Ghouli awoke laying face up, body pressing into a cold, linoleum floor, sedated with enough carfentanil to take down an entire herd of elephants. Caged behind reflective plexiglass, wires led to mysterious beeping machines emitting squiggly lines. Sensor nodes attached to each of its many appendages, like puppet strings. All it could feel… was the floor. The floor could receive and transmit impressions of those that had been here before. It had its own inner, psychological life. It was tired of being stepped on, that static charge from plodding feet, the abrasion from the waxing machine, the blood, spit and mucus of the previous inhabitants. Yet right now, it welcomed Ghouli. Sleep, it said.
I dream often of snow. I love the way it covers everything in a deep powder that seems so clean and fresh, covering up the horrors of the world in a fluffy white blanket. And the eerie calm… muting the anguished cries of a blighted world, suffocating it in peace and quiet. But inevitably the snow must melt and turn to slush, and become a muddy gray that gets tracked inside and soils your mom’s new carpet. A cold, wet mess. But not in snow globes. Snow globes are a perfect little world, shrouded in perpetual bliss, where agitation brings another comforting blizzard. There is no escape from a snow globe—a hermetically sealed, perpetually flooded little environment—but why would you want to? It’s the outside world that you want to escape, with danger and deception all around. You know where you stand in a snow globe, an ideal world, in miniature form. Tranquil and soothing. Making it a surprising place for a murder.