I lived in the yellow house for three years before I even noticed it was yellow. It wasn't really the kind of thing I would normally overlook—colours, that is—but the paint was so faded, so worn by the salty air that rolled in from the bay, that it had become the same washed-out beige as every other sad house on Dunham Street. Most days I barely noticed the house at all. It was just there, waiting for me to come back to it, to sleep, to smoke, to exist.

I'd found the place in a crumpled newspaper ad three summers ago, when my life had, predictably, fallen apart again. Some "perfect storm" of bad decisions and bad luck, or maybe just an extension of the same shit that had been happening since I was twenty-two. Doesn't matter. The ad said "Charming Cottage for Rent—$500/month, utilities included," and that was enough for me.

The landlord, Jerry, was some guy in his sixties with sagging jowls and a t-shirt that said "I'd Rather Be Fishing." He didn't give a shit about references or a credit check. When I asked about signing a lease, he looked at me like I'd just asked him to name his favourite Warhol painting.

"You got cash?" he'd asked.

I had cash.

The house wasn't charming. Not even close. It was sinking into the ground at an alarming rate, the wood warping and splitting in places that seemed like a health code violation. There was mould, black in some places, green in others. But it was a roof over my head, which was all I needed. Jerry didn't check in, didn't care if I smoked inside or left dirty dishes piled in the sink for weeks. It was perfect in that way.

The first year passed in a blur. I had a job at a grocery store that was dull and repetitive, but it was a paycheck. I'd wake up late, stumble out of bed with the taste of last night's vodka still sour on my tongue, and drag myself into work. Then I'd come home, chain-smoke a pack of American Spirits on the porch, watch the cars roll by, and wait for whatever was supposed to happen next. Nothing ever did.

Then one day, about two years in, the neighbor's kid came by. I didn't even know there were kids in the neighbourhood—never saw them, never heard them. But there she was, standing in front of my porch with a dirty t-shirt and an expression that said she'd rather be anywhere else.

"You live in the yellow house?" she asked, squinting up at me.

"What?" I said, even though I'd heard her. I just wasn't sure how to respond.

"The yellow house," she repeated, like I was some kind of idiot. "That's what we call it."

I glanced back at the house. It wasn't yellow, not really. But I guess it had been once.

"Yeah, I guess so," I said.

The kid stared at me for a while, like she was waiting for something. When I didn't give it to her, she shrugged and wandered off down the street, kicking rocks as she went.

After that, the yellow house started to bother me. I'd sit on the porch and stare at it, as if it might explain itself. Why yellow? Why anything? It didn't feel like my house, not in the way a place usually does when you've lived there for years. It felt like a room I was passing through. Temporary. Like a hotel you stay at for too long.

That was when I started having the dreams.

They weren't the kind of dreams that made sense—not that dreams ever really do—but these were different. In one of them, I was walking through the house, but everything was wet. The floors, the walls, even the air. I could hear dripping, but there was no source. It was just coming from everything, seeping out of the house like it was trying to drown me. I woke up gasping, the taste of mildew sharp in my throat.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

In another dream, I was sitting on the porch, but the street was gone. There was just this endless field of overgrown grass stretching out in front of me, swaying in the wind. It wasn't peaceful. It was like the grass was hungry, reaching toward me, trying to pull me in.

I started sleeping less after that. The house felt like it was pushing me out, rejecting me, or maybe I was rejecting it. Either way, it didn't matter. I had nowhere else to go. So I stayed.

And then the smell started.

At first, I thought maybe it was something in the walls, something dead and rotting in the crawl space. But I couldn't find anything, no matter how much I searched. I tore the place apart. Then I thought maybe it was coming from me. That I had absorbed the house, its rot, its decay. I scrubbed my skin raw, used half a bottle of bleach in the shower, but it didn't help.

The smell wasn't coming from me. It was coming from the house itself.

I started keeping the windows open all the time, even when it rained. The breeze seemed to help a little, though the rain made the wood swell up even worse than before. The floorboards started creaking under my weight in a way that sounded like moaning, like the house was in pain.

One night, after another round of vodka and cigarettes, I decided to confront Jerry. I hadn't seen him in months, but I knew where he lived—just down the road, past the rusty mailbox with his name on it. I figured he could at least tell me what the hell was wrong with the place. Maybe it was sinking into a swamp, or maybe it was full of asbestos. I didn't care anymore. I just wanted answers.

I walked to his place, the air thick with the kind of humidity that makes everything smell like wet dirt. When I knocked on the door, no one answered. I knocked again, harder this time, and the door swung open on its own.

Jerry's house was just as bad as mine, if not worse. It reeked of damp wood and cigarettes, the wallpaper peeling off in strips. But there was something else, too. Something I couldn't quite place at first. Then I saw it.

Jerry was slumped in an old recliner, his head lolled back, his mouth open. He looked like he'd been dead for days. Maybe weeks.

The house had eaten him.

That's the only way I can describe it. His skin was sunken, almost paper-thin, and the colour of the walls seemed to be bleeding into him, or maybe the other way around. His fingers were stained with nicotine, but they looked fused to the armrests, like the chair had grown into him, or him into it.

I didn't stay long. I didn't call anyone. I just left, went back to the yellow house, and locked the door behind me.

That was two weeks ago. Since then, the smell has gotten worse. The walls have started to sag, and the floors creak even when I'm not walking on them. At night, I hear things moving under the house. Scratching, crawling.

I don't dream anymore. At least, I don't think I do. When I close my eyes, I just see the yellow. That same faded, washed-out yellow that used to cover the house. It fills my vision, suffocates me.

I think the house is dying. And it's taking me with it.

Maybe that's what happens here. The yellow house. It doesn't just rot. It swallows you whole, piece by piece, until there's nothing left but the smell.

I'll leave soon, I tell myself.

But I won't.