I turn toward the empty hallway that should have been the toilet and the end of the bathroom, and I run as fast as I can. Behind me, the wet footfalls are still keeping a casual pace, and yet they are gaining on me, as if their owner's unimaginable shape allows for strides that are yards across.

Light suddenly appears up ahead. Four yellow cracks that mark the outline of a door. Then the door swings open and a tanned arm reaches in, fumbling for a light switch. Half-blinded by the light from outside, I run straight through, knocking the newcomer over like a star quarterback. We tumble to the floor, the carpeted floor outside the bathroom, right in front of my well-lit kitchen full of bleached women and thick-necked men.

I look back just in time to see a long, narrow leg disappear into the shower, and then the interior of the bathroom...drops. Like an elevator with the doors removed, the long, dark room with no light switch descends into the floor, and another one drops down on top of it. This is not a slow mechanical process, the doorway is like a TV screen and the interior is like a "rolling" image that needs tracking. The dark hallway simply drops out of view, and the brightly lit bathroom I first walked into slips into its place. I am strangely certain that if I were to cut through the floor, I would find nothing but the bottom of the house.