Nothing is Wrong
Part IV — The Place Under the House
The door opens without resistance.
Beyond it, stairs spiral downward, narrow and clean, lit by a dull white glow with no visible source. The air smells sharp, antiseptic, enough to make your scar throb.
Each step sends a pulse through your skull, like something is counting you.
At the bottom, a corridor opens up.
It looks lived in. Rugs. Framed photos. A plant that doesn’t move.
You recognize the layout.
Your house. Almost.
In one room, someone sits at a table. Their hands are yours. Their posture is yours. When they look up, their face lags behind the movement.
The pain spikes when you recoil.
Further down the hall, voices murmur.
Behind glass, you see your parents. Older. Tired. Your mother presses her fingers to the barrier without touching it. Your father watches a screen full of data you can’t read.
“He’s awake again,” she says.
Again.
“We adjusted the dosage,” he replies. “He shouldn’t be remembering this much.”
“He’s safer here.”
Images crash into you. White rooms. Restraints. Promises whispered like prayers.
The pain disappears.
The absence is terrifying.
The glass flickers. For a split second, the room behind it is something else. Dark. Wired. Vast.
Your parents don’t see you. Not really.
The hallway fills with footsteps. Faces that look like yours, wrong in subtle ways.
Your scar itches. Expectant.
You step back.
The corridor shudders. Light stutters. The world strains.
You think, briefly, desperately:
If this is the underworld… what did they save me from?
glitch.
—By Deerswanlie🦢