The dream unfolded like an old film reel, flickering at the edges, washed in sepia and shadow. Rosie stood in the middle of a house she almost recognized - almost. The bones of it were the same, the arch of the doorways, the way the staircase curled upward like a beckoning finger. But something was wrong. The walls were warped, stretching too high, too thin, breathing in and out like a living thing. The air smelled of dust, of rain-soaked wood, of something left too long in the dark.
She turned a corner, and the lights buzzed weakly, casting long, sickly shadows that didn’t match their sources. A shape waited at the end of the hallway, hunched and unmoving. Rosie’s throat went tight. She knew better than to call out. But the thing shifted, and her breath hitched.
It was a chair. A rocking chair, old and familiar, its wood smooth from years of use. It swayed forward, backward, slow and steady, though no one sat in it. A lullaby whispered through the air, threading through the house like a draft.
She stepped closer. A single candle flickered to life beside the chair. And there - oh, God - there was someone sitting in it now.
The woman looked like she was from the 1930s - had Rosie ever seen her before? In an archival photo or book once before? The woman's head lolled too far to the side, eyes glassy and wrong, mouth stretched in something that wasn’t quite a smile. Her hands rested in her lap, empty palms turned up as if waiting for something.
The rocking chair moved in time with the hum. Rosie could not breathe. The woman's lips parted.
"You left me behind," the words rasped out, dry as old paper. The candlelight made her skin look waxy, her face shadowed in places it shouldn’t be. The rocking slowed. "Just like grandma."
Rosie’s feet were rooted, her body caught between running and sinking. The air had thickened, pressing in tight against her ribs, her skull. "You have always enjoyed running from your problems, haven't you?"
A hand rose from the woman's lap, lifting towards Rosie’s cheek, but before it could touch her - the candle sputtered. The rocking chair groaned. The woman's face changed. Her mouth opened wide, far too wide, a gaping black pit stretching and stretching....
Rosie woke up choking on the sound of her own scream.
.
