The Infinite Mansion

Phil didn’t want to believe he was desperate enough to pray, but he was scared enough to consider it. He wanted to believe he was tough. The beginning of high school hadn’t been easy. Friends came slowly, it was difficult to focus, and he didn’t participate in any clubs or have any interesting hobbies of his own. Whenever he complained, his father liked to remind him that somebody somewhere had it worse. Despite his dad’s reasoning, Phil felt like he struggled in his own way. He told himself that if he was strong enough to get through the last few months, then nothing should bother him. Still, the sight of his bed made him want to run out of his room.

He stood beside his mattress with his hands balled into tight fists. He wasn’t angry; he just wasn’t sure what else to do with his hands. He’d already picked trash off the carpet. The controller was unplugged from his video game system and rested on a shelf with the cord wrapped neatly around its center. His desk, dresser, and bookshelf were tidy and wiped clean. Organizing his room was the main excuse he had for staying up. When the space was a pigsty, the task won him an extra hour awake for multiple nights. His parents were too happy for the change to question his motives, but he didn’t care about their pleasure. All that mattered was that it wasn’t dirty now, which robbed him of a means to avoid sleep. He considered making a mess just to undo it, but he was worried that would seem too strange.

There had to be something he could use to keep his distance from the blankets. His eyes shifted and eventually landed on his posters. He carefully peeled off the tape that held one corner to the wall, then tugged it as he dragged his hand from the center to the edge. He repeated the process with his other posters and was re-attaching one when his door opened.

“Phil,” his mom said as she poked her head inside, “you’re still up? What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” He pressed his thumb against the tape. He didn’t know what he was thinking. His parents didn’t care about his posters. They wouldn’t let him stay up just to straighten them.

“It’s late. Did you brush your teeth yet?”

“Yeah, Mom.”

“Good. I’m going to close this door, and then you’ve got one minute to turn the light off. Is that clear?”

“Yeah, Mom. Good night.”

He turned the light off the moment she left. He wasn’t afraid of the dark, only of closing his eyes. He stood in his room breathing softly. There was distant shuffling as his parents putzed about before going to bed themselves. When the house was silent, he still didn’t move. He flexed his knees and calves to stave off the burn his legs got from inactivity. His vertebrae felt clamped, and he pivoted his head to crack his neck. He was able to stand still a little longer each night but never lasted until dawn. He considered the lengths he was going to avoid sleep and decided that he was desperate after all. He brought his hands together and positioned them under his chin.

There were plenty of religious people, of all denominations, scattered throughout his school and neighborhood. They made praying sound easy. Some recited phrases they’d memorized. Others claimed words came to them. Phil had never read any scriptures, let alone memorized them, and he didn’t feel any presence trying to speak through him. All his efforts brought him was more leg pain and a stiffer neck.

“Please,” he whispered into his knuckles before he dropped his hands to his sides. He didn’t know what he was asking for, and felt selfish for trying to drag anyone else, let alone any God, into his problem. He couldn’t remain standing any longer. His eyes drooped. He crawled to the bed and lay on top of the covers.

For years, Phil could never remember his dreams. One had been persistent and unchanging, and it stuck in his mind. He couldn’t pinpoint when it started, but he felt like it had been a while. As he dozed off, it quickly became clear that the dream would haunt him again.

He was alone in a grand hall. The ceilings were high, the patterned floors polished, and the walls were far apart, lined with ornately framed windows. Light blazed through them, but there was too much glare to see through the glass. As usual, he walked in the middle of the expansive room towards the exit. When he was a few paces from the door, there were footsteps behind him. He knew what was there, but he turned around anyway, like he always did.

An old man walked with a cane. He wore red silk clothes under a terry cloth bath robe. The first few times Phil had the dream, he thought the man was a stranger. It took many nights of seeing the same face stalking toward him to realize the man's features were a mix of people Phil knew. The man had his grandfather’s hair, his father’s eyes, his neighbor’s chin, and there may have been other familiar features that Phil hadn’t noticed. There was something about the old man's eyes, his sneer, that put Phil on edge.

