This was recorded fifteen years ago:
Did you hear that? Can you hear the noise? A kind of hiss … in and out, in and out … almost the sound of someone breathing. Only it’s different; like …
No. It’s gone again. Yeah, but you’re like that, aren’t you, House? You big old ugly pile of rock. First it’s the sounds, you bang all the doors, and then it’s the clock chimes. You’re inventive with those, aren’t you? But I’m not letting you get the better of me. I’m staying. Did you hear that, House? I’m staying. So, go on! Do your worst!
You’re right. I should have kept my mouth shut. You should never goad anyone to do their worst. Not a drunk in a bar. Not a policeman. Not God. Not even this damned house. Because, the moment you make that challenge – go on, do your worst – that’s exactly what they do. And sometimes it can be far worse than you imagine. Rather than sitting here, shouting futile threats at the walls, I should be explaining what happened to me over the last three days.
OK, so I’ll take it from the top. My name is Chris Blaxton. I’m twenty-three years old. I’m sitting here alone in a house called The Tower. And here I am in what was once an elegant ballroom with windows looking out over a garden that’s now grown into this wild, wild jungle. Not that I can see much of it. It’s night-time. And, yeah, dear God this is the worse part – when it grows dark. All dark and black and hidden, and the place is swamped by shadows that just ooze through the rooms like they’re alive.
Enough. Once you begin brooding about how alone you are in this place, and visualize what it’s like in all those empty rooms your imagination starts to eat you alive. Right. I’m sitting at a table that’s big enough to seat twenty people. The tape deck is in front of me, the mic’s in my hand. I’m going to make this record of what I did just in case I never get chance to tell you in person. Three nights ago I left video cameras running in the ballroom, with more in The Promenade and at the foot of the main stairs. What I saw on the tapes when I played them back was enough to … well … what I saw is going to be the starting point for this … document? Testament? Diary?
Oh? And didn’t I tell you I’m now alone in the house? I did, didn’t I?
I thought I was. But what you believe and what is true isn’t always necessarily one and the same thing. There! Listen! I don’t know if you heard that … I’m sure there’s someone walking along the corridor to the ballroom. So … what do you do at a time like this? Run like hell and not look back? Or open the door? See who it is?
But this is The Tower. A house where its occupants don’t always wear a human face.