Killing time

There are somethings in the wall. There are many different stages of sleep.
 She hasn't quite figured out what they are yet but she's sure they're there. They mumble while she sleeps. They form a soundtrack for her dreams. They want something from her and until she figures it out she won't be able to leave.

 It was a whim. Coming here to this big, old place to take pictures. The outside is broken and being overtaken by kudzu but the house is still stately and the decay has given it a hint of sinister elegance. The windows, surprisingly unbroken, looked Every lowered voice is whispering about herdown over the warped porch from under lowered lids. The first time she approached the place it struck her as one with personality. A home that influences its occupants, for better or worse. Probably that second one, she's finding.

She keeps moving from room to room because the constant sense of being watched is making her back teeth ache.There is also a girl in the basement. Dark voids for eyes that look at her and want.The air is filled with an unsatisfied presence and smells like mold. She's been here almost twenty four hours and she's getting hungry. If she could get to a door she could get out but they're never where she expects them to be. She's tired and dazed because this can't be real and if she wakes up maybe things will make sense again so she sleeps.
 As she dropped down through the thickening layers of sleep the whispering somethings reached out and kept her from penetrating that last barrier to oblivion, leaving her mostly unconscious but slightly aware, until a particularly sharp voice from the crowd would bring her rocketing back up into her own senses, leaving her painfully alert to try and start the whole process over again.
 There was a rusty old key hidden in the flowerpot at the bottom of the porch stairs. The whole house was like that, like the owners had just left on a trip and meant to come back. Faded furniture collected dust and a fifty year old newspaper withered on the kitchen table. There were dishes in the sink but, curiously, no spiders. She took pictures of everything. She didn't know what else to do. She understood now that people weren't really afraid of the dark, just of the things that might be in it. It's a fear of possibilities.