This is not an experiment.

I happened upon and started reading House of Leaves because some unnamed employee of the bookshop recommended it, mentioned it, put it on a shelf for me — specifically? — to find. I stood there reading as hours slipped away. I wasn’t even in the room, anymore. I didn’t think it was bothering me. I felt asleep only to wake up mumbling, calling out, terrified three times.

This isn’t me.
It wasn’t you, either.

I have to leave this book for a while to go to Virginia.
You tried to leave it, too.
That doesn’t sit quite right.

When I am done with it, I will pass this terror, fear, enigma on to somebody else.
It settles in you when you least expect it.

Just like the silence.
Just like the dark.

As a writer, I know just what you mean. I suppose the majority of the world doesn’t. I’m sure I can — like you — find someone who does

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