This House Loves You

Louse MacGregor

Consumate Letting are delighted to bring to market this exceptionally attractive first floor studio apartment for rent in the heart of the city centre. Available 31st April after previous tenant has been fully cleared out. Fully furnished. Full broadband package available. Links to major shopping districts and other amenities in walking distance. Ideal for young working professionals looking to get on the property ladder, especially those working from home. Warm, welcoming atmosphere. You’ll never want to leave! $1050pcm. We can’t wait to hear from you.

You climb out of bed.

You make your way to the bathroom, and look at yourself in the mirror.

You eat breakfast.

You sit at your desk and work.

You fold your laundry.

You make dinner.

You go to sleep.

You climb out of bed.

You make your way to the bathroom, and look at yourself in the mirror.

You eat breakfast.

You sit at your desk and work.

You fold your laundry.

You make dinner.

You go to sleep.

You climb out of bed.

You make your way to the bathroom, and look at yourself in the mirror.

You eat breakfast.

You sit at your desk and work.

You fold your laundry.

You make dinner.

You go to sleep.

You climb out of bed.

You make your way to the bathroom, and look at yourself in the mirror. This time, for a brief moment, something catches your eye – a silhouette, with your hair falling over the face on one side. When you glance towards it, it vanishes.

You eat breakfast.

You sit at your desk and work (the rent is so high for a place this small, isn’t it?)

You toss your laundry on the chair and promise yourself you’ll fold it tomorrow.

You make dinner.

You go to sleep.

You climb out of bed.

You make your way to the bathroom, and look at yourself in the mirror. The silhouette is not there today.

You eat breakfast.

You sit at your desk and work.

You add to the growing pile of laundry on your chair.

You make dinner.

You go to sleep.

You climb out of bed.

You make your way to the bathroom, and look at yourself in the mirror.

You eat breakfast.

You sit at your desk and work. You stretch your arms above your head and yawn, and your shadow takes a moment longer than it should to settle back down.

You fold your laundry.

You make dinner.

You go to sleep.

You climb out of bed, late – you watch your shadow carefully, to see if it matches. You flex your hand in a shaft of sunlight, and your shadow doesn’t move, snapshotted with fingers spread.

You make your way to the bathroom, and look at yourself in the mirror.

You eat breakfast. You feel less hungry than before.

You sit at your desk and work.

You fold your laundry.

You make dinner. You pick at it. Are you coming down with something?

You go to sleep.

You climb out of bed.

You make your way to the bathroom, and look at yourself in the mirror. This time, the mirror captures a rush of images – a stop-motion collection of your body moving through the motions. You duck your head to one side and the other, but it doesn’t move.

You don’t eat breakfast. You lean on the wall in the kitchen and try to breathe, but the paint stains your bare skin yellow. You touch it to see if it’s wet; it isn’t. You could repaint it, but the tenancy agreement assures you any changes will be made by the landlord.

You sit at your desk and work. And work, and work, and work, because if you keep working, then-

You fold your laundry.

You make dinner.

You do not sleep. You scrub at the yellow on your shoulder for the better part of an hour, but your skin remains stained, just raw and bloody now too.

(this house loves you)

You climb out of bed.

You make your way to the bathroom, and look at yourself in the mirror. There are more images of yourself now too – a freeze-frame of a dozen poses, brushing your teeth, washing your face, picking at your skin. They cluster in around your reflection until you are not sure which one is the real you at all.

You eat breakfast. It’s not until you’re finished that you realize the spoon feels heavier in your hand than usual. You lift it to your face, and, twisting it back and forth, notice you can almost see through it when the light hits it right.

You sit at your desk and do not work. You watch the shadows. Your shadows watch you.

You fold your laundry.

You make dinner, and put a poster over the part of the wall that stained your skin. The stain is still there. It looks as though it is getting bigger.

You go to sleep.

You climb out of bed.

(this house wants you)

You make your way to the bathroom, and look at yourself in the mirror. Dozens of visions of yourself crowd like an opera house, some small and squinting, others closer, smiling.

(this house loves you)

You cannot lift the spoon. The yellow has spread down your arm now, your skin thinning and crumpling like old parchment. Small patches flake off entirely, and fade into the countertops like snow on sidewalk.

You sit at your desk. Behind your computer, shadows in the shape of you sightlessly observe you, each frozen in state. One stretching, one bending, one leaning a chin into their hand. Your hand. There is less of you here, now, than there was before.

You fold your laundry.

You do not try to make dinner. You order in, and it congeals on the counter. By the time you wake up, it’s gone.

(this house feeds you)

You go to sleep. It comes easy, the bed rising to meet you.

You climb out of bed. You try to, at least. You go to swing your legs to the floor, but they do not move; when you look down, you find them faded, like an old photograph. A memory of how they used to look. You ran a hand over your thigh, and your palm jerks precipitously downward, through the inch or two where the muscle should be.

(this house has you)

You do not make your way to the bathroom. You do not need to. There are dozens of you there already. Not copies of you, pieces of you, spread thinner and thinner. (this house loves you)

You go to sleep. The yellow, though you cannot seen it, is creeping over your back and down to your waist, soaking into your liver (this house can see it).

You climb out of bed. Your legs, to your surprise, land on the floor this time; you soon realize it’s because there’s not enough of you to warrant the struggle any longer. Your skin has faded to a papery translucence, your blood beating sluggishly in your veins. You can see each thud as it strains to keep you going.

You make your way to the bathroom, and look at yourselves in the mirror. (this house has you)

You are wanted by this place so completely, desired by it so utterly. (you don’t need to eat. This house feeds you)

You sit at your desk and plant your hands on the wood. They sink, slowly, until you pull them back. Skin frays at the edges, dangling like an old thread. You tug at it, and the flesh around your thumb unspools in a single piece.

Your laundry is already folded.

(this house loves you)

You go to sleep.

You are the bed. You lift your arm, but the veins have tangled inextricably with the thread of your sheets. You trace your fingers along the vein that starts under the freckle on your arm, and you can’t tell where it stops and the bed begins.

You go to the bathroom, and look at yourselves in the mirror. For the first time since you’ve seen yourself there, you smile (this house loves you).

As you make your way through the house, objects tangle in your sheets, in your veins, in your flesh; thick wooden splinters peel off the floor and embed themselves into you, a sandy glaze of glass freckles over your jaw.

(this house needs you)

You lay in bed and the house curls around you like a cat. You can feel the throbbing of it surrounding you, like it’s purring with contentment. You purr back.

(this house loves you. This house is you)

Louise MacGregor is a novelist, short story writer, and blogger from Scotland. Inspired by twisted takes on all things literary, she uses her experiences with OCD to explore avenues of horror and obsession. She lives with her horrible cat and her partner (less horrible).