After that traumatic, almost unreal event, Masahiro turned around, leaned his back against the dresser he had just closed with such effort, and let himself slide down as he caught his breath.
"What the hell... just happened?"
At his feet was still that photo, where his completely altered face was barely recognizable. He picked up the old Polaroid and slipped it into his pocket without thinking—it might come in handy later.
Once he had caught his breath, he got back to his feet and decided to return to the living room. He slowly walked down the hallway, each step echoing the creak of the old wooden floor. But when he reached the end of the corridor, he was struck by another change: there was no longer a living room there, but a room with only a built-in closet on the right wall, a small window that seemed to face outside, and beneath the window, a strange chest.
It was clearly a very old chest, though well preserved. It was mainly made of wood—cherry wood, it seemed to Masahiro, though he wasn't sure, never having been good at identifying types of lumber. It was definitely lacquered, which likely helped it withstand the passage of time. Still, the chest looked valuable: its corners were covered with thin brass plates, and underneath, also in brass, there were three heavy, solid handles side by side that seemed more ornamental than functional. Finally, the large chest had two brass latches that looked very sturdy to Masahiro.
Scanning the room, Masahiro began to understand:
The house was alive. It changed with him.
Meanwhile, Lisa, after rushing from the cemetery, finally reached the family house. Driven by panic and urgency, she threw herself at the front door and began pulling with all her strength.
"Masahiro! Masahiro!"
She tugged and tugged, desperate and overwhelmed with worry for her husband.
"Masahiro, it's me! Please, open up!"
But the door wouldn't budge. Lisa began to sweat, feeling she was wasting precious time. She let go of the handle and decided to circle the house—maybe Masahiro was outside or maybe she'd find another entrance.
"Masahiro!" she kept shouting.
But no answer ever came.
She reached the back of the house, where there was a window. She looked inside, but it was completely dark. Still, Lisa wasn't ready to give up. She knew something was wrong inside that house. She had to talk to Masahiro, and she had to do it now. She kept calling out to him.
Masahiro was in that bizarre room that had appeared from nowhere, when he suddenly saw someone pass by the window: it was Lisa. Finally, Lisa had come looking for him—she had realized he was inside.
Masahiro climbed onto the chest beneath the window and began calling out to her, but she didn't seem to see him.
"Lisa! Lisa!! I'm here, my love, please!"
His voice was desperate. Lisa seemed unable to hear him. He began pounding on the window, hoping his wife would notice him.
"Lisa! Can you see me? I'm here!"
His voice cracked more and more with the growing pain of realizing that Lisa wasn't as close as the house wanted him to believe.
He backed away from the window, disheartened.
"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? WHY HAVE YOU TRAPPED ME IN HERE? WHY?"
Masahiro's spirit was utterly broken. His sanity was draining with every second. His strength fading. He had reached the point of no return.
Masahiro dropped to his knees in the center of the room, collapsing into a scream-filled sob, clutching his face in his hands, digging his nails into his own flesh out of sheer agony.
Masahiro had realized he might never leave that house.