🏠 House, Part II

Mr. Garcia takes a short walk in the dream space. What does he find there?

M A D A L E X
December 3rd, 2025 • Estimated Reading Time: 10 minutes

rectangular block of burnt orange with the word Prologue in tan

rectangular block of tan with the word Story in burnt orange

rectangular block of burnt orange with the word Epilogue in tan

rectangular block of tan with the word Survey in burnt orange

When we last spent time with Mr. Garcia, he had just wandered into the dreamscape, where he heard a voice, a warning. You can catch up with Part I here. Where is the voice coming from? And what kind of the trouble might the voice be warning him about? Let’s find out →

Back to Contents

His eyes snapped open. He was still in the living room, but the room felt older. He turned his head, looking around from his low vantage. The space was well lit, but just barely, as if the lamps were set very low. He smelled sulfur. He smelled oil. Gaslamps? Oil lamps? He knew not; he had little experience with them. Still, it was enough to recognize what was placed around him. He found the space fully furnished. Next to him was a chaise lounge, behind which he lay. The clawed feet raised the chaise sufficiently for him to see clear through to the other side of the room, but he could only make out the lower portion of the furniture. Here was most likely a coffee table set over a rug. There was a chair and what he guessed was an ottoman placed before it. The fireplace was furnished with a set of brass tools hanging from a rack—he could, of course, see only ends of the tools hovering over the exposed red brick. On his other side was a large grandfather clock, looming over him with some menace. He took his time to sit up.

He saw the little girl once he was seated upright. She stared at him wide-eyed, though there was a measure of curiosity in her countenance. She wore a clean smock of sturdy material and was barefoot. Once again, she whispered,

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

He tilted his head, returning her gaze.

“You can see me.”

She nodded her head.

“Gloria!” A call from another room. A woman’s voice. “Gloria, honey, where are you?”

Footsteps.

“You have to leave before he sees you,” said Gloria.

“Who?” He held her gaze a moment longer and then the woman appeared, gathering Gloria up in her arms and carrying her away.

“Who were you talking to, baby?” The woman’s voice trailed off as her footsteps receded. She had not seen him.

He climbed to his feet. His sleeping bag and pillow were absent; he was unconcerned as this was a common occurrence. He stepped around the chaise and took a seat upon it, leaning forward to listen, observe.

He guessed this family was a predecessor in the house. Former occupants. There was something here he was meant to see. Or perhaps someone. Perhaps this “he” the child mentioned, whoever he was.

He made a move as if to stand, then felt a strong presence fill the room—similar to which he felt when he was awake. Fear gripped him. The light in the room dimmed, suppressed further as the presence strengthened. Footsteps rose from the hall just off the side of the room where he saw the child. With each step, the presence grew stronger, the air felt heavier, and a nauseous scent stung his nostrils.

Continued after the break

Book cover for Calypso. The title is spread across the center toward the top, superimposed over the Mad Alex emblem. The background is a splash of dark colors-yellows, blues, greens, and black. The author's name, 'Mad Alex' is centered at the bottom of the design over text printed in playbill flourish that reads 'presents a tale from the Odds n Endings Boutique.

on sale now

The gift of time is, for many, an incredible gift indeed. Unless, of course, it is not a gift at all and arrives with a cost in excess of what one may be willing to pay …A tale from the Odds ‘n’ Endings Boutique.

He struggled to wake, but once he had regained some semblance of autonomy in the present, he bolted upright. Sweat stung his eyes as he worked to regain his bearings. The cool air in the room brought its emptiness in sharp relief to his terror, and he slowed his breath. The presence remained, though its intensity was dampened.

Wiping the sweat from his eyes, he slipped out of the sleeping bag, stood, and walked to the kitchen where he washed his hands and splashed water over his face. He now had an idea of what he had to contend with. Or so he thought.

Burnt orange emblem with flourishes to either side

He wandered the empty house aimlessly for some time, pausing before doorways, brushing his fingers along the walls in some places, and spreading out on the floor in others. He wanted to get a feel for the place, map it out in his mind, in his heart; something he should have done before making his first dream walk.

The presence he felt in the dream, it rumbled throughout the house. He could feel it reaching to the very ends of each wing, like arms spread out and hands pressed against the far walls. It claimed this place, though no where else was it strongest than at its heart, in the living room, to which he returned.

His sleeping bag lay on the ground where he left it, undisturbed. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find upon returning; the presence, though damp out of the dream, felt strong enough to incur changes. He just did not know, nor could he guess, what those changes might be.

He needed to think. He needed to rest. He needed to settle in with the presence. His next dream walk would have to wait. He slid into his sleeping bag and stared at the raised ceiling, turning over in his mind the dream from which he had awoken. The girl held concern for him, warning him to get out. The woman—her mother, he guessed—seemed not to notice him, nor be aware of the approaching presence. She had picked up the little girl, Gloria, and walked away, no rush, no fear, just another night in the house. Were there others? The presence was surely a bitter patriarch. An assumption, he knew, but it seemed appropriate.

The setting was interesting. He considered the furniture and the fixtures. The house was decorated in Victorian fashion, which he found odd. The house was built no earlier than the twenties, and everything he and his wife had learned about this area suggested this community was very modern. Could he, perhaps, have experienced a prior resident’s perception of their space? An eccentrism or madness? There was no way to know for sure, especially with such little information as he had at the moment.

A low light began peeking through the blinds, indicating the eminent arrival of the sun over the horizon. It was very late to him--though for many it was very early--and he was ready to sleep. He knew not what tomorrow night might hold, but he wanted to be rested. He closed his eyes and settled into sleep, forgoing his dream practice in favor of letting his subconscious feed him whatever it desired.

Back to Contents

Hmmm … this does not sound good at all. Perhaps this Mr. Garcia and his wife ought to find another house to purchase that does not contain a presence? But we all know they won’t, don’t we? Such is the way with these stories: the protagonist simply cannot help themselves in getting to the bottom of the mystery. What we don’t know is whether or not our protagonist will solve the mystery and cleanse the house, or by consumed by what he finds.

Only one way to find out which way he ends up! Come back next week for the next installment of House!

Back to Contents

Please, for the love of all that is unholy and calamitous in this world, please let us know what you think of this content! The buttons below will each take you to a respective survey consisting of two to three questions. Your opinions will help shape the future of Backstage at the Calamity.

🏠 House, Part II

Don't be stingy here, give me your email.

Reply

Keep Reading

The Backstage Pass. Your guide to the Calamity. Don’t miss an issue.