The building stank. Sometimes he thought it smelled like dirty socks, sometimes like moldy cheese. Zachary sighed in the cramped little hallway that led away from the main entrance to the stairwell. One wall was covered in gray mailboxes. He opened his and stared at the pile of nude magazines addressed to his roommate, half considering being nice and bringing them upstairs and borrowing them for a bit, but then he shut the little mailbox door and turned the lock and started the tiresome trek up to the seventh floor. It had been a long, hot day of delivering food on his bike, and he was dead tired. He wanted summer over. He wanted to find a better job. 

There was an elevator, but the landlord was a disabled old man who came rushing out of his office foaming at the mouth and swinging his cane if anyone but him pressed the button. A rank odor whirled around the second floor. Zachary sniffed his armpit, just to be sure his annoyance was justified. It wasn't him. One of the neighbors must be smoking again. He held his breath till he made it up the next flight of stairs only to be greeted by a thick miasma of cooking odor. Onions and garlic and spices, and though he loved the food, when several families were cooking dinner at the same time, it was too much for his nose. 

By the time he got to the seventh-floor landing, he was drenched in sweat. Somehow the steps never got easier to climb even though it'd been three years since he moved here. Up and down, how many times had he done that by now? His legs should’ve been strong, but his muscles always burned, and after biking all day, he felt like a zombie.  

He nodded at the woman coming out of the apartment next to his; she smiled back, her blonde hair bouncing as she stepped away. She wore a flashy top with black leggings. She must be heading out for a fun night, he thought, a flash of jealousy shooting up his tired legs. He didn't even know her name, though he'd thought about asking many, many times. He only ever managed was a nod, not even a smile. But it didn't help that he was exhausted, sweaty, and all he wanted to do was peel everything off and curl up in the bathtub under a cold shower.  

But when he got to his door, the red paint peeling off the metal, he groaned. There were a bunch of muffled voices coming from the other side. Laughter. Merriment. His roommates were throwing another party. Who the hell partied on a Thursday night? Bracing himself for all the attention about to come his way, he turned the lock and stepped into his apartment, greeted immediately by a cheer that made him wince. 

Several muscular guys sat on the couch, pretty girls on their lap, hands around each other. More people stood by the kitchen section, holding beer. They looked at Zachary expectantly, curiously, eyeing him up and down, and he felt the heat rise to his face. He was no good around the "popular" type of people; the guys were all in good shape, tall and handsome and confident. The girls were hot, dressed in skimpy clothing, and then there was one of his roommates, Josh, who was telling everyone to simmer down with a laugh. "No, that's not the pizza guy. He just looks like one." 

That was met by sniggering, and Zachary clenched his teeth, trying not to let the annoyance show on his face. It wasn't “cool” to get upset at things like that. It wasn’t cool to be a downer at a party. After all, he didn't want to sour their mood. Josh and their other two roommates were busy chatting up the girls hovering around the kitchen, and Zachary made his way to the bathroom to find two girls making out. 

"Excuse me," he said frantically, blushing hard as he shut the door quickly. But he'd gotten a quick look at their topless bodies and their scowls, saliva glistening on their lips. Several eyes from the living room turned toward him as he shut the door too hard. He was flustered, feeling way too hot beneath his t-shirt, so he shrugged nervously before hurrying down the hall. 

He unlocked the door to his bedroom and slipped inside, thankful that nobody could get in here. He'd learned that lesson when he'd come home once to find several curious stains on his bed and spilled beer soaking into his carpet. He placed his keys on his dresser and eyed himself in his mirror, shabby looking, dark hair matted with sweat, bags beneath his eyes. He was skinny and kind of limp-looking, and his blue t-shirt, the “uniform” of the pizza restaurant where he’d been lucky to get a job, seemed too big for him. Stubble clung to his jaw and he rubbed his face, wishing he hadn’t looked so dumb in front of all those people. 

With an irritated groan, Zachary stripped out of his clothes, a part of him wishing he was cool enough to go back out there and mingle. Who knows, maybe he could bring one of the girls back to his room. It was right here after all, and Josh liked to say distance and ease were big motivators in getting some. But Zachary had so little experience talking to girls, he didn't think it was ever possible. And beyond that, he just didn't care for it as much as everyone else seemed to. They were all so obsessed with partying and getting laid and drinking, and he just wanted peace and quiet.  

At least it was nice and cold in his room. The central air kept everything at a comfortable temperature. He rubbed his face, wishing desperately he could shower, wishing he could tune out all the noise swirling around his bedroom. The laughter was the worst; he was sure they were still laughing about him. And he knew there was no point asking for some pizza. They’ll eat everything he had in the fridge too; he’d have to go shopping again tomorrow after work.  

