Lost in Thoughts

I turned 40 today. My glass is empty for the fourth time and the bottle rests precariously on the edge of the table. It’s been about three weeks since I came here. To this house. And I am afraid I am losing my mind. But in a good way.  They have voices you know, certain houses. They whisper into your head. Sometimes they talk. And sometimes they stay quiet. Dead quiet. But in the end, insanity is inevitable.  I am not worried about insanity. In fact, insanity is of essence. Especially when you are an artist,  pockets empty and your head even more so. I find inspiration in these voices that I hear here. Turning them into strokes of paint on my canvas gives me strength. I have been painting endlessly since I came. One newfangled idea a day. It is almost like I am famous again. I can still feel the gallery lights warm on my skin as if it was yesterday and not 20 years ago. And I am willing to endure anything in the world to have it again. Even insanity. There is...

12 o' clock at night. 11 steps down the stairs and into the kitchen. "10 in all! yum!", I lick my lips as I load my plate with biscuits from fridge. 9 chairs around the table, I settle into one of them. 8 biscuits gone, am eyeing the rest of them warily. 7 minutes past twelve, the mellow light from the open fridge flickers. 6 times I ignore it until it gives last weak spark and dies out, billowing darkness spread around. 5 times I hear that, the low groan of wooden steps as they creaked under some weight. 4 long candles on a holder I found, all of them lit and headed hurriedly to my room, my covers, my safety. 3 of those candles I had wasted as my hand trembled so badly, the last one I raised slowly above my head to the ceiling, hearing a soft, chilling hiss from there. 2 eyes were closing down on me, of luminous piercing grey, with the coldness of a grave and emptiness of the dead. Fast. 1 second later I materialized, a flimsier, gray...