Ashbrae Hollows: Short Suburban Horror

November 01 2026:

They still have that yellow mannequin with the cracked orange visor hat by the looping bypass on the way to Ashbrae Hollow; saw it when I was pulling in. Still has the sign too; ‘Wait your turn. Seniors served first.’ The restaurant has been closed for a decade.

I’m keeping a diary. Just like when I was kid.

Arrived at the Hollow this morning. It’s all the same, except dad’s gone I guess. Same houses with their porches sagging towards the center of the streets. The same rows of driveways except everything is just a little more brown and yellow than I remember; like everything had been left out in the sun too long. I’m here to clean up my father’s affairs, though I expect that’s mostly junk mail, a box of keys and winding up his insurance.

My brother, Nate, called me again. Still angry. He’s convinced father left something behind. Some final sentiment. We both know he means cash, a car, something that he and his influencer wife can use. Said he’s calling a lawyer. Apparently some real estate agent said the house was under new ownership and up for sale. Nate thinks that owner is me. Doesn’t make sense.

I tried to call the newspaper this morning. I put the obituary in a week ago. They still haven’t printed it. Line is dead. I didn’t think it mattered. Surely everyone in town knew by now. It looked so small when I was a kid.

Now it just looks hungry.

————————————

The house still smells like him. Thick tobacco smoke still stuck to the fibers of the chair he used to sit in. Blankets on his bed are still folded back; rumpled as if he stepped out for the day. Like he’s going to come back any moment, make the bed and ask if I want eggs. Coat is still by the door. Can’t get coats like that any more. Left a note on the fridge next to an old thermometer. “Renew license. Find phone. Call Ashley (me). Don’t respond to the knock before 10AM.” Makes sense that he lost his phone. He didn’t call anyone before he passed. I can still see his slippers by his chair. He used to take them off and splay his fat toes. Grossed me out. I’d love to be grossed out again.

There wasn’t any ‘for sale’ sign. No change of locks. Not even a note. I knocked, then let myself in with my old spare key. I thought the fridge was going to be a warzone. Checked the expiry on the milk, 8 November. That’s almost new I guess.

The hotel I was planning to stay at is closed. I checked this Hotel Booking Yeah! Website, and it kept doing that 404 thing when I searched Ashbrae Hollow.

I’ve put a note on the front door with my number asking anyone who comes by to visit. Maybe dad left his keys with someone before he went?

I wonder who was here last.

————————————

Nate called me again. Accused me of not answering my phone all afternoon. Said it would ring twice then go busy.

I told him I checked dad’s office. The cabinets. I haven’t checked the attic yet. He told me I’d always been a liar. Not sure that’s true. I used to make up stories as a child; that was I a princess, and I had a huntsman that guarded me when I slept. Makes me cringe when I think of it. I think of this every time Nate accuses me of something.

Wanted to cry most of today, but it just won’t come. Went to the corner shop. I thought Julie’s daughter would have taken over by now, but Julie is there with her stiff perm and waxy face. She’s still selling the same packs of gum from when I was a child too. All the packs are sun-faded and curling with some faint watermelon scent. She says she heard about my father. I can tell she’s old, because she just said “that happens” when I mentioned he’s gone. She mentioned she didn’t read about it in the paper. She asked when I’d get the obituary done. I tried to explain that I’d done it last week on the website. She kept insisting I use a phone or go in person. She says email isn’t reliable. She is old I guess.

I asked her about the milk. Maybe dad had a maid or something, but she didn’t know anything about it. Apparently she sells almost the same amount of milk weekly.

—————————————

Midnight. Can’t sleep.

Reminds me of when I was a kid. Dad used to say, “it’s just the house settling.” I always thought it was tired from standing too long. Kid logic. I’d sit up all night, listening to scrabbling claws and the wind. Sometimes I thought I could hear snoring under the house. I can’t tell you how many nights I stayed frozen in bed listening to the house dream.

I used to believe creatures hid under your bed. I even knew what they looked like: burlap hands and hollow skin that would grab your ankles and drag you into another world. That world would be shit compared to this one, but now I wonder if I’d prefer it. What if the hands under the bed were trying to save us?

I sat in my dad’s chair briefly. Not sure why. I held one of this pipes, then I touched his slippers. I could feel warm indents, like they’d been worn recently. When I’m upstairs it’s like I can still feel him moving around down there, but when I come down… the warmth leaves and it’s all cold again.

I guess I’ll try to sleep again. I can still hear the house breathing.

