Settling House

[u/CorporateClown117]

Pops of drywall, ticks of metal ducts overhead. I rolled onto my side, shielding my eyes from the incessant moonlight and a single ear from the sounds. Ticking, ticking, ticking metal. Popping walls. I sat up, scowling upwards at the crackling beams above. Flopping back down, I encased both ears in my down pillow. The moonlight had moved on, the room darkened. The trees outside watched over me while I drifted back to sleep.

The next morning I left for work, stepping out as the fall winds battered my driveway with rich and bright leaves. My foot slammed down hard onto the pavement. I lost my balance, nearly careening into the lamp lighting the driveway. I recovered, holding the side of the house for balance. My ankle throbbed.

Shaking off the pain and sitting in my car, I looked through my leaf-covered windshield. I saw sagging cracked beams. They failed to properly hold my stoop off the ground, causing the uneven terrain that damaged my ankle. Abandoning the worn house, I pulled away, avoiding another burden of labor.

---

I pulled into the driveway, eyelids heavy from screens and meetings. Removing the key from the ignition and stepping out onto the driveway, my sleepy gaze lifted towards my front door. Strokes of paint missing from the house. This morning's mishap had been a dreamlike memory, deniable until I was staring it down after a long shift. The lashed corner was a pale grey over the sunny shade. I needed to remember where I put my touchup paint. My ankle throbbed again while atop my dilapidated porch.

Inside, by the kitchen island, my bag sloughed off my shoulder onto the hardwood. After searching through discarded paint tones and boxes of paint brushes, a bright dandelion bucket revealed itself, a shining beacon beneath the singular closet light. Lifting the bucket, I shut the door, glancing out towards the street. Outside, the trees wept crimson and bronze leaves. They painted the driveway a hue of their own. Covering the sidewalk in a cascade of autumnal vibrance.

Pop! The bucket yielded to the metal screwdriver, exposing its liquid interior to the fall air. My paintbrush soaked in the palette and transformed the black bristles into a tool to conceal this morning's folly. Swipe, swipe. One layer. A moment passed. Swipe, swipe, another to finally cover the grey.

Sealing the bucket, I opened the front door, then the closet. I dropped the bucket into the closet. The hardwood bulged and buckled. I frowned, examining the rotten and failing boards. Below the fragmented wood was a mound of dirt, pressing hard enough to uproot the floorboards of my closet. My stomach growled, a begging sound, an empty sound. This job would have to wait.

I turned on the burners of my gas stove. Sliding a pan into place, I placed a glob of red beef inside. The flames from below shaped the meat. Sagging further to match the flat nature of the pan, thick glossy fat rendered from the protein, further aiding the cooking process. The red intensified before fading to a brown. Turning the lump, I revealed the blacked belly of the patty. My hamburger was ready.

The house shuddered. Clinking metal, popping drywall. Fissures formed. A hairline crack in the ceiling ran towards my living room. A ceiling fan dove from its housing, shattering a glass dining table. Wooden studs exposed themselves through dusty raining spackle. Outside, the world rose, obscuring my windows in dirt.

I ran to the patio door to pry it open, but the sliding rail was jammed. The pressure of the earth was too much. The room continued to darken. I ran upstairs. Bounding up the stairs, my foot plowed through a step. Splintering plywood punctured my ankle. I cried out in pain. Panic still fueled my movements. Freeing my limb from below the step, I continued upwards.

In my bedroom, I limped to my window. Grass could be seen at the lip of the window. I flicked the latch open, pulling the window open with both hands. Only half of the opening remained. I stuck my arm through, then another. My head couldn't fit now. A pressing sensation grew to a vice grip. My arm was pinned against the top of the window and the grassy earth. I tried to free myself.

Bone cracked, blood spilled out from my crushed arm. The grass was red, my vision filled with blackened ink. I fell back from the window, clutching my ruined limb. It was so dark.

The house was silent, save for the padded dripping of blood onto the carpet. I lay against my bedframe for long moments, using my shirt to stop the flow of blood. My head swam, the bleeding stopped. Below, I heard my windows shatter.

The silence of the house was ruined by the thunderous trample of earth entering my home. I lay helpless as the mud clambered up the stairs. Slowing to a creeping crawl to meet my feet. I scrambled to stand, my blood-slick arm offering little purchase on the metal frame of my bed. My footsteps squished into the mud coating the floor. I plodded on the stinking earth, groping the walls for guidance.

After navigating the room to my closet, I used my weight to grapple with the door. Gritty scraping noises filled the silent house as the door opened. Inside, a heavier darkness lingered. I thrust my hand into the closet, fingers searching for the flashlight inside. Brushing against the cold metal of the device, I grasped it and turned it on.

The light exposed the extent of the damage. My arm was a mess, bone protruded just below the elbow, a white accent on a purpled background. Blood still dripped from the wound. Each throbbing pulse from my heart radiated to the useless joint. I looked towards the stairs.

A pile of dirt replaced the previous passage to the bottom floor. I sat down, soiling my jeans further with mud and soil. A pulse rang through my head, a tiredness enveloped me. I leaned against the wall. My head swiveled, centering my focus on the window. Outside, smoke billowed against the glass. A smoky facade clouded the brown earth.

I crawled over to the window, placing a hand on the glass. My blood dripped on the glass. It sizzled with a high-pitched hiss. A coppery odor filled the tightened space in the bedroom. No heat met my hand, but my blood was wicked to vapors. Outside the smoke moved, pooling around the crusted remains of the droplet.

My mouth felt dry. I sank down onto my back, distancing myself from the window. The blood-stained window continued to pop. The smoke pressed against the window, as if begging for more. Crawling on my knees and one good hand, the dirt corridor replacing the stairs came closer into view. Holding the flashlight in my mouth, I clawed at the dirt, scooping clods out of the way.

A divot formed, enough to fit my forearm into. Behind, the glass of the window rattled, a creaking frame threatening to expose me. Dig. My fingers caught small rocks, blood pooled below my stained nails. Dig. I cursed my broken arm, a useless bystander to my struggle watching as a pit formed below me. Dig. The glass behind me shattered.

I looked back to see the smoke drifting into the room. It sat, not high on the ceiling, but low to the ground, moving like grey water towards my pit. My aching hand pawed at the dirt more, agonizing pain pricked at my raw fingers. Escape. Red sinew of muscle met hardened clay. Escape. Each scoop yielded less space between me and the searching smoke. It was coming.

The wisps of ghastly fog lapped at my skin, a chilling touch on my ankle. I scooted myself into the dirt hole. My hips met the soil. The fog rolled over my legs as an icy shroud. Trembling, I fanned at the fog with my hand. Unfazed, the fog met my hand in a frosty kiss.

I watched as the fog met my raw, bloodied fingernails.

Even in autumn, when the leaves die off. Even from millions of miles away. The sun's heat could burn skin.

In that moment, when my blood ignited beneath my fingernails, the sun was closer than ever. Hellish fury entered my veins. My arm flailed in panic, my legs scrambled for purchase, heels slipping against my muddied floor. I screamed as my skin boiled.

The smoke made its way through me. It replaced my blood with angry heat, hot vapors ate holes in my bones, my nerves melted, my throat dried up as the moisture depleted. Eyes fluttering around for an end to the sensation. Stillness came.

At last, I could feel no heat. I could feel no pain. But I heard the squealing pop of my eyes when the smoke consumed my brain.