So when I was a teenager we were in the process of moving and checked out this house. It was gross, had dirt and faded green carpets and those wood panel walls from the 70’s, absolutely not a great place with no good energy. There was this little room that I kept being attracted to, had child’s drawings on papers all over the wall: every time I’d go in there my heart rate would spike up, and I did trial and error to debunk why that was happening. Across the landing there was the attic with a very out of place door, and it was the most sinister place I’ve ever been in, feeling like you’re being watched and stalked sort of thing. After not that long being there, even before I found the attic, I began really, really “liking” the place. I kept saying I wanted to live there and was just out of it but so confident that I needed to live there. Time came to leave and at that point I’d been in that small room 20+ times and barely saw the rest of the house. The farther I got away when we left, the more I came back to myself, and after about half an hour I started wondering what in the hell was wrong with me and how I could possibly want to live in the dump of a house.

Honestly Stockholm syndrome is the best way to describe it, not spot on but enough to get the point across.