down one of the stemming hallways. Then again, and again, and… I don’t know where I’m going. Have I even gone anywhere? Everywhere looks the same, the only change being that the voices in the walls have become louder. Opening a door after minutes of wandering, I –

“Hi!” An overly cheerful voice with a matching smile greet me at the door. I stumble back, startled, and the exceedingly joyous woman steps closer – too close. “You’re finally awake – you slept for a long time, you know. Care for tea?” She blinks, expecting, black eyes stare at me. Her movements are precise, but not swift, stiff. The smile plastered on her face doesn’t leave. I look beyond her, there are three other people sitting at a table, all smiling, all staring, all with black eyes, all with 1950s family fashion. One adult man, and two teenage children – a family. “Husband, could you give Child a teacup?”

“Of course, Wife!” Dad pours a deep red steaming liquid into a teacup and slides it in front of an empty chair at the end of the table. It isn’t until I’m already sitting that I realize Mom had led me to a seat. Brother and Sister observe me: as I pick up the cup, sip, gulp, and place the cup back on its coaster. Nobody else is drinking tea. “Son, how about you tell us about your day?” Every pair of fake black eyes snap in Brother’s direction, and immediately, like it was scripted, he speaks. Others butt in, give their two cents, and they keep talking until Mom and Dad say it’s time to go to sleep.

Days go on like that. I don’t know how I let days pass, it’s all a blur, there’s no windows in here. I’m always with this family, doing something, things families do. House seems to change whenever I turn around. Every day I walk the corridors, I somehow end up somewhere different, even when taking the same route. The dining room is somehow always easy to get to though, almost as if once I think about going there, House places the dining room behind the next door I open.

It’s been a week, at least, I think so. There’s no calendars here. I’m sitting at the end of the dining room table, as usual, listening to my family converse.

“I took out the wallpaper in my room, painted the walls instead,” Sister interjects in the middle of the conversation. In that moment, she seemed to waver from her usual behavior, if ever so slightly. Her eyes shifted, less of a void black like the others’ – and even my own nowadays – and they gained emotion, they shined. The room was silent. Deadly silent. A heavy shift in atmosphere.

“You… did what?” Dad spat. Cold, monotone. Nobody was smiling.

“I never wanted wallpaper, and it’s much harder to keep up than paint. It also –”

“What in the world made you think it would be okay to take out the wallpaper?”

“I didn’t want it –”

“It doesn’t matter what you want! Wallpaper is valuable, better. There’s no reason for you to bitch about ‘upkeep,’ it matters too much for you to get rid of it.”

“Why?! It’s my room!”

“And it’s my wallpaper!”