Welcome to another installment of House! If you’ve been keeping up, you may have caught the feeling that something is amiss and Solomon is just not understanding what he’s gotten himself into. This is a grand possibility. Or, perhaps, we are all following along with Solomon and completely ignorant of the drama unfolding around him. Also plausible, as there has been very little to hint that anything is amiss. Though, The Stranger has not been quiet about the danger our dear Solomon faces. When we last spent time with Solomon, he was coming out of another, rather stressful, dreamwalk. You can catch up with Part XVI here. Having escaped from the infernal field, what will Solomon get up to next? Let’s find out →
Solomon scrambled to get out of the sleeping bag. He didn't remember getting into the sleeping bag when he laid down; he certainly didn't recall zipping it all the way up. This was a mild problem to solve, however. His priority was hydrating.
Once out of the bag, Solomon rolled onto his belly and pushed himself up off the ground. He walked to the kitchen, popped the lid off of the takeout beverage, dumped the remains of the soda into the sink, then turned the facet on and filled the cup halfway. He drank the water, emptying the cup, then refilled it, emptying it once again.
The water still tasted like nothing. Still, the flavorless water was better than anything he had ever drank. Though the field was a dream, he felt the exhaustion and despondency throughout his body and into his bones. He could easily fill and drink from the cup another twenty times. He thought about the field and the tree line and the infernal heat. He looked out the giant bay window of the kitchen and saw the sun was getting ready to set. Maybe now would be a good time to step outside.
He refilled the cup and drank from it, albeit a little slower this time. As he set the cup down on the counter, he paused. Lying near the cup was the stranger's mask and her cigarette. Solomon didn't know what to make of their presence. He drummed his fingers on the counter as he thought about what this meant. Had he managed to draw these items from out of his dream? If so, when did he place them here?
He stared at the two items for minutes, his mind a stuttering record in its attempts to rationalize their existence in this space. He looked around the house and wondered what kind of sinister powers the presence held over dreamspace, and what power and influence extended into realspace. Everyone who lived in this house prior, who came into contact with the presence died. The realtor was clear on this. However, she had not provided Solomon and his wife with any details. He knew only that they died, not how. Was it madness?
Words of the stranger came unbidden to his mind: ... this is no ordinary dream, Solomon.
Continued after the break
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With trepidation, Solomon reached for the mask. He did not know what to expect, but what happened was what he least expected: his fingers touched on the smooth surface of the finished plaster. His heart was pounding; his breath was ragged. He lifted the mask off the counter and turned it over, examining the inside of it, as if gauging whether or not it was safe to don, but his fear prevented him from holding it up to his face. It would not have remained in any case, as he saw no strap to hold it in place. How did she wear this? But he knew the answer to this, didn't he? He turned the mask and placed it back on the counter.
He backed away from the mask, then turned to look around him, as if the walls themselves would provide the answers to his many questions. This house was playing tricks on him, he thought, and thus would not freely give up its secrets. He left the kitchen, going straight for his overnight bag to grab a hoodie and the house key. He pulled on his hoodie as he walked to the front door. A good long walk would help him clear his head of the encroaching presence. When he returned, he expected the mask to be gone.
He flipped on the porch light and opened the door, turning to lock the door as he shut it. The cool night air was refreshing; Solomon held a deep appreciation for it after his ordeal in the infernal field. The scent of the large purple fronds on either side of the door soothed him, bringing to him with ease a sense of peace he struggled to maintain as he journeyed through the ethereal lands of the presence.
He paused, key halfway turned in the lock, and brought his gaze to the plant to one side of the door. Large purple fronds. He turned his gaze to the other side and saw another plant of the same variety. These were not here before. Nothing was here before. The porch had been bare. Empty.
Solomon reversed the key's trajectory and removed it from the bolt, leaving the door unlocked. He turned around and fought down the panic jumping into his throat as he argued with what his eyes reported: he was back in the greenhouse. He turned around and went back in through the front door, slamming it shut behind him and leaning against it. His eyes were shut tight; he willed his mind to clear itself of the imagery overtaking it. The greenhouse was not reality. The mask was not reality. There was only the house. The was only the yard. Hell, there wasn't even any fucking furniture.
The fragrant and tantalizing scents of the wild flower varieties filled his nostrils, and he opened his eyes to find he was still in the greenhouse. He stepped away from the door and spun around to find the door was no longer there. He reached out in front of him, expecting to place his hands on the front door of the house, but he felt naught but air. He swept his hands around in a circle, thinking he may have gotten disoriented when he turned to the door, but to no avail. His hands brushed against those leaves and flowers within easy reach, but no door. There was only the greenhouse, and he in it.
Solomon fell into despair. The trap had been set, and he had walked right into it. More of the stranger's words rose to meet him: ... even these tricks will not save you for long. The alarms he set, thinking he was ever so clever, proved ineffective when he had not taken the precautions to ensure his escape from the dreamspace. He wondered, briefly, if any of his alarms had sounded, if he was, perhaps, still in the midst of his first nap. He had no way of knowing, so it was best not to dwell on it. This idea, however, gave him hope, and he held to its possibility.
Very well, thought Solomon. If he was to remain in the dream for a little while longer, he might as well make some progress.
He saw large barn-like doors at either end of the long structure encompassing the greenhouse. He took a closer look at the plants around him. Their familiarity confirmed his suspicion he was in the same starting point from his first visit here. During his prior visit, he got lost in fascination among the plants. He would make no such mistake this time. With a hardened resolve, he strode toward the doors at one end, holding closely to the hope his first alarm had yet to go off, and hoping this did not turn into another infernal field situation, where the doors never got any closer despite his continuous movement toward them.
Well this does not bode well for Solomon. Is it possible that all of his alarms have already gone off, and none of them actually woke him up? Perhaps. It could be the infernal fields was his final destination, and the third alarm alone was bypassed. Or, there is the distinct possibility the third alarm remains to go off. Or that any of them remain to go off, as Solomon is oh-so-very-much hoping is the case. Well, which is it? Will we find out? Perhaps. There is, of course, only way to know: come back next week!
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