Chapter Text
what’s real or isn’t real doesn’t matter here.
The consequences are the same.
-mark z. danielewski - house of leaves
--
“You have got to be kidding me,” Hux says into the endless darkness, because he has no other words, no further sentiment to share. This nonsense is utterly and absolutely impossible -- and also terribly inconvenient. He will not stand for it.
The darkness says nothing in return.
Hux leaves it, for a time: there is no use arguing into the night with something that is not there.
--
A door slams at three in the morning. The sudden noise of it yanks Hux straight out of the dead of sleep. The surprise fades from his bones quickly; unfortunately, it’s not the first time a door has banged shut in his new home in the middle of the night.
The room around him is muted, quiet, and still unfamiliar to him. It feels untouchable and unreal, still coated with the murky fog of sleep. The faint light of the streetlamps filters in through sheer curtains, draping the room in ethereal blue. It falls over his belongings like a gentle touch, pulling his surroundings into the enchantment of the night. The only thing that feels remotely tangible is the rhythmic cadence of his breathing in this soundless place, and even that is muffled, just out of reach.
Despite the quiet stillness, the slam of the door still echoes in his ears. Sharp and high and sudden.
“God dammit.” He sighs, finding the energy to languidly peel the blankets from over his body, freeing himself so that he can investigate. The air of the room is neither warm nor cold as it caresses his skin, and yet he is acutely aware of it. It’s thick, heavy, and laced with static energy.
It’s strange. This whole house is strange, if he’s being honest. Most of the time, Hux pretends not to notice. It’s far more sane than the alternative.
He doesn’t see the way light shimmers in odd ways or how shadows dance out of the corner of his eye. The shadows themselves are always too dark, too long, and often creeping into places they shouldn’t be. He refuses to see it. He cannot acknowledge it. He doesn’t feel the way the walls vibrate underneath his fingertips, or more acutely under a steady palm. The house cannot be breathing or trembling, cannot be anything other than solid plaster, studs, and nails. He most certainly does not hear voices whispering from the too-dark shadows, or worse yet, something speaking softly in his ear at night. It’s irrational. Absurd.
But, in the dead of early morning, with this eerie quality of light and the stillness of the air, it’s difficult to forget. It’s the sort of thing he cannot banish from his head when his thoughts are still cloudy with the impossibility of dreams.
He sits uncovered in bed for a moment, with the sheets bunched around his feet, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness of the foreign room.
Hux bought the property a month ago and moved in two weeks prior to today. Everything about the house and the process of purchasing it had been exceedingly and impressively average. The price was neither exorbitantly high nor worrisomely low; negotiations had gone off without a single hitch; and there were an average number of repairs to undertake before he moved in -- nothing out of the ordinary. Everything had progressed smoothly, normally, and simply.
When he had first set foot inside the house, he was reminded of the deafening feeling of walking into the sanctuary of a church. A certain quiet stillness existed inside e in the same way it did under stained glass and century-old arches. It was startlingly peaceful, yet mildly overbearing. Like the steady press of humidity on a hot summer’s day. Other than that feeling, which was not altogether unpleasant, nothing rang out as noteworthy about the house. Hux bought it because it suited his needs and purposes: not because of some romantic love for it, or anything childish like that.
It was just a house, like any other.
It is a small row house in a line of similar houses, nothing to look twice at but pleasant nonetheless. According to the real estate agent (and some subsequent research on Hux’s part), the neighborhood in which it stands had been built after the Second World War for both veterans and government workers alike -- close enough to the Nation’s Capital for an easy commute -- far enough away for cheap land. Now, the land isn’t so cheap and the commute isn’t so easy -- but it works. The house was in Hux’s budget and it didn’t need much work -- so he bought it. And he hasn’t looked back.
Not really, anyway.
He slides out of bed, letting his bare feet touch the newly refinished floors. He cannot help the small hint of satisfaction he feels at the smoothness of the wood underneath his feet. New. Fresh. He lets out a sigh and pads his way out of the room through the open doorway of the master bedroom. The house had been remodeled before he bought it -- opened up, carved out, like many of its relatives. The remodeling leaves only a few doorways still existing to have slammed themselves in the night: three bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs, and a door to the basement downstairs.
Of course, all the doors on the top level are still wide open.
Hux makes his way downstairs in the dim light provided by nearby street lamps. He moves through the living room and then the kitchen, and comes face to face with the closed door to the basement. He takes a measured breath. Of course he left it open -- he leaves all doors open. Keeping them closed makes the house feel smaller, darker -- and more stifling.
This door-closing nonsense has happened before, and Hux is growing tired of playing games with his house.
He grips the handle and opens the door in a decisive movement, his limbs no longer cloudy with sleep. The darkness of the stairs leading underground is a void in which his eyes cannot focus, and yet he looks anyway. He sees nothing.
He knows he perhaps should investigate. He should make sure there is no home invader seeking solace in his basement while Hux roams the house, waiting to venture out when Hux goes back to sleep, but he does move downstairs. There is no one in the basement: Hux is sure of it. Instead, he calls it a night and heads back toward his room and the comforting warmth of his own bed.