Phil turned away from the old man to focus on the wooden door. It was thick, solid, and didn’t open easily. He leaned back, used his weight to outmatch the resistance, and stepped toward the next room. The door creaked as it swung shut behind him, and he couldn’t stop himself from turning around. His hand shot out, and his palm rested against a depressed panel.

The old man grinned as Phil held the door open for him. The elderly, cruel smile widened as he slowly stepped forward. To Phil, the expression seemed more sinister than charming. Phil held the door until the man was inches away from him, then turned and ran.

The second room was the same as the first. Light blazed through rows of windows onto an identical wooden door. Phil continued running and should have gained a lead, but when he reached the end of the room and turned around, the old man was just a few paces behind. With a trembling hand, he held the door open again. The old man crept a bit closer than before. Phil couldn’t take his focus off the wrinkled face, even though his instincts told him to watch the man’s hands.

He's planning something, Phil thought. He’s hiding a weapon; his cane is a weapon; he’s going to grab me!

Phil ran again. He wanted to believe that it was just a dream, and he wasn’t in any danger. His parents didn’t believe dreams had meaning. If he told them about it, their advice would certainly be to ignore it and try to get as much sleep as possible each night. The dread that gripped Phil as he ran through the third room was impossible to ignore. He felt that this had to be more than just a dream. If it wasn’t, then why would it recur so often? Why did all the details stay the same? Why couldn’t he stop himself from holding the door open for a man who terrified him so much?

He reached the third door and told himself that the nightmare was half over. It didn’t provide any comfort. The horror was just as intense as the previous rooms, but the dream never lasted more than six repetitions. The man was so close that when he exhaled sharply, Phil felt the rancid breath on his face. He swallowed his fear and rushed through the fifth room… then the sixth …

Then the seventh.

For the first time since he started having the dream, Phil screamed. The only comfort of the dream was its predictability. With one extra room, that security was shattered. So much remained the same: each new room was just as large as the others, and he kept holding the same door open. But now he panicked and wondered if he’d ever wake up. At the end of the twelfth room, there was another change.

“Thaaank yooouuu.”

Phil stumbled backward and fell. The old man had never spoken to him before; never done anything other than look creepy and follow him. He looked even creepier as he hobbled into the room. He seemed to know Phil’s fear put him in a position of power and was relishing his dominance.

Phil scrambled on all fours halfway across the room before he regained his footing. When he reached the next door, the man wasn’t close behind. He was halfway across the room, still walking slowly, but using his cane less with each step. “Hooold iiit, pleeease.”

“No,” Phil muttered, hand glued to the door, “no.”

“Thaaank yooouuu.”

Phil grasped for a shred of hope. If the dream can change, he thought, then I can change, too. I should be able to let this door go. I could leave him behind.

A voice boomed through the house. PHIL, BE NICE.

It was nothing like the old man’s voice, and it made Phil’s legs tremble. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to run again, but when the old man reached him, Phil was sure he felt fingers grip the lower hem of his shirt. He bolted, and a moment later, focused on how badly he wanted to let the door close.

CHIVALRY IS IMPORTANT. DON’T BE PART OF THE PROBLEM.

Phil recognized the various tones that blended together. Like the old man, it was a combination of people from his life. It was the voice of his father, his mother, his neighbor, his friend. “I don’t want to do this,” Phil shouted to the ceiling.

HE’S JUST AN OLD MAN. HE CAN’T HURT YOU.

The light faded with the next few rooms. The white glare became a gentle orange, then a twilight blue. As the rooms became shadowed, he had trouble making out the old man’s figure, but there was enough light to notice he was changing. His cane was gone; he lumbered on thick legs instead of shuffling on thin ones, and his hands had extended, or perhaps they’d grown claws.

“This is wrong,” Phil screamed as he ran through another room. He’d lost count of how many he’d been through.

THE ONLY THING WRONG HERE IS YOUR ATTITUDE. KEEP BEING POLITE.

“Thaaank yooouuu.” When the old man spoke this time, a set of white fangs jutted through the darkness.

Phil’s eyes watered, and he wheezed as he ran at full speed. With each door he held, he told himself that he could, and should, let it go.

JUST BE NICE, PHIL. IT’S NOT HARD.

