Cassidy almost dropped the box he was holding.

For a moment, he couldn't seem to make cognisant thoughts, as his mind tripped over his lack of movement. He'd taken... what... seven steps? Eight? So, how could he still be only two down? It didn't make sense!

It reminded him of a story he'd once read. Descending, by Thomas D. Disch. The protagonist was on a never-ending escalator and hadn't realised until it was too late. For Cass, there was no moving staircase and, so far, no descent into madness. Mad, as in angry, perhaps, but not madness. What was his brain doing in allowing his body to move – or not – outside of his control? Was he so distracted he thought steps were being taken when he was stationary? No! He'd been focussing on the stairs. He knew that. He hadn't wanted to trip or fall.

So...?

Shifting the box to the side and pressing it against the top of his hip for support, he watched as his left foot lifted, moved forward and down. He felt the difference between the firm surface, the air and the next firm surface. Step to step. Sight and touch were in sync. He repeated the action with the right foot. Once more. Once more! Each time, he kept his attention on his body. It was moving. There was no doubt.

He looked back to see his progress.

Two steps above him was the landing.

"What the fuck?"

He would not be beaten. His mind was screwing with him, but it wasn't going to stop him from simply going down the stairs. It couldn't. He was a grown man. A reasonable one. If he was having some sort of break down, he'd do it on his own terms. That meant on the ground floor if he so wished.

This time, he kept his attention on the top step. The wall gave the support he needed and, if he went slowly, he'd be able to feel his way with his feet. His foot could slide forward then down, without breaking contact with the stairway. He could watch his progress and know it wasn't imagined. It would break the spell.

Ensuring he was holding the box marked Kitchen tightly, Cassidy moved his leg. Out and down. Out and down. A steady but definite rhythm made real by watching the top step recede upwards.

Creak.

Nine.

Yes! He glanced down at the source of the sound and grinned. There it was! Normally, he'd have planned to fix seven and nine. It was the same with door hinges that protested when put to use. A quick squirt of lubricant was all that was needed, and something he didn't delay with. Little noises in houses irritated him. It was as if the building was complaining about the occupants, instead of celebrating their presence and the fact they were fulfilling its destiny.

With the staircase, he forgave it. Seven and nine were unobtrusive usually, only making themselves known when used. Otherwise, they were silent. On this occasion, nine, and soon seven, was helping him. Using its voice for good, rather than to annoy.

He glanced down at his new friend, mentally giving thanks for the assistance. He looked back again. Keeping his eye on the landing was the key to his success, and he didn't want to lose it.

Two steps.

Two.

TWO!

Cassidy was right back where he began.

"FUCK!"

That one word was an opened gate, releasing a torrent of profanity and a burst of anger. He pushed himself away from the wall and stormed down the stairs. Let his insanity keep up with that!

And, creak, there was nine! And there, groan, was seven! Yes!

And then the world was spinning, and the box was flying and Cassidy was falling.

There was a fraction of a second where his mind and his body separated. The former was unable to comprehend what the latter was doing. By the time they were reunited, his foot had slipped, his body was twisting, and gravity was his master.

The remaining steps passed by in a blur of fear for the oncoming, jarring impact. He tried to grab hold of the banister, but his fingers couldn't gain purchase and his attempt resulted only in the sharp pain of a fingernail ripping against the wood.

Then, the floor was beneath him but, instead of hitting it, he..

He was...

Floating?

What?

Cass looked around, able to do so thanks to his neck not being broken against the hard laminate flooring. His initial assessment was correct. Whether it could be floatation or levitation, if there was even a difference, he didn't know, but he was definitely hovering above the floor. His body was out straight across the entrance hallway, with not one part of him touching anything at all. Rather than being completely still, he was moving slightly. Regularly, as if the air beneath him was breathing, lifting and lowering his body with each in and exhalation.

He tried to move his foot, pushing downwards, but his legs were immobile. Could he...? Yes. His arms were free, and he brought them forward to press his palms against the floor. Something seemed to change in his lower half, a release. He found he could, albeit slowly, lower himself to kneeling.

His head dropped to rest on the back of his hands. He was panting with a mix of relief and dread and closed his eyes against the world. If he couldn't see anything, or move, he would be fine. Nothing could affect him. Should He run? Escape the house? Beg Elise to take him back, even just for somewhere to go? No, not her. His brother, perhaps? His sister? Ethan didn't really have room, or he'd have offered Cassidy a bed for a while. Jazz, the brothers' sister, lived too far away. She could be highly strung and suffered from anxiety. She didn't need the drama taking Cass in would bring.

