Until the Light Resolves

The corridor isn't haunted. He might be. He wakes in a room with no window, no door he remembers entering, and a light with no visible source. When he finally finds a way out, it opens onto a corridor with no beginning and no end... He is not alone in the corridor. A voice speaks from nowhere. At first it's clinical, almost kind: it steadies his breathing, corrects his balance, recites his own history back to him like it's reading from a file.
He tells himself it's a symptom. A hallucination. Anything but familiar. But the corridor keeps rearranging itself around him, surfacing rooms he thought he'd sealed away for good. And the voice - the longer it speaks - stops sounding quite so clinical. Stops sounding quite so much like a stranger at all. Until the Light Resolves is a psychological horror novella told through fractured, experimental typography that mirrors its protagonist's unraveling on the page itself - words that scatter, stall, and refuse to complete themselves, just as he does.
This isn't a haunted house. It's an architecture of self, and something has been waiting inside it for a very long time. For readers of House of Leaves, The Raw Shark Texts, and anyone who has ever wondered what's still behind a door they thought they'd sealed shut. Content note: this novella addresses child abuse, domestic violence, and suicidal ideation. Reader discretion advised.