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Trying to feel better, he grabbed some wipes and scrubbed at his armpit. Then he pulled out the emergency water bottles he kept beneath his bed, unfastened a cap and downed one in a single go. Pajamas next. Noise-canceling headphones. He didn't even play music. He hated using music to drown out annoying things cause then he felt like he connected the music to that, so instead, he played some random thunderstorm sounds playlist and climbed into bed. He'd shower in the morning, hoping nobody would be passed out in the bathroom. 

What am I doing all this for? He wondered, eyes shut, rain sounds filling his head as thunder rumbled from one side to the other. He'd left home years ago. His parents were too suffocating, too demanding. Everything was about grades, grades grades. Then, after he graduated, it was all, job job job. They wanted him to pay rent. They gave him a curfew of 8 pm. They gave him a fricken bedtime. He was nearly twenty-two! And when he lost his internship at some big tech firm, that had been the last straw. He couldn’t keep doing this, doing things to make his parents happy. Soon it would’ve been marriage marriage marriage anyway. Then grandkids. Then... who knows what else they’d cook up. 

But this wasn’t it. He couldn’t live like that anymore. He’d left one day, telling them he was off to find work in a different city, and despite their protests, despite their toxic words and how many messages they sent him, Zachary got a new phone number and found a shitty job at a local deli and secured a room for him in a shitty apartment building. He was living his life. He’d climb out of this shit hole. He’ll figure things out. 

Sometimes, on nights like this one, he wondered if he’d made a mistake. At least at home, it was generally quiet. Generally safe. Nobody puking in the living room. No pizza stains on their carpets. Nobody rooting through all his stuff in the fridge. And how was he ever going to get his own place? Certainly not as a delivery boy; he had to find better work. He had to work his way up. But even that felt impossible now; the economy was always collapsing or something, or there was some distant war, and that was why housing prices were astronomical. It was all bullshit, and he dreaded never having proper personal space. 

Nah, he thought. At least I don't have mom and dad breathing down my neck. And when I save up enough, I'll get a tiny house. A cheap place outside the city. Where it'll be quiet and I can just... 

Something cut through the rain sounds.  

"House," whispered a little girl's voice. "I'm scared." 

What? thought Zachary. He’d almost sat up in alarm, but he was too tired. It must be a mistake. Did someone record something accidentally into the thunderstorm playlist? And who was House? o 

“Please,” said the voice again. She sniffled. “I don’t like the rain.” 

Zachary opened his eyes, but everything started spinning. His head hurt, an ache that began on his forehead and spread through his skull. He was surrounded by darkness. Complete and utter darkness; he wasn’t sure if he’d even opened his eyes or not. He reached for his headphones, but his arms didn’t respond. He couldn’t really feel his headphones anymore; he couldn’t feel his blanket or his bed or anything. But he could still hear the pouring rain, the rumbling thunder, and then... there was a sudden flash of lightning, blinding searing light that only lasted a moment. 

What? It was just an audio playlist. How could he see lightning? 

"I'm scared!" came the little girl's voice again. When thunder roared again, she shrieked. “House you have to protect me. You're my friend now, so you have to keep me safe, okay? 

Who is she talking to? Where am I? Zachary tried to speak, but he no longer had a voice. HE didn’t have a mouth he could open. No teeth. No tongue. No body. He couldn’t shut his eyes; he didn’t need to breathe. Everything was still dark. 

"House," whispered the girl again, and sensation returned to Zachary.  

He would've gasped, but he couldn't. Cold rain battered his... body? Was it his body? He felt... like a box. And his head, his top, it was triangular. Two sides sloped downward on either side as rain pummeled his skin... no, his tiles, and dripped off his edges. The sides of his body, his cube-shaped body, had windows cut into them, and through them, he should be able to see. But everything was dark. Dark and cloudy and just out of reach. When he pushed his senses inward, as though trying to listen to his own heartbeat, he realized what he was. He was a house. He was the one the little girl was calling. He was House. 

There were four distinct rooms. Two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a space that looked like a dining room as well as the kitchen. He couldn’t see them clearly, just distinct shadowy shapes, but he recognized the stove and the sink, the table with chairs. He saw their beds and the human silhouettes lying on them. In the smaller bedroom, and this one had bookshelves filled with books, a small desk where a lamp was shining. He focused on that warm orange glow, and then sensed the little girl on the bed, shaking beneath her blanket as she called out to him. 

“Please by my friend,” said the little girl quietly. “My name is Sophronia. I summoned you. I don’t have anyone else. Please be my friend.” 

She summoned me? 

She wants me to be her friend? 

But... why? 

How? 

As if to answer his silent questions, the despair building in his... well, he couldn’t call it a head. He was frightened, he was freaking out, he could feel every drop of rain strike his body, and a girl was talking to him, and now there were words in his head: 

Monstrous House  

Class: Daemon  

Size: Small Dwelling  

Spirit Rank: Bronze (1/5)  

Essence: 0/100 

Durability: 744/982 

Skills:  

Awareness: Bronze (1/5)  

Ingestion: Bronze (1/5)  

Poltergeist: Silver (1/5)