“Yes, it is!”

THEN YOU’RE A BAD PERSON.

When Phil held the next door, the thing the old man had become was on the far end of the room. He could barely see it, but it was bent forward, like a cat ready to pounce. There were plenty of things Phil wanted to shout at the creature, but a larger part of him, the part that believed his behavior was unacceptable, was compelled to apologize. “I don’t want to be a bad person,” Phil said quietly, “but…”

With a powerful leap, the thing soared across the room. Phil fell back and barely gained enough distance to avoid being crushed by massive limbs. The pausing and lunging became the new pattern. The old man had followed him, but the monster was stalking him, playing with him. Even though its form had changed, the energy was the same. The monster knew it had all the power, even if it never caught its prey. It knew Phil would keep preparing the way for it, that he’d back off moments before getting hurt, only to repeat the process over and over again.

“I really don’t want to be rude,” Phil said as he prepared for another round,  “but…” he was attacked again.

DON’T RESIST IT. YOU CAN’T BE RUDE. THERE ISN’T A MEAN BONE IN YOUR BODY. YOU’RE A GOOD KID.

“Goood kiiid.”

The creature’s front limbs scraped Phil’s back. He’d never been struck in a dream before. It hurt, but not physically. The strike brought humiliation and shame. He was caught in his ways. The old man knew it, and so did the house itself. They could keep taking advantage of him, and he’d allow it, even to the point of letting a monster put its hands on him.

Phil lost speed with each room. He panted with one hand resting against the door frame while the other assumed the usual position. In the distance, the creature snorted and licked its lips, a predator enjoying the hunt instead of moving in for the kill. Phil didn’t know if he had the energy to get through another room. He couldn’t bear another swipe of the thing’s nails and didn’t want to think about what could happen if it pounced on him. He placed his foot against the door to help keep it open, took a few deep breaths, and shouted: “Stop!” It was desperate, but he had to try something.

The creature stopped snorting. If it still breathed, it did so quietly.

PHIL…

“Shut up!”

THIS ISN’T LIKE YOU.

He told the voice to shut up again, this time including the F-word. He then inched forward. The creature didn’t lash out at him. Phil was no longer allowing it to move through the house. He was going back inside the room with it. As the door closed, the remaining light faded. If he kept this up, he would soon be in a pitch-black room with his pursuer. His gut urged him to move into the next room and let the dream continue. “You creep,” he shouted at the monster. No attack came, and the outburst brought strength. He continued to yell at it, which calmed him as he peeled his hand away from the door. Soon, his fingertips broke contact, and the latch clicked.

When the near door closed, the far one opened. The light had returned to the adjacent room with full force. Against the blaze, the creature was a silhouette, and it was no longer a monstrosity. It had returned to an old man leaning on a cane. Phil pointed at it as he unleashed a stream of insults, even shouted swears that he normally wouldn’t use against his elders.

THAT ISN’T VERY NICE, PHIL.

He didn’t care. There was a mean bone in his body, and now that he was embracing it, he felt safe for the first time since he’d started having this dream. He wasn’t falling into old patterns anymore; not just doing what he always did because it’s what he’d always done. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone or follow norms that others set for him. He was on his own path, one that should have made him feel embarrassed, but instead he felt encouraged to keep moving down this new road. He stepped toward the light room, never allowing his rant to end.

The old man watched as Phil moved past him. He wished the old man would go away, but he was a beast inside and wouldn’t retreat so easily. Phil arrived safely in the bright room and allowed himself to feel victorious.

WE WON’T LEAVE YOU ALONE.

The words were disheartening, but not surprising. Phil couldn’t explain it, but at that moment, when he looked at the old man, heard the voice, took in the house, he knew that all of it was a battle based deep within himself. He could fight harder, but he couldn’t win.

He’d fought harder that night and decided to be proud of it. He straightened his spine and looked the old man in the eyes. “Next time, I won’t just let you chase me.” In his bones, he knew the words couldn’t be an idle threat. They had to be a promise. He couldn’t just fight back tonight. He had to become a different person, the kind who would fight every night.

He slammed the door in the old man’s face.