No One's Home - SCP Foundation

Footsteps descend down a staircase, despite its age it does not creak under the weight of the man that moves, like it does for every other passenger. It stays quiet, keeping the secret of its traveler as his hand brushes the railing, as his foot leaves the final step and touches down on the floorboards. He continues onward, a hand this time raised to glide along the wallpaper, tracing forms long faded, running along grooves left by countless other fingers. This place belongs to no one, but it holds the remnants all the same. Ghosts, reveries.

A pervasive “wrongness” stalks his footfalls, stuck behind him like the tar of the shadows that are cast from the lantern in his grasp- for he is something that does not belong. He holds no name, but there were those who called him “Nobody”. A non-name, if anything, more a statement- but humans prefer giving descriptions of things instead of leaving a blank page.

There is a mirror upon the wall, its varnished silver rims glimmering in the low light. Red-gold dances upon it when he approaches, the oil lantern’s light creating shadows in the gaps of the carved grooves. Leaves, branches, the shadows stretch; metal shines under a fine coating of dust. Nobody places the lantern upon the floor, when the metal base touches it the floorboards finally offer squeak in protest- but silence again when he takes a few steps closer to the mirror.

It’s dusty, the reflection of the room is distorted by this filth. Nobody raises a hand and begins to wipe it away, not giving care to the human worry of leaving fingerprints upon the glass.

It clears, eventually. It shows the room in full. The house has been left without a resident in its belly for a long time, the dust a pervasive infection- but just like the old wallpaper, there are traces. The furniture was never removed. A rocking chair rests in the corner, its back arches with once glossy wood, bars stretching down it to make its support like a wooden cage. There’s a pot or two, dirt is all that’s left in them now- a few crinkled, dried leaves are on the floor; a simple breath would likely be enough to convince them into joining the dust.

Two paintings hung over a stone mantle, the fire pit once within having long gone cold. The watchful eyes of the paintings' inhabitants stared out with that sort of glower that older art often chooses to depict upon people. With scrutiny, they stare out at the room as if they are now the only inhabitants. As if they are the owners.

Perhaps they are, for those painted eyes slide right over the man. The mirror does not reflect his presence within the room. It’s as if nobody is there.

He chuckles at that internal play on words- that observation, the first noise from him since stepping foot in the house. A sound scarcely above a whisper, easily talked over or just ignored as a sigh of the wind against the roof, but it’s not like there’s anyone here to begin with.

Nobody hums in contemplation, tilts his head to the left and then to the right, staring into the mirror a moment longer. Then he turns towards the lantern upon the floor.

The quiet is shattered in the sound of breaking glass, its shards scattering every which way by the force that broke it. The fire sputters and crackles briefly, pouncing to lap hungrily at the newly freed oil that now spills across the floor; but he silences it too. The light fades, just the dark oil left splattered across the wood, bubbling and hissing like a cornered beast. Nobody crouches down, he dips his hand in the oil. He does not care that it bites back at him, that it sears his flesh, he merely stands back up and approaches the mirror.

With an oil coated hand, he swipes that darkness methodically across the glass. It takes several times, several acts of dipping his fingers into an oil puddle whose murky depth seems to hold no end. By the time he’s finished, flesh threatens to slough off the bone, remaining skin twisted and blistered. Nobody flexes his hand. Burnt skin cracks, muscle twists and bones creak. He sighs, an inconvenience, if anything.

It doesn’t matter, though. He presses that wounded hand against the mirror, feeling his fingers begin to sink into its cool surface.

It’s a calm, lazy sort of smile that finds itself on his face- allowing the darkness that has covered the mirror to cover him too. There is no sense of alarm within him, even as he feels it creep up his face in crawling vines of pitch- even as it worms its way into his eyes.

It all turns to darkness, but it is a darkness far from death. It was simply… Nothing.

