Fairy tale tropes for a midwestern gothic are tantalizingly familiar, and when I think of home I see them all, their archetypes and allegories, characters we connect with in a malaise not beyond a garden wall, but right here, with us— in a place of enervated belief and heuristic magic.
The Universe has given us a Martian ℞ — taken once per night, preferably with lots of water, and we still have half a bottle left to swallow. Consider another way to fight, friends.
No one is awake but me, no one heard me scream, and something is still in the room, but it's fading, and it was just a dream, and they aren't real, and nothing is going to hurt me.