Chapter 13– Approaching and Entering the House

Steamer had been walking for what seemed like hours; heat shimmering, horizon empty, the usual desert silence that feels like it’s listening. Then, without transition, the Chuck E Cheese simply existed ahead of him. Not appeared, not materialized; just was, as if it had always been there and everyone had somehow failed to notice.

It was a squat fabricated building with DARKIE PARTIES WELCOMED stenciled in fading black, with two pizza lithographs; IT’S CHEESY!, standing like relics from a decade that never quite happened. A chartreuse Cadillac convertible sat beside them. A man beside the entry door swayed to something Steamer couldn’t hear, with the calm of someone who has seen stranger things than another desert walker.

The air around the place felt more humid, like a draft drawn from a BO Shop, or an inner city gym, or an oddly scented room whose door shouldn’t be open.

Steamer stops, squints, and thinks; “That wasn’t here a minute ago.” He ponders it like he’s noting a change in barometric pressure; annoyed, but not surprised. The Zone has trained him to treat the impossible as a scheduling inconvenience.

The man by the entry door wipes his hands on his trousers, and studies Steamer with a kind of ghetto suspicion. He asks; “You be loss ow sum sheeit?”

Steamer: “Sum sheeit. Just passing through.”

The man nods slowly, as if “passing through” is a category he recognizes as slumming or gentrification; in either case something he doesn’t approve of. “You don’t want to linger,” he says. “Things shift.”

Steamer whispers, “Shift how?”

The man shrugs. “Depends what you brought with you.”

Steamer: “Nothing.”

That answer lands like a stone in a bucket. The door man and Steamer exchange a look; quick, practiced, almost ritual.

The swaying door man says, “Then you’ll want to keep moving. This place doesn’t stay put for people without a direction.”

Steamer: “Fine.” His tone has that finality he uses when the truth is more important than morale.

The building’s shadow is at the wrong angle for the sun. And the desert around Steamer feels like it’s waiting to see what he chose.

Steamer finally says, “Alright. I’m moving.”

He walked on. After twenty steps, he looks back and the Chuck E Cheese place was gone.

Steamer keeps walking for a while in that brittle desert quiet. He thinks; “Don’t look for it again. That’s how it gets you. By making you think it was meant for you forever staying the same.” He was again thinking of Mairin.

About ten minutes later, the light changes; not dramatically, just enough that the shadows feel a half step out of sync with the sun. Steamer notices immediately. He always does.

He crests a low rise. On the other side is nothing but more desert; flat, pale, endless. But the air has that faint metallic taste again, the one Steamer never tries to explain.

He walks another hundred yards before the next anomaly reveals itself; not dramatic, not cinematic. Just a small, precise contradiction.

A single slice of pizza with extra cheese crosses his path. Fresh. Deep. From a pie that couldn’t possibly have been there. Steamer thinks; “It means I passed the test. The one where you don’t go back.”

He starts walking again, faster now, as if the Zone has just reminded him of a rule he’d forgotten.

Behind them, the pizza slice with extra cheese fades; not instantly, but gradually, like chalk dissolving in a light drizzle.

The desert sand turned to free growing grass, forcing Steamer to more or less goose step through it. Then he saw it, straight ahead.

The unoccupied house sits alone at the end of a long tree line; White, symmetrical, colonial bones over recursions, showing original French details overtaken prematurely by the British; the kind of structure that looks like it was built for order and then unceremoniously abandoned by it; like a Goofreads review of a supposedly new and ‘profoundly’ absurd book, which dares the possible critic to be more irrelevant and boringly stupid. The shutters are too straight, the paint too intact, the lawn too neatly trimmed for a place that shouldn't have caretakers; showing the contrivance. It has the stillness of a photograph someone forgot to take, or didn’t deem worthy of taking prior to the net re-duplication of everything, concurrently flattening it to a non-human shape, devoid of any texture; the bot prescribed future.

