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His house was cold.
Johnny’s arms shook, stomach and head both feeling empty, and faint. Old, frayed blankets piled around his body, which was twisted on the floor. They were caked in rot and dirt, and had probably been in this house longer than he ever had. He could feel his bones in definition, creaking under his flesh, poking out where there wasn't enough.
Winter above was never easy, but far below the shell of a house, dirt insulted the walls of his torture chambers. It was always warm and comfortable there, almost too hot depending on how far he went. On the coldest days, he was free to venture into a deeper room to warm up.
Early fall wasn't usually like this. So why was he cold now?
The wind that leaked through his walls howled, he imagined the sound to be souls migrating through the cage-like bounds of his house, forever cycling around the perimeters of his property. Sometimes he imagined screams instead.
He was far down in a lower torture chamber, shivering on the floor, someone begging up in his space. It was dim in this room, but they could still see his form. Their words started to get choked up, tears diluting their sinuses, the mixture running down the back of their throat. The pleading started feeling like knives scraping the inside of his head, behind his eyes and in his marrow. They'd been at this for far too long.
Johnny slowly stood up, trying not to pass out from the cold (and other reasons), the victim got quiet. They didn’t speak again as he left the room in a hurry, arms carrying bundled rags which he dared to call blankets. His boots tapped softly against the floor, frail, sore body barely making a sound. Everything inside of him felt dry.
When he made it to an upper level without anyone there, slowly withering away, the air didn't cool down like usual. It didn't change anything but the pressure of air. Whether he was in Alaska or Florida right now wouldn’t matter. He knew the chill wasn’t a physical concept.
Standing all alone in this room, he noted the familiar surroundings. The room adorned little but his infamous blood wall. He slowly walked up to it, images flashing through his mind of all the horrible things he’d done. After the resurrection, this monster seemed to rebuild, to grow again. Slowly spreading it's roots and infesting his house like a never-dying parasite. He forgot how much blood it needed in the earlier stages.
His arm raised slowly, bones creaking, as he lifted his fingertips to graze the blood.
Despite having painted the wall yesterday, the dull fluid was still warm. It clung to his fingertips, settling the distal bones underneath. He was almost able to breathe comfortably for the first time that day. Pressing both hands into the sticky liquid, he finally felt true relief for the first time that day. Pressing harder, he felt a hollow squish, rotten underneath. The more he leaned in, the more he could feel heat radiating from the other side. There was a faint pulsating, right behind the abomination of plaster. He was almost touching it directly.
Johnny groaned, bones releasing from the tense positions they were locked in. He slowly walked to a corner, pre-prepared with a drop sheet of newspaper, dragging one hand through the drying liquid, unable to part. He bent down, getting comfortable and pressing himself against the leaking wall as much as he could muster. The torn rags of a blanket hung on his arm, forgotten. His entire back was pressed, sticking to the painted fluids.
His bones felt comfortable, even where they weren’t getting direct warmth, while his exposed skin felt a comfortable twinge of chill. Much like he was finally feeling normal temperature again. When he parted from the wall, satisfied and uncomfortable with the idea of touching it unnecessarily, the ice quickly frosted over his insides again. Johnny smacked back against it once more, shirt pulling and soaking into the liquid, some dried and crusted, some still tacky.
The pulsating lulled his senses into a wave of calm, he let his head lean back while he sat upright. The warmth slowly filled him once again, although not nearly enough to be comfortable. He reached out and scraped his hands against the bottom of the wall, but friction did nothing to help. All he could do was try to melt against the warmth, absorbing every ounce of contact he could.
After a while, he curled up against it, tired. The rags he was using before lay next to him, he couldn’t be bothered to chuck them to the other side of the room.
He tuned the pulsating out, ignoring the lifelike vibrations pointing to a twisted organism. He’d never seen what was on the other side, but always knew there was something. It pressed back against him, morphing the thin, soggy wall to press against him more. His back got warmer, less painful, he whined in gratitude.
He knew the dried blood wouldn’t do the creature long. All he wanted to do was thank it for the comforting grazes. Deep down, he knew this was the thing altering his brain, but the thought was easy enough to ignore. For his own good.
Reaching around the floor, he broke contact. He could hear a muffled sound, a mix between a screech and a growl, displeased. It wanted something from him as well, and he was sure to give in. The creature just needed to be patient. His heart hurt slightly, guilty for displeasing it anyhow.
His gaze lingered on a small knife hidden beneath a table, dropped and long forgotten. Picking it up, Johnny noticed how its blade was grimy with dust, but still sharp enough. Cleanliness didn’t matter, he accepted what he was given.
Johnny slinked back to the wall, already feeling displeasure of the loss of contact, before inhaling deep and sharp. He swiped the blade across his entire forearm, cutting major nerves and veins. An explosion of blood erupted, shooting from arteries and pouring down his arm. It hurt like crazy, one of the worst things he’s ever had to endure. Although, certainly not worse than his death. His fingertips turned numb, and spasmed.
He winced, pressing his new wound against the wall, taking in the feeling of.. whatever was there, channeling it’s roots to drink up his nutrients. Johnny sighed, leaning on his front. One hand of fingers subconsciously curled against the soggy plaster. The one hand that could still move.
After not long at all, he felt very lightheaded. Not enough that he’d die, having some sort of immortality curse or something, there was no cause of concern. He did slowly sit down, dragging his legs to a kneel. It hurt his fragile bones, but that wasn’t anything he could think about. As long as he was touching this wall he’d be okay.