He makes it halfway up the stairs before the door slams again. The hair on the back of his neck bristles and annoyance sparks in his chest. He spins on his heel in a way that resembles the movements he learned in the military household in which he grew up, and marches back down the stairs and into the kitchen.
With nothing short of exasperation, he grips the handle of the door and yanks it open again. He glares into the darkness that he finds exposed: it is just as normal as before, just as empty. Nothing has changed.
“Enough.” Hux spits, his eyes narrowed into the void as if he can stare it down. “Enough,” he repeats, about-facing and making his way back upstairs. He refuses to acknowledge how asinine it is to be commanding the shadows of his house at three in the morning. If he doesn’t think about it, it isn’t happening and he doesn’t have to ever acknowledge it again.
The door is still open in the morning.
--
Hux eats his dinner at a place setting for one at a small table he has set up in his main room. One of the iterations of previous owners tore out most the walls on the main level of the house, creating a breezy kitchen that opens out to a modest living space. There is no real dining room, no formal living room -- just one multi-purpose open space attached to the kitchen. The large room looks out into a small back yard. Some of the houses have balconies, depending on their situation -- his has a sliding door that opens to an uneven stone patio and a patch of overgrown garden that more so resembles a thicket than a man-made alcove. In what he can only refer to as the living room, he has a couch and a dining table. He also has a tower of boxes in the corner of the room: mostly books, to go on bookshelves he doesn’t yet own.
Each day, he eats dinner alone.
He prepares the meal for himself and eats at around eight each evening at a place setting for one. While he cooks, the house shifts and settles around him, always near-constant in its quiet noises. The light in the kitchen is bright and yellow, and still the shadows creep in from the corners while Hux moves about and fills the space with delicious aromas. Sage and curry and pomegranates and mushrooms -- each day, something different. Each day, another recipe to try. Each day, the noises of his new home home keep him company while he cooks.
While he eats dinner, the house is respectfully quiet. Hux appreciates that, in a house.
--
Hux cannot rightfully or in good conscience believe that his new home is haunted. He does not believe in ghosts, spirits, or anything of the like. It is simply preposterous. For a long time, he thinks of any excuse to make up for the noises, the slammed doors, the whispering. Wind. An unsteady foundation. Rowdy or mischievous neighbors.
Perhaps he is imagining all of it.
However, he cannot deny that it is also more comforting to believe that his house is interesting than the theory that he may be slowly losing his grip on reality. It is a disconcerting thought and one he does not appreciate dwelling on. So, upon reviewing just about every potential possibility, he finally acknowledges the more intriguing features of his home, accepts them as fact, and then moves on.
It’s all a very practical way of handling it, he thinks.
--
Arguing with his house becomes second nature by the first month.
There are a lot of slammed doors, overturned stacks of papers, and a few glasses pushed off countertops. Hux cannot stop himself from retaliating with annoyed words or palms slammed into the wall in frustration.
It is moderately shameful.
It’s also terribly satisfying. It is especially so at the end of a tough day: he always seems to win most of the arguments. He can’t be sure, but the sense of satisfaction and the lack of ‘counter-arguments’ speak to his small victories.
--
Hux enjoys documentaries about war. They hit an aching, empty spot inside him. Filling it, if only momentarily. Any war will do, though he does have his favorites. World War II. Vietnam. The documentaries about technological ingenuity during wartime are also fascinating, though often rather rote and somniferous. He often puts the television on after dinner, letting the noise fade into the background while he finishes up work on his laptop. He’s seen most of the decent documentaries at least once, but he doesn’t mind the repetition. It’s educational.
Tonight, however, he finds a documentary about haunted castles in Ireland. It comes up in his suggestions menu. He thinks it’s an absolutely ridiculous subject to have a documentary on, but he’s feeling a bit indulgent -- especially given his living situation, and the fact that he ignored the basement door slamming three times the previous night, even when he never bothered to open it back up again. It must have felt so vehemently about the ritual that it opened itself up enough to slam back shut again and again and again. Hux doesn’t like to project sentience on his house -- but sometimes, he just cannot help it.
He has no work the next day, no reports to finish at home, and no reason to not watch something trite. It’s a change, and what harm could it do? It’s not like there’s anyone around to judge him.
He puts the documentary on. It begins with aerial shots of the country -- beautiful and breathtaking. His heart momentarily aches for the land where he spent years of his childhood, but that too is frivolous and wanting. He’s here now, settled and in his own home. He is content.
He is still content when the television turns itself off five minutes into the program. Content, but also annoyed.
Hux turns the TV back on, only to have it flip immediately off.
“Stop that,” he says to what is surely a short circuit. Or perhaps a power flare. He has gotten so accustomed to speaking out loud that it’s almost second nature. The only reason he does it in the first place is that it yields the best results, even if it is pure coincidence. It cannot be anything else.
