I am sorry to say, life in my demesne is not idyllic. It may seem so, based on how I've described the Pool of Possibility and whatnot, but...

Besides the animals, there are only two beings here. Myself, and the Thing that h(a)unts my halls.

Most days I am able to avoid It. I go about my affairs, writing what I must, strategically choosing which rooms to enter so that It does not see me. It tends to occupy large spaces, forcing me into the small of the manor, and there are times where Its slow, persistent scratching on my door is too loud and I cannot focus.

Yesterday was one such day. It managed to get close to me.

To describe this Thing is not altogether impossible, though it is difficult. It changes shapes:

Frequently It appears as a mockery of the Pool of Possibility and reflects my potential and ongoing torments.

Other times It is a phonograph, one that I do not remember acquiring through any means, hazily manifesting in the corner of some room and spinning a hurtful record.

On occasion It is a trick of the eyes, a loud glassy crash with no evidence of destruction.

Sometimes It is a fibrous, clear mesh that conveys the pain of others on the layer above.

Often It takes no visual shape but rather manifests as a feeling or a memory.

Yesterday, It manifested as a many-armed memory. It wrapped Its tendrils around my neck and faded into my body. I have mostly purged It, but there are remnants. I can feel It attempting to strangle my brain. It seeps from in-between my flesh, It leaks from my eyes. It tenses my muscles. I am tired.

This Thing is precisely why I must write. I have nothing left to try.

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By Adaline Guerra