house of horror

I travelled to Brisbane for a friend's art exhibition in a house on James Street in Fortitude Valley. I arrived alone and on dusk, and I seemed to be the first person there. The door was ajar, but not open, and the lights were dim. I peered through the window and I was frightened. There, next to my friend's artwork, I saw old photographs of hags covering the walls of the room: old and ugly witches with cruel eyes, hooked noses and twisted mouths. The photographs seemed to be from various times throughout history - even well before the camera was invented. I gathered this was a record of the owner of the house's ancestry, and I was repelled. I did not want to go in, but I feared disappointing my friend. She arrived and went happily into the house, which was now somewhat lit up and open to the invited guests. A few people arrived and I was more or less ushered in with them. I barely saw my friend's artwork, I was so horrified by the photos lining the walls. Photo after photo of evil-looking and grotesque people. I went into the second room - a dining room - where we were to have supper and a lecture on art. As I was supposed to do, I sat at a mammoth dark-wood, highly polished table in the centre of the room. The walls were painted a lifeless grey and heavy teal curtains were closed against the world outside., concealing the room within. A tall man in a black suit dusted the curtains and polished silver ornaments. He kept his face turned away, but I knew he was the owner of the house and would wear the same dreadful countenance of his family line. I felt this was some kind of trap; a scene of a crime about to be committed. I woke up.