I live in 35 East Main street, Jackson, in a perfect little house with pink walls and a white picket fence, with flower-patterned curtains and embroided throw-pillows. Every morning, I wake up to the song of the radio. Elvis Presley. I get out of bed and my wife pours me a cup of camomile tea.

I am married to the most magical woman in the world.

Her name is Doris. I didn't like that name before I'd met her, but now it's my favourite. I love how it rolls off my tongue. Doris. A lovely name for a lovely girl. She's beautiful. Gorgeous. She has short blonde hair and she wears bright red lipstick. Again, not something I was keen on. I'm a bit old-fashioned, I suppose. If you were to ask me two years ago about my dream girl I would have described someone doe-eyed and demure, a girl with a kind smile who'd cook and clean. Doris has a sharpness to her face, and by God is she a hopeless cook, but I love her all the same. She turns all the things I didn't like into things I adore. I suppose that's what love is.

My house is a little terraced bungalow. It used to be Doris' grandmother's before she died. I was reluctant to move into it because of the limited space and it being right beside a road. As a quiet person I didn't like the thought of the noise disturbing my work but Doris somehow changed my mind. She's a vixen like that, always somehow getting her way. Now I can truly say that this is the only place where I can feel at home. Doris decorated the house herself, repainting the walls, finding the furniture; the house is like her baby. She could barely stand to leave it save for the monthly trip to the grocery store, and the bi-annual visit to her parents. I myself only venture out as far as my door to collect the newspaper in the morning. In fact, I can't remember the last time I've stepped out of the confines of the fence. There was just no need.

I have a little study adjacent to the kitchen where I pour over my typewriter behind the muffled sound of Elvis.

Run when I say, (somebody's calling you)

I feel like my time has long gone

Long gone, (my time is long gone)

Long gone

Doris mails my manuscripts to the publisher, and, not to brag, but from the phone calls I receive , I'd venture to say that I'm a little bit of a modern Shakespeare. My new book has just been approved for a sequel. It's about a magical ring that turns its wearer invisible, set in a medieval country with fantastical creatures. I'm rather proud of the concept. Doris is an avid fan and constantly begs for me to tell her the ending, but I don't relent. Writer's honour.

It was Sunday when I finished the first chapter of the book. In excitement, I called on Doris so she could be the first reader.

'Doris, darling, I'd just written the first chapter!'

Silence.

'Sugarpie?'

I pushed myself off my chair and wandered into the kitchen.

Well I met a false pretender

Whose head was bending Lord

I met him in the evening

He was headed down that long lonesome road

'Doris?' She wasn't in the kitchen. Water dripped from the faucet.

It was strange to stand in the kitchen without Doris. The pink walls seemed almost nauseating without her. The only other place she could be is... her dressing room.

I've never been inside her dressing room. I'm not even sure what it looks like. The wood on the door was three shades darker than the floorboards, and three times as old too. It's the only part of the house that she didn't renovate. I've never thought about it before, but it is strange that there's a whole part of my home that is unknown to me. I push down the door handle.

'D-' 'Archy!' She exclaimed, her face a little flushed but still utterly flawless. She jammed herself between me and the door. 'I'm about to leave for the trip, dearest, what'd you need?' She adjusted her sunglasses. Of course, how could I forget? Her parents.

'Ah- yes, sweetheart, I finished the first chapter and I thought you'd like to read it.'

'My sweet pea I really can't be late...'

'Please...?'

She pursed her lips and then grinned.

'How could I say no to my Archy?'

She dropped her bag beside the kitchen stool and scanned the text while I sat in anticipation on the stool opposite. Her fingers drummed the counter and her legs fidgeted. I held my breath for the two hours she spent in reading. It seemed like forever until she put down the stack.

'Well?'

'I loved it.' She swiftly got up and kissed me on the forehead. 'I really am very late now Archy, I'll have to run.' I laughed. 'What's the hurry, dear? Your parents aren't going anywhere.' She was already at the front door. 'I'll see you on Tuesday!' She called, and then was gone.

I hated it when she leaves to see her folks. I could already feel the lovesickness settling in. I missed her so much that the thought of her made me feel sick. The curtains, the furniture, all reminders of her and how my heart is far away. The walls start to shift and morph. The home I love so much start to look ugly.

Suddenly, something caught my eye. Doris' bag on the floor. She must have left it behind in her hurry. I picked it up by the straps and something clanged on the floor as it fell out. A small brown glass bottle with a label taped to it in my wife's familiar scrawl. I held it in my hand for a moment, puzzled.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

The label. It says 'Love potion'.

____________________________________________________________

I sat in my chair, feeling a different type of dizzy. The bottle stood on the table and stared at me. It's probably some sort of joke. Clearly it is a joke; such a thing doesn't exist. A love potion? Preposterous. It can't be. This must be Doris' strange sense of humour. I'm sure we could have a good chuckle about it when she comes home. I do already wish she would come home. A love potion. Hah! How childish of me to even consider it. I went back to my study and closed the door so the bottle is out of view. I must work now. That's far more important than a silly bottle.

Yet, there's the quaintest feeling in my stomach.

What if?