The darkness is him, in a stretched out sense of the word. It breathed and pulsed and bled alongside him. Nobody treads across the shadows that splash underfoot, neither warm nor cold. Within this blackness, things wriggled and squirmed. They pushed against the Nothing, tried to gain form. Tried to become Something.

Nobody relinquishes himself, allowing some of the tar to recede. When he shutters in a breath, it quivers too. It then drains, slowly, he watches as the room he’d been standing in moments prior returns. The thick darkness remains, lower now, pooling around his knees. The surroundings are tainted by it, their colors washed out like an old polaroid photo.

But that changes when something else enters the room. Two young children, bright and saturated with life- though noticeably transparent- run from down the stairs silently laughing. With them, they trail color across the walls and through the air like water when one's clothes are wet. They were not the only ones, there were fainter things now too. Motions of a man or a woman passing through, an older individual, a few strangers who did not belong but came to stay temporarily. Movement, movement, movement. The memories of those events were fainter in the minds that still lived, so here they lived on in less noticeability, in less brightness. These were not as satisfying to him, but left a pleasant aftertaste nonetheless.

Nobody let the children play, it was their first time within the house.

They were not impeded by the tar that covered the floor of their new home, did not notice it, for memories cannot notice things (that would be silly now, wouldn’t it?). The two instead explore the room, they hop up onto the couch and bounce there on the cushions, before darting off to poke at a blooming flower in a pot. One of them stands up on her tiptoes to peer at books on a bookshelf, looking for any storybooks that were familiar. She silently shouts something to her brother, who runs over to pull a book from the shelf. He holds it above her head for a few moments as she jumps, before giving it to her with a giggle. She smacks him lightly with the book, before the two return over to the couch with wide smiles.

Nobody smiles, too- watching them. They settle down, now, enraptured as they take turns reading the pages aloud. He cannot hear the words, but emotion drifts from the two like a gentle mist and permeates through the room.

From further up the stairs, color and life pulsed brighter- stronger. This was not the same calming but excited sort of energy, this was a pulse. Aggressive and frantic like something trapped and afraid- he could sense it. Nobody raises his gaze and stares for a few moments, considering.

He dissolves the children away, the darkness rising up to ensnare their memory. They were old, soon to be forgotten anyways. Those children grew up decades ago, they scarcely remembered this place anymore. So what’s the harm in taking a few bites? He gnawed on the fading joy and wonder as he again trudged up the staircase. That heartbeat-like pulse led him to a bedroom, the door left wide open.

There was a man sitting upon the bed, in his hand he clutched something- a telegram? A letter? His head was bowed low, his body shook with silent sobs. Nobody’s hand brushes his shoulder and he feels the sense of mourning like a splash of cold water to the face, the strength almost makes him recoil.

So death has tainted this house.

Nobody watches the man, he scans around the room. It’s empty, aside from the crying fellow. Was this not the father of the children? Perhaps a different inhabitant, from another time. This memory was stronger, more recent. Though perhaps ‘recent’ was a relative term to something as old as he was. Judging by the condition of the home, while someone’s been managing the property, it has not been lived in for over ten years.

The darkness wove into the image of the man, its tendrils pierced half-present flesh and infested him like maggots in a still writhing corpse. Nobody could taste the emotion upon his tongue and it tasted divine. The memories were painful, but those who are the most thickly present were far, far more satisfying.

He did not consume enough to fully eliminate the memory, no, for that was too strong for Nobody’s even tastes. Too bitter, really. He only took what he wanted, eating away at the sense of mourning, picking at the bones that death had left in this house until he was satisfied.

Nobody had not expected to take his fill so soon, though he had similarly not expected to find such fresh memories within. The man left a bitter weight in his stomach, but that was alright.

It was better than Nothing.

The demeanor of the man who dredges himself out of that dusty silver mirror, who leaves the empty house just as he left it, is a relaxed one. One reminiscent of an animal after a successful hunt, eyes half lidded, a satisfied and lazy smile.

Full, if only temporarily.