Inactively non-current, to its proverbial credit and salvation, a rock shell grazes in the foreground, still and indifferent, as if the house has been part of its landscape for decades. That detail is what unsettles Steamer most; the coexistence of the ordinary and the impossible.

Steamer recognizes the feeling and is mindless toward the external posture with a hint; the Zone's version of required and thereby fake hospitality. "It's waiting," he thinks. Not ominous; just factual. He adjusts his pocketed pack, already preparing for whatever threshold rules apply here.

Steamer walks the perimeter of the lawn first, checking for the subtle distortions he's learned to read; temperature shifts, sound drop-offs, the faint metallic taste that means a fold is nearby. The still shelled rock doesn't react. It simply keeps chewing.

As he reaches the walkway, the air changes; not colder, not warmer, just more deliberate. The house seems to acknowledge him, the way a sentient stage acknowledges non-sentient actors stepping into the light.

The front door is closed but not locked. Steamer tests the knob with the same calm he uses at Zone perimeters. It turns too easily. Inside, the air is still, as if the house has been holding its breath.

Then the door swings shut behind him; not slammed, not forced, just closed with the quiet authority of a place that has been waiting a long time.

The first thing he makes note of is a wall hanging which says;

When competence has

been styled as an affliction

and ineptitude a virtue

any possible defense

against the avaricious

and merciless concerted efforts

of the powers that be

is relegated to the disabilities

of those rendered lame

Have a nice day.

The entranceway space feels curated to unsettle. It's not messy, but it's intentional in a way that makes the air feel charged. The wall hanging with its bleak, sardonic message is the centerpiece, but the rest of the entryway reinforces the same tone.

The sign is large enough that you can't pretend you didn't see it. The smiley face at the end is almost mocking.

Steamer stops mid step. His brow tightens, not in confusion but in irritation. "Well that's ..... cheerful," he says out loud. He reads it again, slower this time, and you can almost see him filing it in his Seventies Archive. "Ah. A critique of late stage institutional decay. Charming."

At one wall rests a narrow table with a single candle burned halfway down. The wax has dripped over the edge and hardened into a frozen waterfall. Steamer says; "Fire hazard." He says it flatly, like he's already imagining the insurance paperwork.

There is stack of books on the floor, not arranged neatly but seemingly placed deliberately. The titles suggest that the subject matter is about power structures, propaganda, and social psychology; “1984,” “Animal Farm,” “Atlas Shrugged,” “Brave New World,” and “The Handmaid’s Tale.” The latter is open, face down, as if abandoned mid argument.

Steamer thinks; "This place is trying too hard." He nudges the open book with his foot but doesn't pick it up.

He next sees a tall mirror with a crack running diagonally across it. The crack doesn't shatter the reflection, but it distorts it just enough to make anyone standing in front of it look slightly off. Steamer glances at it and immediately looks away. "Nope."

With no thought about the staircase; effectively ignoring it; Steamer goes into the adjoining waiting room.

In all fairness to the disregarded staircase, it has a lot of character. The staircase has a traditional, handcrafted look, the kind you'd expect in a cozy cottage or an older, lovingly maintained home. Its design leans toward rustic charm rather than modern minimalism. It is of wooden construction throughout, with a rich, warm finish that highlights the grain, which has over the years acquired a patina, not duplicatable.

Turned balusters, the vertical spindles, give it a classic, decorative feel. The handrail is smooth and polished, suggesting both age and care.

The space beneath the stairs is thoughtfully styled. A woven seat wooden chair sits tucked neatly under the lowest step. A small wooden chest of drawers adds storage and visual balance. On top of the chest are three tall candles in simple holders, adding to the warm, homey atmosphere. A framed picture hangs above the chest, tying the vignette together. A lantern style light fixture hangs from the upper part of the staircase, reinforcing the vintage aesthetic.

The whole scene feels inviting, nostalgic, and intentionally curated. The combination of warm wood tones, soft lighting, and traditional furniture creates a sense of comfort and timelessness.