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[ storm; a raging storm outside, where sender insists receiver stays in ] (to wally from home; right i get the muse for the one that can't move, but at least home can shut its doors and protect him from the thing in the woods--)

Like a thunderclap to a small dog, Wally cannot stop moving.

Usually, Wally liked storms. He liked the low sound of thunder and the blinding light of lightning, even if the boom between air & between atoms sometimes startled him, his focus was one of awe enraptured. Rain pattering on the world like a hundred thousand marbles, evidence of reality, evidence of stability, evidence of the world changing in different; wonderful ways. Usually, Wally liked to watch and wait for a storm to pass. Usually, he’d sit — mostly quiet, aside from occasional murmurs to Home — and draw in his little spot perhaps on the porch or next to a window. Usually, it does not rain at night.

He feels as though he is forgetting something important. A thread tugged at the ridges of the seam, like bewilderment, like torture. A thousand miles of downpour. A thousand miles of fiber weaving unto fiber weaving unto-

He feels as though he is forgetting something important. What was it again?

— It makes him antsy. An actor forgetting his lines from just off-stage, he peers out from the spaces he can to watch the dark rain, how he can barely see it at all. Home’s insistence upon keeping him in does not help, and abruptly the entire house feels sinister by sheer virtue of what was being kept away ( inability to tell the difference between locked out, and locked in )

Home was not the problem. Wally was.

He feels as though he is forgetting something very very important. If he looked closely enough, maybe he could see it between the floorboards, like a shivering, terrible, oil slick black hand guiding a prop, like a snake writhing just loud enough to hear it, hear the hiss when he stepped on the right panels. Like being caught in a bad dream, Wally cannot shed the feeling that something bad is about to happen.

When Wally is afraid of something, he likes to remind himself that it can’t hurt him. He does not know what he is afraid of. Maybe that’s what he’s forgetting.

“ What’s wrong, Home? “ he asks, sat in his rocking chair after wandering up and down the halls as though seeking a breach in the wallpaper itself, in the plaster. The nerves don’t leave him, and he’s just a few minutes away from getting up again. “ I always draw outside. Why can't I go...? "

An inquiry that loiters on the edges of the anxiety that pervades, that Home is trying to protect him from, that Wally does not understand, was not meant to understand.

If he stared closely enough at the gaps between the floorboards, maybe he could see it. See what Home was trying to keep out. A basement that does not exist.

He does not want to see, but he has to know.