He entered the house, tension prickling along his spine. No sign of Lyla; only an endless maze of cheese cracker boxes stacked in every direction, their cardboard faces grinning up at him from the floor and walls. The silence was suffocating, broken only by the tremulous echo of his own voice: “Lyla!” The call ricocheted through the rooms, anxious and raw. Each step forward felt like sinking into quicksand—the boxes shifted underfoot, muffling his movements and amplifying the strange isolation.

Everything else in the house appeared untouched, as if normal life had paused, leaving him stranded in this surreal, edible labyrinth. He pressed on, heart racing, desperate to find his wife, desperate for answers. The hope that she might be safe was the only thing keeping him moving, threading him through the tide of crackers that seemed to close in tighter with each hallway.

Reaching the office, he found it transformed—a burial ground of journals, each one spilling secrets in a different hand. The sheer volume was overwhelming, as if someone had been chronicling every moment, every thought, every secret. Driven by a compulsion that felt less like curiosity and more like dread, he snatched one from the pile and flipped it open.

He read: ‘He stared into the mirror, trying to talk himself through the peaceful madness which had been out to sea for too long. He walked back up to the deck to pick up the other bottle to drink. He paused with hesitation. “I’d better not, I need to stay clear-headed,” he thought. He sat down on the deck, focusing on the next step in the plan. “I’ve got to keep moving forward, I’ll find my way home,” he said.’

His pulse quickened. Every word, every line—how could Lyla have known? These were his own memories, his private agony. He struggled to breathe as reality blurred. Was someone watching him? Was he losing his grip?

He staggered down the hallway, mind reeling, and burst into their bedroom. Lyla lay there, serene amid the chaos, a smile flickering as she woke. In the corner, the hobby horse loomed, covered in cracker crumbs, boxed in by yet another mound of cheese crackers. It stared back at him, its glassy eyes unreadable.

He knelt beside Lyla, urgency shaping his words. “The journals. The entries—they’re mine. How did you know?”

Lyla flashed an almost wild, razor-edged smile. “The hobby horse reveals everything to me. I give him cheese crackers, and he shares his secrets. I’ve always known what you’re thinking—I always have.”

A cold wave of terror washed over him. Was the horse the conduit, or was Lyla? Were the crackers the key, or the curse?