(Traditional folk tale)
It was located on the outskirts of the village and all agreed that it had long since outlived its purpose.
What struck one first was how nobody could agree quite when it had been constructed, situated as it was on the bank of the creek, so far outside the agreed-upon parameters of the village. None could say what its initial purpose had been, and in addition it was three stories, much larger than the single isolated homes in which simple people lived.
Some claimed that there had been a pasture of cattle on the grounds once, but the cattle had become diseased and red-eyed from some sickness in the water and had moved away, and then the house had inexplicably taken root. Some did not refer to it as a house because it was more akin to a manor or the like, although such a term did not exist in their speech. They weren't sure what to call it, all they knew was that, upon nearing the place, one was struck with a profound unease. The building was wrong, you could say. It was too smooth, the marble which composed its walls was impenetrable and displayed a technical understanding of stonework that would elude the finest craftsmen of the village.
They went out, some of them, on occasion- perhaps twice a year- to measure and record the exact dimensions of the establishment, with rulers and compasses. It was a task which they voted on with straws, to see who would venture out along the old east-west road, which had long since fallen into disrepair ever since the dark times had come. It was usually only populated by various traveling merchants and peddlers of false hope, so it was avoided by the villagers. They'd rather spend their time doing worthwhile things- chopping wood, tending to the animals, weaving.
But invariably curiosity would get the better of them- the curse that infected them with possibilities- and they'd wonder if there were secrets hidden away in the old place, answers to their problems. Usually these explorers were younger, they were bright-eyed and chipper, and upon their return their eyes would be slightly wider and the other inhabitants would comment upon the way their demeanor was slightly changed for the worse- as if they were suffering from some heady bout of delirium. There was nothing outwardly to show that they were wrong, but there was a shift in their gait, a subtle alteration in their speech pattern. Something awry.
When asked to explain what they'd seen inside the old house, their answers were vague. One thing most agreed upon was that there was a form of written language scrawled, in a material that resembled charcoal, on all interior walls of the house. The script was unfamiliar, the characters garbled. And this text was sheathed in a thick layer of dust. One had to wipe the stuff away for the messages to be revealed- and even then they were incomprehensible. But it seemed that, to observers of a certain age and disposition, the messages carried some profound weight. And when the people walked back along the barren road to the village, they could not be trusted.
Whatever purpose the house may have once served, it was now only a repository for these blasphemous texts, these dangerous visions, these messages from some other place. And someone was writing them, because they increased with every year, in profundity and quantity. The villagers looked out at the lonesome silhouette of the rectangular prism against the deep emerald sky and they knew, on some fundamental level, that it had no right to be there. But it was there, and could not be avoided, and it posed an existential threat to every one of them.
The House smelled bad, too, that was another similar report. A pungent odor from nowhere in particular, like water circulating. Perhaps some offshoot of the creek did make its way down in unseen passages, deep down below to the foundation of the structure, and there blend with infernal devices to produce the odor. Some rumbling engine, some foul purpose. Buried somewhere within the labyrinthine corridors of the place.
There were some in the village who agreed that there had indeed been a time, perhaps even one within living memory, when the house had not been, and that its presence was unnatural and the things it said in its dark spirals were not to be seen, and that even moving in that direction was a terrible idea and would only bring the ruination of the spirit. But all the same, upon every rotation of the crops, some intrepid souls did venture out to the old house to witness its horrific majesty. It sat in mockery of the order the villagers had attempted to cultivate, and it could not be burned down since it was of an inflammable material. Anyway, the tools at the disposal of the villagers were insufficient for demolition.
There were rumors, now, after perhaps five generations, that the old house was making noise. Not that of an infernal machine, but suffocating whispers that drifted out over the creek on the wind. Silent promises that lured goats away from their pens. Quiet intonations read in the same unfathomable script that lined every bannister and wall and ceiling, again and over. And the villagers resolved never to go that way again, for any reason. Barricades were erected, walls and stoppages were built along the road to the west. Travelers could now only access the village from the east. Devices were hung from the trees lining the road which would act as deterrents against the words.
But still the words came, they arrived louder and stronger and with intensifying force. The people would gather at the intersection around which their settlement was formed and scream loudly at the words. The words did not seem to care. They could be heard at all hours, bleeding, restless, pervasive. They picked up in frequency and eloquence, they began forming new sounds and notions, none of which the villagers found palatable.
The villagers kneeled on the ground so as to ward the attack off, but the house lifted from the ground and began spinning and levitating over the soil, and soon enough it was several hundred meters aloft, it went from a dark place to a beacon of light, it shone with a frantic brilliance and began pulsing and intensifying visually as the words were hammered out at an alarming rate, and the many sigils and formations the written language took on the walls of the old house flashed before the eyes of everyone in a display that codified itself. Rapidly, in a vibrant color like the sky as it had been before the onset of the dark times. They all grabbed their heads and wailed in the dirt as the knowledge of the dead world writhed around them, and the whispers became shouts, and the structure rotated on its axis a thousand times a minute.
Their cries could not be heard above the din.
I looked out the window and I saw, for an instant, what appeared to be a small town. It was Hygiene, I'm sure of it, or some Hygiene. The roofs were pointed in angles, it was there one moment and gone the next. Translucent, perhaps a fata morgana tailored specifically for me. Beautiful. A Welcome Home display of sorts. I hope they have the cake prepared for my arrival.