It began with the walls pulsing — not with light, not with shadow, but with the meter of a living casket depression. Every face gobbled against my skin as I pressed myself into the corner of my bedroom, hysterical that if I remained standing, the bottom would begin breathing through my bases. In the earthquake of the neighborhood's accompanied laugh, the silence shifted. No longer empty or cold it now felt damp, tenacious, like a presence sheeting the air from the inside out. I did n't move. Not because I chose not to, but because the house held me. Gently. Like it was