A collection of short stories that inform on one over arcing storyline, based on a concept used in Wax Tailor's Dusty Rainbow From The Dark.
In the forest is a clearing, and in the clearing is a hill. The trees stand far away from the hill, as if shying away from it; the hills feet stopping a distance away from the beginning of the forest. On one side of the hill, a cliff has been carved, and at the bottom is a small doorway. The door was probably white - its paint has chipped so much that it’s mostly a wood brown - and its handle was probably brass before falling off into the moss at the bottom of the door and rusting. The door now looked as old as the hill itself. Perhaps it was.
In the forest is a boy, and the boy is lost. He has stumbled his way into the clearing, and he sees now the hill, and its door. Tired, hungry, alone, he reaches for the chipped wood, on the opposite side of the broken hinges with which the door now clings to a rotten frame. He pushes, and the door collapses inward to reveal a hallway, throwing dust and dirt into the air in great plumes, that eventually settle into neat piles once more. The boy steps inside. He takes care about the floorboards: this one is rotten, this one is already broken. The ones that seem safe creak anyway, as if to remind him that he does not belong in this place. Light seeps in from a doorway to the right, casting a dance of floating dust particles.
The hallway splits into two segments, stairs on the left, and a continuation on the right. He sees an open door at the end of the hallway, and goes towards it. Like everything else in the house the room is covered in dust and grime; it chokes the air, makes it hard to breathe. The room appears to be some sort of kitchen: long-broken appliances and long-empty cupboards: a mockery of his hunger. Up the stairs now, again slowly and cautiously, checking every step before putting his full weight on it. As he walks up he takes note of the pictures on the wall, a series of pictures showing a progression in time; children grow up, adults grow old. Several of the frames are smashed.
At the top there are two closed doors, one ahead and one to the right. These doors are less damaged than their downstairs counterparts. More light peeks through the cracks in the door ahead, and the boy is drawn here.
The room is plain, with a bed sitting under an open window and not much else. The curtains attached to the window billow with a gentle breeze that rustles the leaves of the forest outside. He sets down his backpack here, and opens it, taking out a meagre meal of some fruit he had picked up outside. This place provided as much shelter as he could get in this place; there was no need to pass it up. And this bed provided a solution to another of his problems - despite being hard and ruined, it was better than sleeping on the forest floor.
As he sat on the bed and ate his meal he heard sounds coming from the window: voices. He looked out, expecting to see someone approaching the house, but no one was there. Thoughtfully, he turned to the forest view, and stared through the window…