—————————————

02 November 2026:

Should have known something was wrong when they all had the same smile. Spent the whole morning hating life at a nicotine colored real estate agency.

First it was probate exemption, then an occupancy certificate. The woman with the whitest smile kept saying “it’s hard to know these things, isn’t it?” like we were discussing astrology instead of property law. When I asked to see the manager he took the paperwork up in his leathery hands. He kept smiling; porcelain teeth bulging out his thick lips. First he told me I shouldn’t bother if I was thinking of selling. Told me that after back taxes, processing fees, and municipal readjustment charges I’d be left with enough for a takeaway coffee. A small one with no sugar.

He told me I needed to fill out a Heritage Reversal Request, and almost no one fills them out. I asked for the forms anyway, and started filling them out. The woman kept asking me questions the whole time. She kept asking where I would go, and told me that selling was really for people with enough money to buy something new. Eventually the man told me I’d need the owners signature or someone from the City Planning Division for the heritage reversal form. He grabbed my arm as I tried to leave, told me to take as long as I needed. I can hear the sound of tearing paper from the back office, and I don’t know why.

In my car just now. It’s starting to rain. Smells like freshly cut grass. Tried to call a few lawyers, but every time it just rings a few times then hangs up. Maybe it’s the same problem Nate was having.

—————————————

Dropped by dad’s place to pick up some paperwork. I saw Henderson!

Henderson’s dad was milkman back when we had those. He used to make forts out of the crates. He’s a little doughy now. Somehow soft and thin at the same time, wrapped in flannel. He was watching me. He was trying to hide it. Maybe he’s struggling to recognize me? His face is red and wet and he hasn’t been shaving, or if he has he keeps missing parts of it. I swear when I was putting the bins out he was actually hiding around by his portico.

I feel sorry for him, but I’m going to stay away. It’s hard to care when the world is so big, and I don’t have much to give right now. Feel guilty.

—————————————

Stopped by the grocery store. Smells worse than I remember; bleach and wilting onions. There’s no music, just the hum of dying florescent lights and endless refrigeration. I notice a third of the lights are just… dead. Something wet up there in the ceiling got them. I assume they’ve noticed.

Aisles were mostly empty. I saw two shoppers, both dressed in thick beige coats staring at cans and cartons on the shelves. I must have startled them, because as soon as they noticed me they started moving around, their arms swinging like they had too many elbows.

Then I saw the display. Same one from when I was kid. It’s just these plastic flowers. The kind you see at road side memorials zip tied to posts or sprawled across median strips. This old lady was watering them, just splashing little amounts at a time as if she was water-boarding a hamster. She must have been there a while. Water was seeping out the bottom of the pot and puddling. I approached her, to see if she was okay. She turned her head… and I mean TURNED. Like way too far. I could see tendons in her neck like stretched gum. Her mouth hung open. Gaping. Her skin was sagging. Not like normal old people skin, it was candle wax close to a flame or tarp in the rain. Then she just… tightened. Like something settled under her skin. She walked off like nothing happened.

I stood there for minutes wondering. Who looks after these people? I wonder if dad was here, gaping at the tinned soup and mushrooms slack jawed while I was away. God, I hope not.

————————————

I went looking for someone to sign my real estate forms.

The Town Hall doesn’t exist.

I put it into my map app. It kept taking me down side streets. Proper side streets, half asphalt half dirt like intestines stretched across gravel. Houses without numbers, streets with names that aren’t recorded… then I keep ended up at this same orange mesh fencing at some half done roadwork with the same broken traffic cone. I tried calling out to the workmen behind the barriers, but they don’t say anything back. One of them waved at me then walked away into the dust.

Now my app is broken. Doesn’t matter what I put in, it just keeps putting a pin in a placed called “Sam’s Used Furniture”. I didn’t realize until I drove there twice.

I didn’t go inside. It looked like it had always been there. At very least they don’t clean the curtains. I’ve tried refreshing the app. Same result. Restarted my phone. Same result. There was something like a man out front with pulpy brown leather skin. He was smoking something… wet. I asked him about the GPS signal here and he laughed. Told me to try a map like a “normal person”.

I guess satellites don’t work out here.

I found an petrol station, and bought a map book. Last one on the shelf. How did people do this back in the day? After turning the pages and stopping and starting my car half a dozen times I think I found… it.

The windows were wet from the inside, almost like internal sweat. There was some dim light in side, and it look like an officious building. It was the door that got me. Damp glistening glass with a warm glow in the distance. I could actually see a fruit-rind-like ear imprint on the surface where someone tried to listen? Below was a smeared hand print dragging side ways as if someone was losing their strength.

