The library is empty, having been ransacked or given the appearance of being ransacked. The shelves are coated with a horrible and viscous pink membrane that gives off the scent of spoiled bananas left in the sun for months, yet somehow preserved in time for all to see.
What few books aren't coated with the stuff are rapidly being absorbed into it, hungrily. You consider trying to pry one free, but decide against it as you feel some of the stuff drip onto your shoulders and exposed neck – and quickly leave the library, wiping it free as your skin starts to itch.
Making your way back to the foyer, you are somehow unsurprised to find the Reporter there.
She is shaking and rocking back and forth while trying to look together at the same time.
Around you, the viscous walls of the house are drawing in around you – absorbing everything as they do so.
Neither of you say anything, for there is nothing to say.
Having made peace with herself, the Reporter rises to her feet – clearly no longer afraid, or simply too tired to show her fear. She smiles weakly.
“Well, I guess this is it, then. Better luck next time, eh?”