I wake up in my rocking chair. I don`t remember sitting down, but as the light of morning breaches the cracks between the curtains, I know I`ve been sitting here all night. My night dress is damp. Though, I don`t remember getting wet. Crimson streaks and smears stain my skirt. I don`t know where they came from.

　　And I find that& amusing.

　　Thunk!

　　I hear the morning newspaper hit the wood of the porch and find the capacity to get up to get it as habit compels me into action. The door squeaks open, the morning air hits my face. It`s humid and too fresh. It`s suffocating. I find myself eager to return to my grandmother`s rocking chair where the air is so familiar, it has become stale. Newspaper in hand, I do just that, shutting out the air and light and the world with it.

　　The sports and entertainment sections slap against the new hardwood floor. I skim the news and editorials, at least, my eyes pass uselessly over the words without absorbing a single one. So I turn the pages. A few sections. Until I recognize the face of an old friend.

　　& Betsy Jane Finley Cornwall, loving mother, grandmother and great-grandmother, passed away at the age of 71. She was born February 21st, 1953 in the Raesport Memorial Hospital to Frank and Lucy Finley. Betsy grew up in Raesport&.

　　& Elizabeth "Eliza" May (nee Carter) Hull, mother of three, grandmother of six, returned to her God after eighty-two years of service to her family and community&.

　　The newspaper obituaries are interesting today. It`s my fault, you know. I brought this curse to them. Little Sarah`s curse. The curse of this house&.

　　It`s all your fault.

　　My hand throbs. It`s bandaged and bloody.

　　So much blood.

　　Memories of last night return in snatches. The mirror in the powder room is broken. Mrs. Larson will not be happy.

　　You should have told me.

　　It cut my hand. That`s why there`s blood on my night dress. How did I not notice the bandages sooner?

　　You deserve this.

　　But I don`t have to look at the faces in the mirror. No need when they simply stare at me from their places in the walls. And I don`t have to accept the most terrifying face as real.

　　What did you think was going to happen?

　　There were shards of glass in the cuts. I don`t know if I got them all out. I should check.

　　You have to get rid of it.

　　In my knuckles. Glass has a way of damaging things. Deep things. Like tiny knives needling into the tissues of your flesh, slicing with every movement.

　　What were you thinking?

　　Glass in my knuckles. Like I punched it- the mirror. I`ve never had much of a temper. There was never any point in getting angry. It always felt so& useless.

　　It`s for the best.

　　"Shhh! I`m trying to think!"

　　The storm brought her wrath. She must have been angry. We disturbed her. I disturbed her. She is punishing me. I know I deserve it. I know it`s all my fault.

　　What did you think was going to happen?

　　She wasn`t so angry before. The faces in the walls were quieter. She kept them more under control. They were more still. Now they seem to move. Tortured, grotesque, begging& fading in and out to be inevitably swallowed by the next face that finds temporary life in the shadows. She`s set them loose& to haunt me.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it`s taken without the author`s consent. Report it.

　　And I stare at them&

　　&imagining how they got there&

　　&wondering why they scream&

　　&knowing that I`m next.

　　Dead eyes. Gaunt face. Bony fingers.

　　Immortalized in the shadows.

　　Swallowed by nothingness.

　　Survived by no one.

　　Fading.

　　Fading away&.

　　Time. Time has an ironic sense of humor. It gives life; it takes life. It restores; it destroys. Often described in cyclical terms, in the end, time is only linear, granting only finite grace, and she will eventually find it funny to ruin you. Time. She is vengeful. She respects nothing and no one. She is cruel. She gives, teasing you into thinking she is generous. And then she takes, making your pathetic existence irrelevant. Only the fateful few survive longer than their lifetime. Only the fateful few survive longer than their deathtime. For time is both, the one not existing without the merciless other.

　　I shudder and stand up, the newspaper, the faces in the walls, the stale air urging me to move. "Move or die," they seem to say. So I move. Wandering listlessly through the house, every corner is a memory. Up the stairs, all the way to the top. The servants` bedrooms are now clean and warm. And dry. Nothing is broken. The beds are made- facsimiles of the ruined originals. Wash basins, none broken. The walls, not rotting. The walls& empty. No more secrets.

　　The third floor: wings of bedrooms, the odd bathroom, hallways in between. They are simply furnished, but very comfortable, something practical but still showy in a way that matches the rest of the house.

　　The second floor: the apartments, one for the master, one for the missus, never shall they meet, the little servant girl caught in the crossfire of his lust and her enmity. No matter the decorations and details and expense of these rooms, these rooms will always feel dark and evil for the child they imprisoned.

　　The main floor: rooms for entertainment, gathering spaces, dining spaces, a place to worship once the floors are put back in and the furniture restored and the boxes unpacked, a porch. Showy. A facade. I should have left it all to rot. It- they- deserved to rot. The Soward name must fade, and here I`ve traded my life to extend theirs.

　　I`m weary of this place, and yet I feel trapped. Like Sarah`s contract, the fine print doesn`t seem fair- the terms of a prison sentence under the guise of a good deed. Short-lived. Short-sighted. Or perhaps not. Sarah might have been completely forgotten to time without her misfortunes with the Sowards. Perhaps that would have been preferable to being remembered for your deepest traumas.

　　Traumas that I brought back to light.

　　"I`m sorry. You`re right. I deserve this. This is my fault."

　　Sigh&. Oh, Lottie&.

　　I smile and return to my chair to stare at the faces some more. They seem less ominous somehow. Less angry.

　　I`m less angry too.

　　And I relax to the rhythm of my rocking. The steady back and forth, the only creaking made by the chair as the floor no longer replies. But she finds other ways to speak to me. She sighs, her temper abating, creating a new calm.

　　And I relax to that calm.

　　And I feel the fading that comes with it.

　　And for just that moment, I find peace in it.

　　You deserve this&.

　　The commotion around me does not seem to matter.

　　Almost done. You`re doing great&.

　　The words they speak are mere echoes in time, neither here nor there, bearing no weight, holding no purpose, no meaning. They will not survive. Fading&.

　　Don`t watch. Close your eyes and it will all be over in a few minutes.

　　And I accept that truth. Wholly. Utterly. Completely. It will all be over. I want it to all be over.

　　Transcendence.

　　It does not feel real.

　　It isn`t real.

　　Nothing matters.

　　And I fade.

　　Time strips away at my being.

　　I embrace it.

　　"Lottie? Boyd, she`s not responding."

　　"Let`s just get this over with then."

　　"Lottie, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult with an attorney, and if you cannot afford one, one may be appointed to you. Do you understand your rights?"

　　"...."

　　"I don`t get it, Milton."

　　"I& I don`t get it either."

　　"Someone`s in the kitchen with Dinah,Someone`s in the kitchen I know.Someone`s in the kichen with Dinah,Cause I can`t hear the ol` banjo."