Into The Pink, Part 4: Excavation of a Dream House

The first three parts of Into The Pink can be found here, here, and here respectively.  Here then is the finale:

Each step I take is with care.  Any of the panels beneath my feet could be pressurized: the wrong step could well be my last.

I know this, and yet I go on.  The hair on my neck stands on end, while I listen for the sound of gears or springs.  I almost failed to note the wire at the entrance.  I do not know what would have happened had I sprung the trap.  Perhaps nothing: there is no telling how long ago it was set.  It is entirely possible that whatever device it is hooked to has long since fallen into ruin.

Or perhaps I'd have been crushed to death beneath a thousand pink dream cars.  There is only one way to be sure, and I don't dare test it.

I am in a strange chamber now, one filled with a thousand labels of gold and silver and, of course, pink.  And all such labels are affixed to boxes, which house the strange figures inside.

Some wear the dress of ancient queens from all corners of the world.  Others are dressed as children or surfers.  What does it mean, and why were they left here?  One could go mad trying to find meaning in a place like this.

I move on to the first of the altars: a series of crystal cases holding the most honored of the toys.

Here, there is beauty and art.  It is as if a portal was opened onto the past.  Disney princess in exquisite gowns stand, forever frozen, on stairs of pink.  I gaze on and wonder.

---

For what crime were these sacrificed, forever to be exhibited and never purchased?

I shiver, but spend no more time on such questions.  There are other matters to be considered here.  I turn and look around at my surroundings, at the strange flowered vines growing here.  At the walls of pink surrounding me.

The corridors stretch onward, and I follow.  The architecture here is maddening: there are no right angles, but rather twisting passages and strange corners which could house a thousand horrors.

There are things here that are not dolls: there are cars and playsets, accessories and outfits.  The shelves are crowded, and yet there is a hollowness to the enclosure.
 

I push on, deeper into the eerie corridors of Barbie's Dream House.  The walls seem to close in on me as I continue, and my mind reels as it tries to imagine what strange fates await me.

As I round the bend, I prepare for the worst.  Instead, I come across an oasis that takes my breath away.

Superheroes.  Here.  And movie characters, as well.  There are DC characters, cast in plastic and given elaborate costumes.

There are Wizard of Oz figures; sixth scale recreations of stunning detail, offered at reasonable prices.

A new thought occurs to me: what if this is but another facet of geekiness?  What if, deep down, The Pink is not so different than the fields we know?

Both are filled with action figures and toy cars, miniaturized characters from movies and TV, often crafted by the same companies and, perhaps, the same hands.

Is it not possible they are two sides of the same coin?  I rub my forehead and step back.
 

No.  it is this place.  It is getting to me.  Trying to change me.  For an instant, I see The Pink as it truly is: as a beast, old and hungry.  The occasional collectible of value is a lure.

Whatever the end, I wish to be done with this place.  And so, driven by will or madness, I go on.  Ahead of me, I come to the winding stair and begin my ascent.  The way is hard, and with each step I reflect on the path that has brought me here.

I think of the jungle outside and before: the outlands where the flocked animals graze.  I reflect on the hobbies that brought me here: collecting action figures and toys.  I recall my curiosity about the lands I've never known.

And I curse it all.  Everything that has brought me so far from the places I love; everything that has lured me to this dark pit.  I sit, halfway up the stairs, pondering such unpleasant thoughts, noting them in my log, and then I go on.

For whatever reason, for whatever purpose, I have come farther than any could have imagined.  I will see the peak of the Dream House.  I will note my observations.  And then, for better or worse, my job will be done.
 

The top floor of the Dream House lies before me, and I stumble around it.  The first chambers are not unlike the lower floor, with bright cars and dolls draped in light fabric.

I spend little time on such things.  Instead, I move forward, ignoring the pain in my feet and eyes.  Corridors and aisles spiral before me.

There are hair pieces and games, Barbies smaller and stranger than any I've seen or imagined.

I see now why this was known as a Dream House: in truth, it is unlike the waking world.  It is a dream, perhaps, but if so it is a nightmare.

It is a realm without shadow or respite; it lies at the heart of The Pink.  There is no peace here, no concealment.

I go on, because it is far, far too late to turn back.
 

Before me lies a pit, built into the very building itself.  Was this a tool of sacrifice?  Or is it merely decoration?  I shake my head and walk along the edges until I reach an end.

There is nothing left but the window.  A portal to gaze out.

The Pink lies stretched out before me.  And, beyond that, far in the distance, I can see the border which leads back to the fields we know.

If I still had my strength, I might try to return.  But, in this shape, I could never make the trip.

Instead, I take out my log a final time to offer these words.

Beware The Pink.  Beware its mystery, which men were not meant to know.  But, most of all, beware its horror.
 

I gaze a final time through the window and grow dizzy.  I am tired now.  So tired.  In the distance, I see what looks to be a light.  But I take no comfort: it is a pink light I see.