The room darkens when he turns the television back on. The lights flicker. Hux scowls and keeps his finger over the power button: ready. “Enough,” he says, command and annoyance lacing through his voice. The television dims, brightens, and then promptly turns itself off. Curious -- typically by the time he has ordered something to do as he says, it bends to his whims. Evidently this is not the case with the television. Or perhaps, the program specifically. There are a few more rapid succession rounds of off-and-back-on-again before Hux slams his palm down on the coffee table. The noise echoes sharply into the quiet of the room.
He turns the television on again, and the screen glows white, movie nowhere to be seen.. The light of it is impossibly bright. Other than the illumination from the TV, the entire room is bathed in darkness around him, even though he could have sworn he had the lights on at the beginning of this charade. The shadows at the edges of the room are so dark that he can barely see the walls.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Hux sighs. He tries pulling the documentary back up to no avail: pressing any of the buttons on the remote does nothing, even the power button. The screen stays aggressively white and unchanging.
Awful, something whispers from the shadows.
The word bounces around in his head, echoing in every voice he has ever heard, all at once. His ears are playing tricks on him, they must be. His eyes, too. It cannot be so dark in the room -- it is simply his eyes having trouble adjusting from the light of the TV. Too much contrast.
Just to be safe, he finds himself replying, “If you don’t like it, don’t watch it.” Because perhaps he has gone crazy after all.
When his heart stops racing, he turns the television off and back on again, and everything works perfectly.
--
Hux begins to entertain the possibility of his house actually being haunted, opposed to it simply being interesting. Even if he thinks the idea of ghosts is absolutely absurd.
He watches more documentaries about hauntings out of spite.
--
Sometimes, Hux wakes up in the middle of the night with the uncanny feeling of being watched. He cannot place it, cannot find the source in his dark but empty room. It’s not a feeling he’s encountered before in his life -- but he is well acquainted, now.
In the early mornings, a few hours past midnight, the shadows of his room draw long and dark over his floor. The light creeping in the window wanes and dims, and the darkness of his room turns fuzzy, static. It’s otherworldly, there is no other way to describe it. When Hux wakes at three in the morning and finds his room dimmer and darker than it should be, he wills himself to close his eyes and go back to sleep. On some mornings, he will briefly let his eyes roam the shadows, checking for some unknown presence to blame for his consciousness, for the tingling on the back of his neck. He always finds nothing. Other mornings, he cannot bring himself to look into the corners of his room until the light of dawn.
--
Two months in has most of Hux’s belongings unpacked and in their proper places. There are, of course, multiple boxes of junk that he has little intention of ever unpacking, but also has zero intention of throwing away. There are always those boxes -- they are an impossible side-effect of moving. They end up being relegated to the basement, stacked precariously in a corner of the storage area and left hopefully to be untouched for years. Of course, that means Hux needs something from one of them almost instantaneously.
He pads down to the basement on socked feet. The basement is finished, but barely. It’s not necessarily an unfriendly place -- but there’s not much use to it. Hux has no need for another room, so he has left it mostly empty. Upstairs there are three small bedrooms: one is the master bedroom, one is a designated guest bedroom, and the other he has converted into a study. He has no use for another room, other than for storage -- and even that, he keeps in a storage area. So, the main area of the basement is simply left empty. White walls, white carpet, and fluorescent lighting: it’s not the most inviting of places -- but it’s not particularly unfriendly either. Despite the near-nightly door slamming that persists regarding the door, there is nothing about the basement that catches Hux as extraordinarily odd. It seems strange, given all the documentaries he has watched: basements seem to be the most prolific of places for hauntings. Even so, he cannot bring himself to feel at all strange about the bottom floor of his house.
Hux pries open a few boxes, eventually finding the specific one he’s looking for at the bottom of one of the towers. It’s heavy -- full of old books and picture frames, as well as stacks of old family records. It’s a lot to sort through to find what he needs, so he decides to take it upstairs so that he can spread out its contents over the kitchen table.
He hoists the large box into his arms and shuffles toward the stairs. He carefully takes them one step at a time, remembering that he is taking wooden stairs with slippery socked feet. His ascent is slow, but mostly without issue. He’s about four steps from the top when his foot slips suddenly and he overcorrects, body misjudging his movements with the weight of the box cradled in his arms. The moment is a long one, stretched out and unending: he knows there is no way to save himself -- he is already falling backwards, angled past the point of no return. His breath catches in his throat and he prepares himself for the inevitable pain of falling backwards down the stairs with a heavy box to his ribs.
And yet --
He doesn’t fall. The pain never comes. Impossibly, he stays at an angle at which he knows he cannot possibly support himself. It takes him a split second to feel the press of what feels unmistakably like a hand, solid and firm, right in the middle of his back -- holding him up, keeping him from falling. Hux swallows. There is no need to turn; he knows there is no one behind him holding him up. And yet, he is being held -- he is not falling.
He stays there for a moment, angled impossibly and being supported by something he cannot see. For longer than he’d like, he is frozen in something he refuses to call fear.
From there, it is easy to right himself, to arch forward and stand and make his way up the rest of the stairs. The hair on the back of his neck is standing straight up. Goosebumps cascade down his spine. He does not turn around. He cannot.
Later, while he’s cooking dinner in the kitchen, he mutters a quiet thank you in the direction of the basement.
Just in case.