There is no rationalizing this. You tried, but no amount of delusion can make you think you are walking through your bedroom door but actually end up coming through the front door.

The rain outside is almost a solid sheet of water. Even if you are having a mental break and had gotten into the front yard, you will have been soaked in an instant before making it back inside.

You shut your eyes tightly and open them again, but nothing changes. Still standing at the edge of the lobby. The box of candles hit the floor underneath you and split open after you had tripped. The weakened base of the box doing it a final disservice, spreading the rods of wax, holders, and a box of matches around on the hardwood.

How did this even happen?

You feel that your bed will somehow fix all of this. As if burying yourself under the covers can stop whatever you are experiencing. It might, and until things started to make sense, that was a clear as a goal as you could think of.

Eyes still glaring out at the empty hallway full of closed doors, you squat down slowly and grab around for a candle, holder, and the box of matches.

You step through into the kitchen, as lightning illuminates the room before your torch has the chance. It looks just as you had left it. Holder down first, candle inside it, you then put the torch down, sinking everything back into dim light as you fiddle with the matchbox.

The first just snaps in half as you go to strike it. The second doesn’t seem to have a head to ignite. The third takes four strikes, each shakier than the last, before it flares into light. You point it downwards so that the flame can settle up the wood rather than risk it going out immediately. Slowly, you move it over to the candle and the wick takes hold of the flame.

Not exactly bright, but it is a constant—if not flickering—light. Enough for you to see the torch clearly on the central island here.

Your eyes dart to the window, and you swear you see a shadow wash past. Probably just a leaf or other debris caught in the storm. Two deep breaths later, and you stop staring at the rain pelting the glass. You now withdraw the superglue from your pocket, twist off the lid and hold it in your left hand. With the torch in your right, you press the switch forward.

Allowing focus to drown out the back of your mind screaming away at your current situation, you dab the adhesive liquid in sections around the edges of the switch. Twenty seconds for it to dry before you do the next area. Patience will pay off here—you only want to do this the one time. With all sides done and dry, you paste the area with another layer just to be sure.

A minute of holding it in place, and it should either be done, or won’t work at all. The candle seems pretty stable in the holder, so you decide to leave it in place—a small push putting it a decent distance away from the edge. Maybe setting these up around the house would help with your sanity, but then again, you don’t intend on wandering the place for any longer than necessary.

From within a cupboard, you take out a tupperware container to house the discarded candles from the hallway. As you turn to the open door, you pause. There are now nine photo frames hanging on the wall.

After blinking a few times, it remains, the space filled. You approach gingerly until your flashlight illuminates the new picture clear enough to see.

Slightly faded, but it’s obvious to you. It’s a photograph of the red door.

You bite at your lip and exhale. As your grip loosens, you are briefly relieved that the flashlight doesn’t flicker, but remains on. This small win gives you a little courage, so you reach out.

Not wanting to give the annoying door the time of day, you remove the picture from the wall. You turn and step into the kitchen, back over to the cupboards by the window. While the heavy raindrops beat against the glass, you pull at the handle that reveals the trashcan under the other side of the sink.

“No thanks,” you murmur to the frame as you drop it down into the darkness. You close the cupboard and turn back to head to your room.

Only, there are still nine pictures on the wall.

The picture of the door is back in the usually empty spot once more. Your brain must really want to see it in that place. Perhaps just pattern recognition, you consider. What else should fill that obvious gap but another picture, and with the day going as it has, the door seems like a good enough fit?

You scowl at your own justifications. Things were actually fucked, but part of you is hoping you could ignore it and continue with the original plan. But you have just walked in through the front door after moving into your bedroom. Hallucinations aside, that wasn’t right.

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Turning your head to the side, you look at the front door. Did you really just come through it? You can hear the wind rattling against it, the rain once again seeping in underneath. There is no way you can open it and find an answer that isn’t just the storm. That almost seems unfair.

You kneel down and place the torch on the floor while you pick up the discarded candles and holders. Perhaps putting them unlit in places will be nice for when you need to use the bathroom or whatever. No sense creating fire risks if your main goal was to hibernate, however.

With that said, you should probably snuff out the…

You stand and turn to look in the kitchen, which is once again in darkness. The candle can’t have burned out already. Flashlight back in hand, you scan over the island counter.

The candle and holder are no longer there. You check the floor as well. It’s clear.

From the direction of the garage, there is a long, shuddering creak.

