Nancy was accustomed to the musty smell of her old home. Each creaking step caused a shake of memory; things around her rose like fire, fuzzy at the edges like heat blurred her vision. She ascended the staircase, a grip of foreboding come over her; just as her gloveless grip on the banister. She did not know why, or what, or who, but something came and it warned; warned of fate, insolence. The pink of her sleeves seemed far too childish, innocent, for this dark house. For this dark house lay down memories that pittered through Nancy's head like angry hail. Substance ridden thoughts and breath of ale, the shaky memory of a cleaver meeting warm, burnt flesh, in a hazy status. Boiling cheeks bred by crimson fury and the sound of popping knuckles. Snapping wood. Crackling kindle. The wall felt solid and yet not; the absence of her hand turned to painful memory and ghostly feeling.