The door was unlocked or more… the lock was just sheared off. There was a door bell above me, one of those ones that dings when you enter; it didn’t make a sound. Inside was just a second set of doors with that same slick moisture as the windows; wet dust still clinging like old skin. I think there was a man inside, slumped behind a table. Almost like a cutout. I tapped and knocked the glass. I think I saw him twitch. Though I’m not sure, the moisture warped my vision maybe.

I’ll try to call tomorrow.

————————————

Home now. Someone removed the note I left from the door. Maybe the tape I used got damp, so I find some duct tape from the garage and do it right this time. They also seemed to put the bins out. I was going to bring them back in, but there’s at least three bags in them; someone probably using them since dad isn’t around.

Inside, I just wanted noise; something human sounding.

I tried the television.

“Murder She Wrote” was playing just like when I was little. Jessica Fletcher smiling from the abyss. Gone, just like dad. I switched to find something else: the local news channel. The reporter was thin with big glassy eyes, and a suit that hung off him like it belonged to a larger man. He told me that the United Nations met to discuss peace talks in Afghanistan, and that there was a gas leak in somewhere called Bracken-on-weir. A local girl had won a baking contest, and local police had confirmed that nothing had happened on Larchmont Road. He said the last part twice. It felt like a confession.

They use the same man for weather report. He says there’s a high of 76F, and they expect more clear weather tomorrow. It’s raining, and I’m cold.

————————————

November 03 2026:

Slept like shit.

I could hear something moving above me at night. Not the occasional scuttle like a rat or possum. Something bigger, something with heft. Slow and deliberate. I’ve been telling myself it’s just the house breathing like dad used to say.

When I go to the toilet, the sound stops. It waits on me laying stiff under my blankets. I tried a few times to track it. One time, I managed to sneak out of bed and… just for a moment… it kept going until it heard me. So silly. I guess being a child never really leaves you.

Feel so stupid. Stared at the ceiling all night like one of those slack jawed people at the store. Upwards on onwards I guess.

————————————

Had coffee. Probably too much coffee. Can’t stop shivering.

My dad kept this old mercury thermometer on a magnet on the fridge. I haven’t read one since primary school, but the little red line sits at 76F. Mist outside has thickened, and it doesn’t rise. It descends as if the sky was breathing; clumps of air clinging to the grass. Cold still too. Wet. The weather report from last night gave the same temperature. I’m unsettled.

When I was checking the fridge, I remembered that dad wrote that note. “Find Phone.” I dialed his number, and it was in the cutlery drawer almost out of battery buried in knives. It’s an ancient thing. Two tone digital screen with little clicky buttons.

Pin code was mum’s date of birth. I knew it would be. I felt bad doing it, but I’d have to eventually; I thought there might be something from the real estate agent in there. I didn’t read messages from Nate. It didn’t feel right, but I saw some messages from myself. He sounded off before he went. He used to do this heart thing signing off and a few months back it just became, “LUV”. I wish I’d noticed. Reading it back now, it’s obviously not him. At least not who he used to be.

I notice some other conversations. Looks like old friends planning on splashing out on a trip, but the phone is in a terrible state. I can feel it getting hot in my hands, and I don’t even know how to connect it to the WIFI. It actually duplicated our conversations onto this other number I don’t recognize. I might need to get someone to copy it and repair it or something. I wonder if the other conversations are jumbled up too. I’ll find a tech store or something and see if they can port the messages onto a new phone.

I wonder why he couldn’t find his phone. Maybe he was losing his mind. Sad.

————————————

I went outside. It’s still early morning and my note is gone. All that’s left is a streak of yellowed glue and some torn wood like a scab. I was staring at it when I noticed him.

Henderson.

He was motionless, apart from the gentle swaying of his arm holding a hose; just throwing this thick stream of water over this grass patch that hadn’t quite died. I had to say his name three or four times. Maybe it was five or six. He didn’t look at me properly, just tilted his head to the side resting it on his shoulder. It reminded me of the time he fell asleep in class. My hands are shaking writing this. Something is so wrong.

“Timing matters,” he told me. “Routine matters. They like when you keep the grass good. Whatever you do, keep the grass good.”

I asked if he was okay, and that’s when the woman in the beige coat came past on the sidewalk. Short stumped steps, her feet like raw meat on concrete. It felt like she wasn’t wearing shoes. That same slack jawed look like from when I saw her in the store.

