I don’t quite understand where stories come from. Here is where one might start.
When I woke up this morning, i was still in part of a dream.
And in that dream there was a woman leading a girl through this old turn of the century house (like, a brownstone-type house). And the floors were red, and the walls were red and gold. And there was only gaslight lamps, so the roof was smudged black and seemed to disappear. And as they got higher up, the wall paper and the carpets started to buckle. And what looked like wax or papier mache poked through at the seams. And I knew that somewhere on the next floor some sort of queen was waiting.
And then I woke up.
It came to me later that, somewhere behind the closed doors of the house, there must be pale and glossy men and children, chewing up tatters of the evening newspapers and sticking them to the walls, building it higher and higher.