Work Text:
The viewer finds themselves at the threshold of the cottage. The smell of baking was in the air. Nutmeg, cinnamon, and mace suggested mincemeat pie, but there was something undefinable that forced one to ponder what sort of meat had been minced.
“Come in,” an impossibly deep voice either invites or commands. The viewer enters the cabin with unwilling steps.
The parlor is on the right; there is no sign of the host. A Christmas tree stands in the corner. The tree is lit with candles that spatter and crackle as if made from rendered fat. The who thing might go up in flames at any minute. However, that thought is pushed aside as the viewer sees the decorations – and is seen by them. Each bulb turns and focuses, and the viewer finds themselves fixed by the gaze of some Yuletide Argus Hundred Eyes.
“The painting is $4995. We take credit cards, smart pay, or Paypal.” The deep voice provides the information without being asked.
The viewer reaches for their wallet without hesitation.