Henderson stopped. Just stopped. Mouth open, muscles slack. The hose started soaking his boots in the sulfur tinted light. I got scared. Tried to leave. I could seem him shaking. Nervous. Angry perhaps? Then he moved. Sudden and fast; a puppet with it’s strings yanked.

He pushed himself against the wet wooden fence and snapped, “stop leaving notes on the door! They see them! They can’t write, but they can read!”

I ran inside. Now I’m here. Just writing this. I can hear him just wandering around. He’s by the kitchen window now. I think he’s pressing his face against the glass.

————————————

He’s finally gone. He just stood there mumbling to himself this whole time. Sometimes he would just say my name… then he would go quiet and start again. I could hear the water from the hose splashing on concrete the whole time. I think he’s crazy. I tried to write down what he was saying:

• Don’t talk to them. They don’t talk to each other.

• If they ask you to come to eat, say yes but never go. Always say yes but never go.

• Keep your shoes by the door. They check for that.

• Bins out on Tuesday. Always Tuesday. They notice if you forget.

• When they ask where you’re from, say here. Say you’re visiting family. Say it like you believe it.

• You can’t use the attic any more. It belongs to them.

• If the street lights buzz, go inside. Don’t ask about it.

• Always make sure the light bulb in the hall is on. Always. If the bulb burns out, don’t change it at night.

• Everything on the TV isn’t real. None of it is. You can’t vote. It doesn’t matter. You can’t do anything. This is all there ever was.

I couldn’t make out all of it. He says they got his mom. He said they want him to become one of them, but it’s okay because they think they already have him.

I tried to call the police. It rang twice.

Fuck.

————————————

Can’t sleep. Just sitting here filling out my journal. I haven’t done anything all day. I’ve just been avoiding the windows. I thought about calling the police again, but there’s no point. Henderson’s clearly just disturbed. I can see why. His mother dies, then he ends up in one of these big houses all alone.

It must be about the same time, because it’s “Murder She Wrote” and the news again. More talk about the peace talks in Afghanistan. I was sure “the West” had withdrawn from there. I guess not. News guy tells me tomorrow is a low of 72 and a high of 76 again. His suit jacket isn’t ironed.

The breathing of the house is actually soothing now. I know it goes quiet when I move, so Henderson must be gone. I’ll try sleeping again. Everything else can wait.

————————————

November 04 2026:

Not sure how long I’ve slept. Can’t be more than a few hours.

I went outside and found Henderson’s hose draped across my fence, water still burbling over the dying soil. Outside I could barely breath; that humid mist somehow surviving this cold. Henderson must have gone inside his house. I could see his hallway light burning behind the opaque bubbled glass.

It was still dark. The sun just refusing to pull itself up. The streetlights started to buzz. I know it’s silly; street lights always buzz, but I had thought about what Henderson told me. Ran inside. It feels stupid now, but I even went back out to put my shoes on the porch. Saw some figures on the road. They were inky and dark, liquid-like in the mist. I watched them for a moment, streetlights still buzzing. They were just the bin men. Whoever used dad’s bins last night, they put something wet in them. I heard them slap when they threw those bags. It scared me, so I hid.

Feel like I’m a kid again, running from my own stupid ideas. I’ll eat something. Try to leave before Henderson wakes and sees me again.

————————————

I answered the door at 9:48AM.

I forgot about dad’s note.

Woman on the porch had a pony tail so tight it was keeping her face pulled over her brittle skull. She had the kind of smile you would see in a Polaroid. No blinking. Perfume like dust and vinegar.

I can’t remember what she said at first. She was talking before I even finished opening the door, her mouth just above her pale puffy jacket.

She asked me how I was finding it I think.

“Nice. Very quiet,” was my reply.

“It is a nice place. A very nice place. We take care of each other. Will you be staying long?”

“No. No, I’m visiting. Staying with family.”

“Family,” she whispered like it hurt her throat to say it. I saw her glancing around behind me. At the hallway. At the light bulb. She just leaned past me to do it like that was normal.

“You’ve always been here, haven’t you?”

I nodded. And she just stood there. Stretched forehead pulled back by that ponytail, and thick white teeth bulging behind stretched lips. She waited. And waited. It must have been at least a minute.

“We’re having dinner tomorrow,” she said, “Casserole. You’ll come, won’t you?”

I remembered what Henderson told me. Say yes, but never go. “Of course,” I said. “What address?”

