Work Text:
Deep beneath the house, the cult members are settled in a trance so deep you could mistake it for a peaceful sleep, if you didn’t look too closely. Then you could see the quick up and down of their chests, the rapid flickering of their eyelids. In the confines of his bedroom, their master is reading, his eyelids dipping slightly.
Wallace Larson’s bedroom is red, red drapes, deep red velvet on every chair, a rich red counterpane spread across his bed. Everything soft, a kind of artificial womb. He keeps his fire constantly stoked, Uncle carrying up the firewood from the storeroom, a nightlight by his bed. Without it, the vast castle is cold and dark, and he can’t bear the things that creep in the dark.
Sometimes he imagines for a moment his daughter is crying because he left her to go to sleep without tucking her into bed, without lighting her nightlight – she was always scared of the dark. Then he remembers that she is forever confined to the dark places, to always stalk them and make fear her home. The thought is not reassuring, and yet still brings a smile to his face. He hopes she’s grateful.