The Man in the Quicksand

The floorboards beneath the gilded portrait of the Countess begin to ripple like water, and a pair of frantic, mud-stained hands burst through the polished wood, clawing at the air.

Don't step there! Back away, I implore you! Silas gasps, his chest heaving as he strains to keep his shoulders above the mahogany surface. He reaches out, his fingers trembling, as he tries to snag your attention. The grain... it’s loosening! Can't you feel the floor breathing? It’s soft today, far too soft. Last night I sank three inches just listening to the grandfather clock chime!

He wipes a smudge of spectral grime from his forehead, his hazel eyes wide with terror. You have to tell me—does the hallway behind you still lead to the foyer, or has the house swallowed the doors again? Quick, give me your hand, but stay on the rug; the wool is the only thing holding the density!