Terror. A dimension mirroring the living one--but morphed to reflect the imagination of its Overseer. And the current Overseer... has refused to relinquish her power for centuries, tormenting her souls--"terrors"--into becoming... zombies.
Arielle f...
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Heat swished up her nostrils, burning the delicate flesh inside, blazing through her thin raven tresses—but Penny didn't care. Such a scalding sensation would pain others, disturb most, trigger some; but to her, it meant home. It meant she'd traveled back through her portal, landed in front of her porch, and had passed the threshold into her dilapidated, but warm and cozy house.
Others wouldn't see the place like she did. The exterior facade had lost its faded color, turned to a rotted brown from the extensive damage, and from the constant heat. The glass on the windows was scratched, foggy, poorly concealing the gloom inside. Even the roof looked like it was shedding its layers and might cave in at any moment.
But if anyone judged, they never dared voice their opinion. Few ever ventured close enough to visualize the destroyed house, anyway. And less so because of the barrier of fire that shot up whenever intruders were in the vicinity—unwanted minions, or rebels.
If Penny were to let them through, they'd still hesitate at the burning front door-frame, fearful of the flames. They'd shade their eyes from the luminescence, from the fire spilling from the windows, from the unbearable warmth radiating from the walls.
And if they somehow gathered the courage to enter, they'd stagger through, panicked and perturbed, unsure where to go next. Because though the house was a replica of the one the other Penny dwelled in—in the Void—this location was so burnt, so stained, it was unrecognizable. Newcomers from the Void would be lost, and other souls stumbling in by mistake wouldn't know which turn to take, nor how to escape.
In the foyer, beams dangled from the high ceiling, threatening to drop with any sudden motion. The balcony railings were charred to the point of barely holding together, and didn't serve the purpose of preventing any falls. Upon wandering farther into the space, one's feet would whoosh through piles of ash, caking with dust and grime. One would knock into oddly-shaped objects that one might assume were bones. And one might encounter bits of flesh, puddles of blood, torched body parts that were impossible to identify.
Most normal Terror inhabitants would run in the opposite direction, or seek another location to hold their headquarters—but not Penny. Then again, Penny was no ordinary resident in this fiery realm. She'd been here a long time, and she loved the heat, loved the morbidity, loved the ominous atmosphere.
As she meandered past the inflamed threshold, past the mounds of dirt and unidentified corpses, she let the comfort settle into her core, to replace the hole where the other Penny once remained. She didn't miss her, but sometimes felt empty, a smidgen solitary, when returning to her dimension.
The fire swelled up and down the walls, bordered the floors, but never burned through. The house was enchanted to always be in flames, but never swallowed by them. That was how Penny preferred it—hot and impossible to penetrate, except for her.
No one ever asked her why the house was on fire; but in truth, no one made it near enough to bother speaking to her. She protected herself and her fiery castle with a fierceness the terrors and minions wouldn't question. Though, as of late, a handful of rebels had come too close to breaching her barriers.
