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There’s a first time for everything, right? Something lurking in the deepest, darkest chamber of her mind weighed in. An almost audible voice that had been with her even longer than the broken spidey-sense. She was so familiar with it, the voice of “whatever can go wrong, will go wrong,” that she’d even given it a face and a name: Mo. Over a decade ago, a well-meaning counselor had suggested that personifying the terrible voice would disarm it. “Make it something harmless, something familiar,” they said. So, Eve imagined her favorite but long-lost childhood toy, Mo.
When she was a child, thanks to an overactive imagination, she half believed something evil dwelled in each and every cellar. She used to have nightmares about it. The nameless terror. Always lurking just out of sight, silent and faceless and so horrific it couldn’t even be described. No matter what basement, what house, it was always that same feeling. As if this unspeakable terror could divide and multiply itself throughout all the basements of the world.
Yet the more she dwelled on those things, the more insignificant they seemed. And deeper than that, she was simply afraid to say her thoughts aloud, as if doing so might make them tangible, almost physical creatures.
Even when the event was completely out of her control, even when the other party was blatantly overstepping her bounds, she always found a way to blame herself. Always felt this nagging sense of guilt for everything, as if her very existence was a violation of some stone-etched decree.
Sleep Paralysis: Often confused with night terrors, this is a phenomenon that generally occurs at the REM sleep stage. During an episode, a subject feels fully awake but is unable to speak or move. Under normal circumstances, our brains temporarily disconnect motor neurons during REM sleep to prevent us from physically acting out our dreams. In sleep paralysis, however, this disconnection continues even when a person is fully conscious, resulting in an inability to move. It is often accompanied by vivid and disturbing hallucinations, leading to a sense of dread, imminent death, and/or a
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“Alison believed something in the house, or the house itself, was toying with her. Altering her reality, bit by bit.
Whatever it was, Eve shoved it down into a container of repressed anxieties. A mental cabinet that stowed away all her worst paranoias. Though it was more like an overstuffed bunker these days—an underground safe with a steel-bolted hatch, bulging at the seams with cartoonish exaggeration. Sometimes the rivets would burst and every single one of her deepest, darkest fears would spew out and rain down all over her psyche. Then Eve would have to go around and clean up the shrapnel bit by bit, stuff it all back inside, screw down the hatch and pray to God she didn’t leave anything behind. Inhale.
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the more one tried to prove their sanity, the more insane they appeared.
She turned to face Charlie and— She isn’t her, a voice in Eve’s head whispered. This wasn’t the voice of Mo; this was the voice of something different, something far worse. Something all-knowing and ancient. A mouthless, eyeless presence leeching off the chemical fear that poured out of her amygdala. This isn’t your Charlie.