Run when I say, (somebody's calling you)

You'd better run

Get away from here, somebody's calling you

I feel like my time has long gone

I must be crazy to even consider it. I must be crazy. I must be. Crazy. Crazy. Crazy.  Crazy. I slammed my hands on the typewriter, punching through the manuscript. It's the music. I can't think. I grabbed the radio with one hand and pulled the plug.

Silence.

The sweetest of all noises.

How long has it been since a silence like this? How long has it been since the radio had been turned off?

Now that I thought about it, I couldn't seem to recall any other song ever playing on the radio. I couldn't recall when it had been switched on, never to be switched off.

This is crazy. I am crazy. I must telephone Doris about this and we could have a right laugh about what a silly person I am. Doris, my wife. My beautiful wife. I love her with all my heart. The most perfect woman in the world... the thought of whom suddenly gave me an indescribable sense of fear.

The love potion on the table burned holes into my mind.

I stood up, dizzied. The bottle, the curtains, the god-almighty horrendous pink wall seeming to close in round my neck. In a moment of complete confusion, with my world spinning around me, I found one thought in crystal clarity:

I have to get to the dressing room.

How have I never been in there before? Why didn't Doris repaint its door to match the rest of the house? Heck, I don't even know what it looks like, or how big it is! Come to think of it, I've never seen it from the outside of the house. When was the last time I've been outside?

I grabbed the metal handle and push down with more force than necessary and tumbled the door open, jaws unhinging at the sight before me.

This was no dressing room.

The wood on the floors and ceiling looked old enough to give you a splinter just by looking at it. Thick dust circled above the light from the mouth a black metal pot hanging in the stone fireplace over-spilling with small skulls. Near the frosted window a rusty knife sat, the sharp side crusted with dried blood. And lining the entirety of its walls, were long, stacked shelves filled with the same brown glass bottles, the same labels in the same familiar scrawl, like a repeating nightmare. There must be a hundred... no, two... a thousand... ten thousand

A fist sized spider scuttered across my foot and I yelped as I jumped backwards and collided  behind with something hard.

I turned and saw her, grip on my shoulder, fingers turning bone white.

What do you do in a situation like this? How in God's name can a rational explanation ever be demanded? Where do you start?

You don't. You run.

Out the blasted door and down the cobble path in your slippers, knocking over porcelain gnomes and breathing like a deer with a rifle at its back as she screamed.

'Arrrrrrchieeee!'  Grab the fence gate and push.

The street dissolved around me. Rows of terraced houses suddenly turn into towering buildings and I stopped running suddenly to stare at the shifted . Enormous television screens clung to the sides of walls, the sun reflecting right into my watering eyes. A car screeched to a stop inches from me as the driver poked his head out and honked. 'Get off the road!' While behind me she cried, screeching herself hoarse.

'Arrrrrrrrrrcchieeeeeeeeee! Don't leaaaaaaaave meeeeeeeeee!'

I ran to the other side and grabbed the arm of a passerby.

'Where-Where is this?'

'What?' He took a small white device out of his ear

'Where is this!? Where are we!? Answer me!'

'Uh... East Main Street, Jackson?'

That's my street. But this is not my street. This is where I live but this is not where I live. This is not where I live this is not where I live

'Let go of my arm, man.'

I let go, and caught the words on the small screen in his hands

'The Lord of The Rings, that's my book.'

'You J.R.R Tolkien?'

'Who???'

After giving me a look, he walked away.

Is

Is it not my book?

Am I an author?

A group of teenagers passed me by, giggling. 'Look at his clothes, it's so 1970's'

'Excuse me, did you mean the year 1970?' They looked me up and down, scoffing.

'Yeah?'

'I'm sorry, that can't be I-I you see, it said '1965' on today's papers...'

'What? It's 1985, weirdo.'

Nineteen nineteen eighty five nineteen eighty five thirty five east main street east on the the dressing room nineteen sixty five one hundred two hundred ten ten ten thousand

'I wrote the Lord of the Rings! I wrote it! I did!' They were already miles away.

Ten thousand bottles on the table on the wall in my cup

____________________________________________________________

It was dark outside when I shut the front door behind me, barely hearing it close. She was at the dining room table, still crying, her eyes red. In a trance, I landed my hollow body in the chair across from her. I don't focus my eyes, just stared like I could see through the wall. Breathe in, breathe out numb.

'I love you Archie.'

'I know.'

'I wanted you to be happy with me Archie.'

'I know.'

'I just couldn't let you marry that Jane Talbot, Archie, I couldn't, sugarcakes. I hated the way you looked at her Archie, God dammit! And you were so sad, so sad that the publishers called ya trash and that idiot Jane Talbot didn't understand, ya hear? Only I did. Only I loved you.'

'...'

'You love me Archie, of course ya do. Twenty-five years, darling, so I thought maybe you didn't need that old thing anymore. I've been giving you less and less in your tea, but that won't do and that's okay. It's okay as long as we stay here and you drink up like a good mister.'

'...'

'Thanks for coming back, darling.'

'...'

'I love you.'

'...'

Run when I say, somebody's calling you

____________________________________________________________

I live in a house with sand walls and sand curtains and sand stools.

In the morning I get out of my sand bed and she pours me my cup of sand tea.

I drink my tea. I drink my cup of sand tea poured by my sandwoman, and I say 'thank you, dear.'