A hotel, then. His car!

No. None were viable alternatives. Besides, he refused to be pushed out of his own home. There had to be an explanation! And not ghosts! A portal. An interdimensional doorway. A black hole, with his house as the singularity. Rats? Ants! The same ones that were writing messages on his bedroom mirror! Whatever the cause, he'd find it, with or without Amy's help.

With a deep breath, he stood on shaky legs. The wall came to his rescue, keeping him upright when he felt he could easily collapse. This hallway one did a much better job than its sibling up the stairs. He picked up the discarded box, ignoring the fact it, too, was floating just off the floor. He was too unsteady to go anywhere, and didn't trust himself to drive, so he'd complete the task he'd already given himself. It would give time to focus, if not think.

If he was genuinely contemplating points of singularity appearing on his stairs, he needed that focus. And a drink.

But first, chores. First, boxes. Unpacking and tidying.

The contents of the box were undamaged, which surprised Cassidy as much as being unhurt himself. They should both have had something, potentially everything, broken. He held a plate and turned it in his hand, looking closely. There wasn't even a scratch. Not a chip or any sign of its ordeal.

Once again, he wondered if his imagination was running amok. Had he, in fact, fallen? Had he been stuck on the second step and only thought he'd moved further? Had he been floating or simply standing, zoned out in a stress induced stupor?

Was there an answer at all, or was he completely delusional? Should he ask Ethan to call Dr Connors? The possibility seemed more sensible the longer he stayed in the house. As a last resort, it could be more than a possibility. He'd talk it over with his brother when the other visited.

Or he might keep it to himself so as not to appear crazy. He wasn't hurt. It was an adventure, that was all. Something to tell his grandchildren, if he ever had any.

Focus. Think. Do.

He continued putting away his undamaged belongings and flattened the cardboard container, ready for recycling. He paced himself, taking time in the hope his subconscious could make sense of something his consciousness had no chance of doing. Busying his hands helped a little. It calmed him, reducing his frantic heart to a just too fast flutter. His hands, which were shaking initially, were steady and his feet managed to find themselves as they were supposed to.

Once the job was done, however, Cass needed to move on to the next. That meant going back upstairs. Standing at the bottom, he grabbed the banister. Feeling its comforting presence in his hand, an object he could cling to that would prevent him falling (and floating) again, was meant to give him the impetus to take the first step. It didn't. His foot wouldn't lift. His body wouldn't move. His heart, almost, wouldn't beat.

Come on, man! Just do it! Nothing happened. Nothing at all. It was all in your head. None of it was real. Nothing happened!

Cassidy's motivational skills were lacking in the face of his fall and the associated aspects he didn't want to think about. He couldn't force himself to move onto the staircase. He tried staring at his leg, willing it to lift, but it refused. He wasn't locked in place, as was proven when he released his hold on the banister and stepped away. And when he donned his jacket, took his keys and left the house. His car key was in his hand, but he didn't press the unlock button. Instead, he walked past the vehicle and continued along the street

While walking, he still didn't know where he could go, but there seemed to be less of a need to have a destination. In a car, he felt there should always be a destination. He wasn't one to drive aimlessly. Fuel wasn't cheap enough to waste, for a start. On foot, he could be as directionless as he wished. He'd put his earphones in, turn up his music and go. With minimal limitations on direction or location, random walks were something Cass had enjoyed at various times throughout his life. Free time was not something he'd had much of during certain relationships, so there were extended periods where he barely walked for pleasure at all.

On this occasion, he didn't have any earphones. He was walking out of necessity. Running away, without the running part. No, he told himself. Not running away. He was allowing his mind to spread itself wide and forget, or ignore. He was trampling over his problems.

Problems. Was that what they were? Did the word come close to describing the issues he faced? In the movie of his life, he'd be calling either Ghostbusters or a priest. A medium would be telling him not to go near the light, and paranormal investigators would be setting up electromagnetic sensors next to cameras that took photos at the slightest drop in temperature.

This wasn't a movie. This was, somehow, real life. He needed to face that fact.

But first, to walk. To ponder. To deny and accept, if both were at all possible. To decide? No. A decision was, currently, beyond him.

His phone rang, and he answered it.

"Amy?"

https://youtu.be/NOVjWUZR0Uc