The strange, pernicious blindness had come and gone enough times for Horace to recognize the warning signs of it: the dizzying rush, like standing up too quickly, the darkness gathering at the edges of his vision, that lofty feeling as though he wasn't quite connected to his body anymore by flesh or by mind. He hadn't gone to a doctor about his vision loss, of course; he hated making physician's appointments for anything and everything. Perhaps it was foolhardy, or simply foolish, but his mind had always been set in the idea that if he healed, he healed and if he didn't well... ******** him sideways. It was like putting his life in the hands of fate, or whatever. Some sort of pseudo-romantic notion thought up many years ago. Even for his hand - he'd told Oliver that he'd been to Urgent Care, but he'd had steri-strips, the supplies from years ago, and he'd patched himself up. Maybe it had all started as a spoken prohibition, he thought. Don't go to the hospital, who goes there over such a small thing, I can take care of you... and it had only worsened. Old habits die hard, apparently. It took, according to some article Horace had read online, sixty-five days to build up a lasting habit. When the habit was enforced by someone else, well, it stuck better than super glue. But blindness couldn't be fixed with spit and determination and a refusal to seek treatment.

Horace sighed, waiting for it to pass. Each time, shapes became more distinct - never the shapes of his surroundings, never truly recognizable - but the dark outlines of things were perhaps more frustrating than true darkness. He was seated on his couch and, for perhaps the first time, he really focused into that dim world. Maybe if he could make out the shapes, he could find wherever this was, go there, and politely ask everyone to just stop plaguing him and his eyeballs. He fidgeted. Horace bottled his anxiety up and projected a sort of silly happiness, but this was wearing through his facade. It made him feel helpless and trapped and he swore he'd never let himself feel like that again. Remember to breathe, he told himself. Horace had been entertaining the idea for some time that he was viewing some sort of dark otherworld through the eyes of what must be a magical entity. It wasn't a comforting idea, but it seemed to make sense. His fingers ran over the soft cloth of his couch, finding comfort in the senses that still belonged to him. Although he couldn't see the color right now, he knew it was a soft dove grey, and that there was a low table in front of him, scattered with half-read books. He was here, still.

But he also wasn't. Horace strained his eyes, looking around, searching for a point of reference in the darkness. There! A sliver of fading light, like a setting sun, was filtering in underneath something - a curtain? He twisted his body, trying to get a better look. Even as he tried to control the eyes he saw through, his own body moved, uncoordinated, unseeing, and he barked his shin against the low coffee table. Horace cursed and scooted back further on the couch, feeling the cushions press up against his back. Melany was asleep, he thought, probably on the back porch again, curled up in a wicker chair under some horribly-patterned blanket. She slept a lot, tired out and stressed beyond belief. He'd go out later and bring her back inside. The nights were warming up, but they still were unsuitable for sleeping, especially for someone so slight. It was enough, for now, that she wouldn't see him like this. This was his issue alone to figure out. To try and help himself 'see', he closed his eyes, fumbling his glasses off and onto the table.

A curtain, light. His fingers gripped into his thighs, a reminder to not move, dip-s**t. Tell me where you are, he thought, feeling supremely silly. His eyes, not his, coasted around the room - for it was a room. There was a... a vibration? Everything shifted briefly in a sharper focus, the edges of things clearer, more distinct, though still shrouded in only the dimmest of light. The gaze still moved, in small, jerky glances: here, there, back. Then it settled on something: a large oval shape, the edges of which seemed sculpted. Horace could feel himself frowning. A mirror, maybe. A mirror... something similar had come with his house, in the attic. And with that thought, his vision abruptly returned in a dizzying rush. Horace exhaled slowly, eyes raising to look at the ceiling. His attic?

There was no use in waiting, he supposed. Standing up, he stretched, cracked his neck, and headed towards the stairs. To say he was apprehensive was likely an understatement, he hummed with anxiety, with the determination to find a solution to his vision issues. But what would he even say? 'Hello, good creature-thing, if you could kindly stop ******** with my vision, thanks.' Still, he bounded up the stairs two at a time, socked feet slipping a bit on the hard wood floors. Horace skidded into the upstairs hallway, looking half-reminiscent of some 80s film, and fumbled around for the chain. With a tug, the stairs descended, dust flying off and causing him to cough. He only barely managed to yank his socked feet (green socks, with little yellow pineapples on them) away as the stairs touched the hardwood flooring of the hallway. For a moment, he debated the sensibility of this decision to venture up and confront something that was, more likely than not, magical in nature. YOLO, he thought with a self-depreciating laugh. The stairs creaked under his weight and up he went.

The attic was, not surprisingly, dark and dusty and full of the remnants of a previous owner. Horace could have paid to have it removed, but instead he'd carried it up into the attic, piece by piece. It meant he didn't have to go to the gym that week. His muscles burned even from the memory of it. He looked around, squinting into the darkness, and promptly barked his shin on something again. Today was just not a lucky leg day and Horace should have brought a flashlight. What was it they said - hindsight is 20/20? He pushed his glasses up. "Hey, w-whoever's here, you better come out! I know you're there!" He didn't and Horace certainly felt a little silly calling out into his own attic, swinging his head around like it was only tethered to his neck by a string. He slid over to the window, the lonely window, and yanked on the cotton curtain. Dust swirled out in a tornadic fit and he coughed, but there was light! And something... something fluttered in the corner. He approached cautiously, wishing he had a bat, or a taser, or anything mroe than a shirt that said 'wow, no'.

Horace reached out and titled the mirror down. Something small and dark lurked there and suddenly it flapped at him. Horace screeched loudly and fell backwards, landing loudly on his a**. "********." As if in sheepish apology, the offender gently hopped over to him. It was... a, a bat. He blinked and held out his hand, praying it didn't have rabies. It moved forward, little claws pricking his fingers. It even nuzzled it's face into his hand! But it didn't bite. Something about this little bat felt okay, felt like he should be doing this. "Well, s**t," he said, lifting the bat to his shoulder. It promptly buried itself under the dark curtain of Horace's hair. "You're just a little nugget of a bat, aren't you." It looked like he'd just gained an odd friend. Shrugging, he headed back downstairs; he needed to wake up Melany for dinner.