I turned and entered into a small room, the torn wooden flooring and decaying wallpaper evincing the state of the house. In the center was a large dining table, with an oil lantern flickering dimly atop it, slightly off center. On either side of the table was a chair, the one closest to me being left empty. The chair across from it, however, was not. Despite the darkness, I could clearly see a human form sitting on the chair, motionless. Through the silence, the quiet, nigh imperceptible sound of low breathing could be heard. I felt as though there would be no greater comfort than to simply leave, to turn and run far, far away from the dreadful scene. Yet, I had fallen too deep into the rabbit-hole; I was a part of this, and there would be no rest for me until every loose end was tied up. So, I swallowed my fears and took my seat at the table. The man made no motions to greet, or even acknowledge me. He just lay perfectly still in his chair, face obscured by the darkness.
I waited a moment. The room was so still that I could hear the ticking of the watch on my wrist and the heartbeat in my throat. My hands were cold and clammy; I tapped my heel anxiously on the ground while I worked up the courage to begin the interview.
...
I cleared my throat, but before I could utter a single word, the figure jostled forward, as if on strings, his face becoming illuminated in the glow of the lamp.
How can I describe the sight? There was no mistaking it: the thing sitting across from me was a corpse. Its skin was grey, bluish, almost purple, mottled and torn and sagging, bone and sinew exposed in places where the flesh had been ripped away. Burning in its-- in his-- hollow sockets were two pinpricks, the two white bulbs the only indication of life within the rotten shell. The dim light of the lantern cast long shadows across the disfigured face of the man as he leaned over the table. The stench of death and of rot hung over the room like a malodorous cloud; I felt a tightness in my chest and a wave of nausea overtook me. It were as though I were in a nightmare, and yet the most surreal thing was yet to come.
The dead man began to speak. Through torn lips and rotten teeth came a smooth, quiet voice that belied the condition of the cords that produced it.
"...The look on your face."
I stared, dumbfounded, before another sound came: a... laugh?
He tilted his head downwards and let out a soft, wheezing chuckle, before rising once more to meet my eyes, leaning back in his chair in the process.
"I must apologize. It is always such a treat to see the first reactions."
I must admit, the dissonance between the ghastly figure and his words made for an almost comical scene, though it was not enough to soothe my anxieties. Evidently he noticed this, as he rose from his seat and retrieved for me a glass of water from a side table.
"Now you're just making me feel bad. Here. Drink."
I accepted the cup with shaking hands, and swiftly drank. After a moment, I felt as though the sooner I was finished with my dreadful work the better, and I set out to get my answers.