A Life in Decline

Phantom Dangers

Author's Note (Impact): And so we continue this saga. I ought to forewarn you lot that something massive is soon coming, and it is related to this story. Can't wait to show you all.

Lucy stepped towards the Bierpong residence, the Cape Cod architecture imposing, yet it seemed to possess an air of pretentiousness. The pristine white exterior was embellished with black shutters that framed the windows like soulless eyes. Neatly trimmed hedges and a manicured lawn whispered of upper middle-class despair. Such an abode was a sharp contrast to the gloomy atmosphere she craved, though she found a bit of comfort in its skeletal similarity to her old home. Perhaps that was just her squeezing her eyes to see what wasn't there.

Styx Street stretched out beyond her, a seemingly pleasant neighborhood that lay on the wrong side of the tracks. This one, 235 Styx Street, would have caught her attention even if she were only passing by. Despite eagerly attempting to blend in with the upper middle-class suburban conformity, to her eyes, that front facade wore itself like Ted Bundy's smiling face.

The front door creaked open, revealing the dark interior of the house. As she stepped across the threshold, she felt a sudden jolt of fear. Thee Bierpong's dog, lunged at her, biting and ripping at her stocking. The vicious beast snarled and growled, saliva dripping from its bared teeth.

"Grimace!" the Bierpongs shouted, neither stepping forth to help, though Billy clapped his hands with the force of a revolver shot.

Lucy struggled to free herself from Grimace's grip, and with a final, desperate twist, she managed to send the dog retreating to a shadowy corner of the room where its attention turned to attacking a lone ballerina slipper.

The Bierpongs chuckled hearily, Mandy smoothing Lucy's skirt and immediately after, adjusting her own pearl necklace. "That's Grimace. He's just excited to meet you," she said, her voice a saccharine melody. "He'll warm up to you, I promise."

Billy clapped his hands together again, shaking the room with his hearty laughter. "Now, let's show you your new room, kiddo!"

Dazed by the terrier's attack, Lucy took a moment to note some oddities that appeased her: paintings hung on the walls at unusual locations, catching her attention. One depicted a skeletal figure shrouded in a black cloak, the specter of death hovering over an unfully-bloomed rose. Another showed a tempestuous sea, waves crashing against the withering Scottish cliffs with a ferocity that mirrored her tumultuous emotions. A third, hung at the perfect height for her to catch the subjects' eyes parallel, was a painting Lucy had only heard of in passing through her beloved brother's research into the highly strange: The Hands Resist Him, a bizarre and unsettling piece she committed to memory as having been drawn by one Bill Stoneham, though she could not recall the year.

In any other context, Lucy would adore them. Kindred spirits, the Bierpongs must be, to collect such sinister and melancholic works!

A single glance elsewhere betrayed that conclusion. The living room wasn't modern, instead furnished with the wood-paneled obsession of the 1970s, complemented with decidedly tacky furniture. The walls, the ceiling, the stairs upward, the kitchen— all decidedly vintage and almost retro, but very far from gloomy. She was just like the paintings: an out of place spot of the macabre among the bourgeois mediocrity.

This was her new home in the northern part of town, fairly far away from the Loud House residence. The thought sent a shiver down her spine, the weight of her actions pressing down on her like an iron anchor.

They climbed the stairs to the second floor, where her room awaited. When she crossed the threshold, it finally hit her: the sheer enormity of her screw-up. The walls closed in, the air grew heavy, and the tears she'd been holding back burst forth like a dam breaking.