In the dark.
You wake up feeling cold, despite the many covers. You crane your neck and see the window is open, though you don't remember opening it last night. You rise softly to your feet and go to close it, only to catch the sound of laughter.
In the dark and down the hall.
Bare feet pad softly on the carpet, leaving small footprints in the dust. It's been ages since anyone has cleaned the floor and will probably be ages more hence. Polished wood furniture shines in the light of your candle.
Down the hall, past the rooms,
The house is so quiet. They sleep like the dead.
-and out the door.
Into the night.
It's dark outside.
Into the night, along the old brick path,
Was this here yesterday?
-through the woods,
Weeds with teeth shoot through the cracks in the path and strange plants with curling leaves wrap weakly around your ankles. There are drooping flowers in the trees that sigh as you pass. There aren't any woods near the house. This place wasn't here yesterday.
-and over the bridge,
The old, creaky bridge.
-and babbling brook.
The water sings with a thousand voices.
Over the bridge and around the hill
Into the hill
through the door,
Great stone door lying on the face of the hill. It's circular and carved out with thousands of overlapping faces. Some scream, some are angry, most are smiling.
-and by the fire.
Where they wait.