The angles of the walls we abhorrent, too straight, too clean. How could anything live in a place where everything stood in such defiance of natural, normal geometry? It was vile. Unspeakable.Home.

It's the voice of Spindrift House. It's old, and it's tired, and it's lonely. So lonely that it aches, like a drowned man drawn by the weight of his own sorrows to the bottom of the sea. I feel sorry fot it, and I don't want to. It doesn't deserve my sorrow, or my pity. All it deserves is my fear.

But my mind didn't feel entirely like my own anymore. If I was being honest, it hadn't since the first time I saw the sea, the great, dark, slate-colored sea. I could still feel it calling to me, as constant as the tides, my heart beating in time with the waves that smashed themselves against the shore, sending tendrils lacing deeper and deeper into Port Mercy, bringing it closer, inch by inch, to its inevitable watery grave.

But my mind didn't feek entirely like my own anymore. If I was being honest, it hadn't since the first time I saw the sea, the great, dark, slate-colored sea. I could still feel it calling to me, as constant as the tides, my heart beating in time with the waves that smashed themselves against the shore, sending tendrils lacing deeper and deeper into Port Mercy, bringing it closer, inch by inch, to its inevitable watery grave.

That isn't the mystery that gets us paid," said Addison."No, but it's the mystery that's going to make me wish I'd brought a lot more pot.

Spindrift House was waiting, door gaping wide, to swallow us don and begin to the long, terrible process of digestion.

(...) grief is a monster. Grief is a beast made of teath and claws and misery. (...) Some days I thought it was going to open its dreadful jaws and swallow me down whole... and some days I thought that might have been a good thing.

Anyone who sleeps in this room, dreams in this room, will be privy to all the stations of the tide, and will have the waves to sing them to sleep every night.

Spindrift House has had a great deal of time to decide what it wants to be, and what it wants to be is unforgiving.

The house is still straight and tall and proud, an architectural oddity rendered regal by the slow dissolve of all that lies below it. It looms, like some great beast of prey waiting for the perfect moment to strike and take that which was always meant to be its due. It lurks, a shadow in the reeds, a silent scream in the night.