Sometimes to be at home is like a nightmare by Stephen King.
That was our first home. Before I felt like an island in an ocean, before Calcutta, before everything that followed. You know it wasn__ a home at first but just a shell. Nothing ostentatious but just a rented two-room affair, an unneeded corridor that ran alongside them, second hand cane furniture, cheap crockery, two leaking faucets, a dysfunctional doorbell, and a flight of stairs that led to, but ended just before the roof (one of the many idiosyncrasies of the house), secured by a sixteen garrison lock, and a balcony into which a mango tree__ branch had strayed. The house was in a building at least a hundred years old and looked out on a street and a tenement block across it. The colony, if you were to call it a colony, had no name. The house itself was seedy, decrepit, as though a safe-keeper of secrets and scandals. It had many entries and exits and it was possible to get lost in it. And in a particularly inspired stroke of whimsy architectural genius, it was almost invisible from the main road like H.G. Wells_ __agic Shop_. As a result, we had great difficulty when we had to explain our address to people back home. It went somewhat like this, _... take the second one from the main road_.and then right after turning left from Dhakeshwari, you will see a bird shop (unspecific like that, for it had no name either)_ walk straight in and take the stairs at the end to go to the first floor, that__ where we dwell_ but don__ press the bell, knock_ and don't walk too close to the cages unless you want bird-hickeys__('Left from Dhakeshwari')
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That was our first home. Before I felt like an island in an ocean, before Calcutta, before everything that followed. You know it wasn__ a home at first but just a shell. Nothing ostentatious but just a rented two-room affair, an unneeded corridor that ran alongside them, second hand cane furniture, cheap crockery, two leaking faucets, a dysfunctional doorbell, and a flight of stairs that led to, but ended just before the roof (one of the many idiosyncrasies of the house), secured by a sixteen garrison lock, and a balcony into which a mango tree__ branch had strayed. The house was in a building at least a hundred years old and looked out on a street and a tenement block across it. The colony, if you were to call it a colony, had no name. The house itself was seedy, decrepit, as though a safe-keeper of secrets and scandals. It had many entries and exits and it was possible to get lost in it. And in a particularly inspired stroke of whimsy architectural genius, it was almost invisible from the main road like H.G. Wells_ __agic Shop_. As a result, we had great difficulty when we had to explain our address to people back home. It went somewhat like this, _... take the second one from the main road_.and then right after turning left from Dhakeshwari, you will see a bird shop (unspecific like that, for it had no name either)_ walk straight in and take the stairs at the end to go to the first floor, that__ where we dwell_ but don__ press the bell, knock_ and don't walk too close to the cages unless you want bird-hickeys__('Left from Dhakeshwari')
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Maybe this isn't home, nor ever was- maybe home is where I have to go tonight. Home is the place where when you go there, you have to finally face the thing in the dark.
Although terrifying, the evil ghost will probably pose no real danger to you or your family. On the other hand, if you have a demonic infestation, your entire household is in very real danger. A demonic entity will not usually confront you or induce you to flee the home. Because, unlike the evil ghost, the demon does not actually want you to leave. On the contrary, it wants you to stick around so it can destroy your life and sully your soul from the inside.
Do we take less pride in the possession of our home because its walls were built by some unknown carpenter, its tapestries woven by some unknown weaver on a far Oriental shore, in some antique time? No. We show our home to our friends with the pride as if it were our home, which it is. Why then should we take less pride when reading a book written by some long-dead author? Is it not our book just as much, or even more so, than theirs? So the landowner says, __ook at my beautiful home! Isn__ it fine?_ And not, __ook at the home so-and-so has built._ Thus we shouldn__ cry, __ook what so-and-so has written. What a genius so-and-so is!_ But rather, __ook at what I have read! Am I not a genius? Have I not invented these pages? The walls of this universe, did I not build? The souls of these characters, did I not weave?
Here. There. Everywhere. Somewhere. Home.
The first sure symptom of a mind in health Is rest of heart and pleasure felt at home.