Photograph. October 18, 01:50 P.M. Between the walls:
It is a claustrophobic space. Very little light.
The photograph is framed in the vertical—walls to the left and right, the camera pointed straight down. The space between the walls is no more than a foot wide. There is a source of light down below—a dim line of electric blue, extending from the top of the frame all the way to the bottom. A ruler-straight line of color, down where the walls end.
A trickle of daylight illuminates the foreground; we can see bare wood studs and line after line of joists proceeding into the darkness. There are holes punched through these two imposing stretches of wall—splintered dents, like violent, gaping wounds. But they are distant, and they let in only tiny fingers of gray.
The wood in the foreground is damp, glistening as if coated with a sheen of ice.
There is a bulge in the left-hand wall, about five feet away—a dark half-moon with a blurry fuzz around its edge. It is off center, perched in the lower part of the frame. Slightly out of focus. After a moment of study, you can just make out pale flesh in the dim light, then a wide-open, terrified eye.
Down there, lodged in the wall, is half a face. Half a human face—sexless—ringed in a nimbus of short, dark hair. It is angled inward, toward the wall, and its open mouth is bisected just to the left of the canine tooth, sheared away where flesh meets wood.
The wide-open eye is not blurred. Not clouded. Not insensate.
The eye is clear. And damp. And terrified.