Your focus snaps to it immediately. Light up as you step into the hallway. The moving shadows cast by the roving light has you frozen in place, but there isn’t anything there. All the doors are closed and normal.

“I’m losing it,” you tell yourself, as if speaking it out loud makes things more real, or it might prompt someone to come and tell you that things are fine. That you are fine.

You take one stiff step over to the hallway light switch, flick it up and then down. No electricity still. It’s tempting to take your phone out and power it up to see if there is a signal, but that was likely to be a disappointment as well. Do you have a power bank somewhere to give it more juice? You used to, but it was a matter of whether you had bothered to leave it charged, even if you can find it.

Chances were slim.

You place a new holder and candle on the kitchen island. Only two of those left now, so you next open the bathroom to place one in there. The basin is no longer marred by blobs of mud. All clean, aside from a small shard of wood on one side. Splinter. You place the holder and candle on the small cabinet beside the bath, and leave. Door shut behind you. The third holder will have to go in your room.

The door to the garage looks fully closed, and even the bright flash of lightning doesn’t show any potential cracks. Stepping over to the stairs, you give the hallway behind you a quick sweep. Other than the additional photograph, everything is as it should be.

On the bottom step, you pause and remove your socks. They are wet now anyway, and a detriment to your safety on the stairs. The house will look quite the state in the morning once you’d recovered to find clothing and household items strewn around everywhere.

You walk up, keeping an eye on the door to the garage as you ascend, before switching your light to your bedroom door. Normal, although that isn’t the main concern. You almost don’t need to use your torchlight, and as you crest the top of the stairs, you see why.

Down at the end of the landing, on top of the small table, is the candle from the kitchen. Flickering wildly, as if there is a breeze coming in through the cracks of the window there. Whatever houseplant had previously lived in that space has vanished. Maybe somewhere else in the house.

Your tired eyes switch between your bedroom door and the wavering illumination. So close. With how old the house is, it doesn’t surprise you that there is enough of a gap for some of the harsh wind to make it in. Potentially enough for the candle to fall?

It seems like a risk that is not worth taking. A house fire in the storm sounded even worse than dealing with your weird imagination, although you curse yourself for putting that out into thought. You can blow it out and then return to bed. Something that sounds more like hopeful permission than a statement of capability.

You place your own box of candles down on the floor near your door before walking down, as if it helps with tethering your intent to that place. As you approach, you can definitely feel the chill radiating from whatever gaps the window has. You barely remember it being this bad, even in winter.

With a cautionary scowl at the candle, you lean down slightly. The flame flickers beneath you, briefly drawing you in as if you are a moth. Almost as if you could find some sort of safety or normality within the slight warmth it offered. If only it were that easy. You blink away your stare.

And then you blow it out.

Darkness surrounds you, as even your flashlight flickers off and the window doesn’t provide any dim ambient light. Your torch flickers back on almost immediately, and you find yourself leaning over the kitchen island.

The smell of smoke wafts from the snuffed candle in front of you, filling your nose as you stand back up slowly. You stare at it for a few moments, your breathing slow and labored. Another teleportation themed hallucination. You were blowing out the candle, but have been imagining where you are actually standing.

That must be it, surely?

You turn to reveal eight photographs on the wall just outside the kitchen. Maybe the delusions come in waves. For another few moments of thought—only briefly interrupted by the storm shaking the house—you consider just hunkering down in the kitchen instead. You can’t go crazy remaining in the corner of the room, right?

The box of candles and matches aren’t in your grasp anymore, however - you have left them upstairs. With a quick pat around your pockets, you check your inventory again. Keys, phone, tube of superglue, and the flashlight in your hand. Maintaining the facts is important to keep things together. Mostly your sanity.

You have to accept that you are going through something and approach things systematically. After shaking out your tense muscles, you decide getting the matches at least will be important. You could relight this kitchen one and then avoid blowing out any imagined ones. Simple.

A sweep through the hallway reveals nothing out of the ordinary. You pause to press the sodden towel back up against the front door, using your foot. Then you walk as confidentially as you can to the stairs, and climb up them.

Your brow furrows as soon as you reach the top. The plant has returned to the table down the end, sure, but that’s not what has you confused.

Now, not only is the box missing from where you left it, but so are all the doors up here. Your bedroom, the storeroom, and your parent’s bedroom door entrances, all gone.

Plain wooden wall greets you on both sides, as another loud creak reverberates from back downstairs.

This one is not as shy as the others, and shakes and groans for a good four seconds before becoming silent.

I am fine; you tell yourself. You aren't.