She stared in the dark at the outlines of the ceiling, the intricate wood which, under light,
would show details that cannot be found in the 21st century. Details that were imagined
and perfected in 1860; little flowers and clovers and tiny dragons. In the middle was a
ceiling fan with two pull cords made of chain that slapped together as the fan spun, making
a clicking sound like the ticking of a clock. Of course it wasn't Alice who turned the fan on.
When the twins laughed from above, the fan would begin to turn and would answer with its
own happy clicking. This is how she fell asleep that last night, listening to the conversation
between the old ceiling fan and the twins; young and old, and vice versa.
And this is how she woke up. Alice felt before she saw, and heard before she saw.
What she felt was the fan’s chains dangling on her chin, what she heard were its clicks. When
she did open her eyes the ceiling fan was mere feet above her face, and closing in. She rolled
off of the bed and to the ground as the fan hit the comforter, making dull whirring sounds
as it went. She tried to army crawl to the door in the space the ceiling still allowed — roughly
that of a coffin — but by the time she got near it had pinned her.
Alice could see the bottom of her front door and the light that emitted from the red-carpeted
hallway. As the weight on her back grew in intensity Alice tried to yell but was unable to
find her own voice. Opening her mouth she heard a cat mewing, softly, weakly. And under the
front door she saw two pairs of small shoes, bot H