Hundreds.
Rolled like scrolls. Clipped to string. Lining the inside like wallpaper.
Me.
In bed.
In the shower.
At the therapist’s office when I was sixteen.
Even there.
Especially there.
Notes. Sessions. Journals I never gave to anyone. Things I forgot I wrote.
Things I don’t remember saying.
But someone was there.
Listening.
Recording.
Writing it down.
I choke back a sob and crawl farther in.
At the very back—a box.
Small. Black. Locked.
On top, a single wasp.
Not real.
Pinned. Preserved.
Like something from a museum.
Underneath, carved into the wood:
You called him the monster.
But you let me in first.
The crawlspace shouldn’t go this deep.
I don’t know how I know—maybe from living here, maybe from instinct—but something is wrong with the geometry. The walls bend too sharply. The floor dips, then disappears.
The air smells of damp wood and formaldehyde.
I move slowly, the knife still clutched in my hand, its edge scraping the tunnel wall. The farther I crawl, the more I realise: I’ve been here before.
Not physically. Not in this body. But somewhere inside me, I know the shape of this dark.
The tunnel opens onto a room.