She frowned at me, “you don’t remember?” The smile had faded. She kept leaning towards me, vinegar and dust wafting.

“Of course I do! I was just checking. I remember just fine.”

That’s what I told her. I’m not sure why. I thought about Henderson. I thought about the note on the fridge. I thought about the light bulb. And I just lied.

I closed the door at almost exactly 1001AM.

I now sit in the kitchen. I can hear the distant hiss of the big truck. The men in inky uniforms hurling their wet bags. The distant buzz of the transformers seeming to grow louder as they pass. I should go outside. It’s all in my head.

But it’s like the monsters beneath the bed. The second you look, they’ve got you.

————————————

It’s the afternoon, and I’m in a parking lot. Stuck.

The car didn’t start until the third attempt. I even let it idle for a full minute before leaving the driveway. The heat light is on, even though its so cold. I thought I’d give it a few minutes.

The lot is mostly empty. There’s a camper van here parked too far from the curb. It’s crooked and across the lines, like it just slid in here when it died. No one seems to care. There’s a row of teeth like houses just up a hill some distance away. They’re all kinds of colours you only see in bruises and bad dreams. What’s going on?

They’re still watching me while I write this. The guy in the pale blue shirt. He wears glasses but he looks straight over them like he doesn’t need them. He toys with a smart phone, flicking at the screen like a French painter. Fuck it’s all cosplay isn’t it.

I’m joking, but if I’m found dead or gibbering the store is “Greyline Repairs”. I saw this Staff Board on the way in. There was nine faces. Most of them have been scratched out with ink. Not with a pen; with ink. Streaky black ink from a fountain pen or something.

I don’t know why you would leave the damn thing up if everyone on it is gone.

I went in anyway. Asked glasses guy to make a copy of my dad’s phone. He didn’t ask for a make or model, didn’t even ask if it was my phone. He just asked:

“Second number?”

I was so confused.

“You’re here about the second number. These models, when near the end, they have a second number with duplicated text messages.”

I assured him I just wanted the messages. I wasn’t here for that.

“So you’re saying you don’t think someone was giving him instructions?”

I laughed. I didn’t think that at all. Truly I didn’t. Then I laughed again. Though now I certainly did believe that, and Henderson. I was sweating. I was certainly pale. I kept it polite. Said I just wanted a copy of the phone data. He said he could do it, and this is where I get worried…

I asked him to give me a quote in writing. Told him I had some errands to run, and I would get back to him before closing. He refused. They can’t write. I remember what Henderson said.

I don’t know what this means. I need to get back to Henderson. I’m going to try to start the car. I’ve tried to call Nate. Two rings then busy.

I wonder if I should try dad’s phone. Then I decide it’s time to leave. And I mean leave.

————————————

I’m bleeding, but I don’t think it’s bad.

I tried to get to the edge of town; every route is strangled by that orange mesh fencing and plastic barricades. I was starting to sweat, and my eyes have been watering relentlessly. I had to pull over. Get my thoughts, maybe some water. I just mounted the first curb I could find.

This house nearby though… It was pristine. Aggressively maintained. It didn’t have that bruised ochre look or nicotine sheen. In the driveway, there was black SUV polished to mirror. I threw up on the perfect grass while hiding behind my car door.

The house next door, it was one of the sagging ones with the jaundiced skin. I could even see glimpses of blackened weeping wood at the base. Plastic shutters hung loose, just visible through the wet black glass of the windows; it was impossible to see further. There was no shoes by the door. Not like the pristine house. That house… A man’s heavy boots. Sandals. Maybe children’s sized. At least two pairs of women’s shoes. Proof of life, or something approximating it.

I thought about heading to the pristine house. It felt like caviar and danger, bleach and wine. When you see a pristine home in a war zone it’s never for good reasons. Though I’d seen so few actual people since coming to Ashbrae Hollow… The door of the broken house though, I could see it was slightly ajar. I had to know.

The air around had a sickly sweet scent like burnt sugar. I approached in absolute silence. Told myself I would knock. Told myself I’d excuse myself if anyone came. No one had actually hurt me so far.

It’s then that it occurred to me. I haven’t seen a single animal since I came to Ashbrae Hollow. Not a single one. Not even dead.

I gently tapped the wall by the door; pretending to knock. Nothing. Not even that sighing breath of the wood breathing like at my dad’s. I tried again, this time three hard strikes. Still nothing, just some nearby rattling wind chimes. I finally got the courage to try the door on the final attempt. It’s was just knocking, right? It’s not my fault if it opens.

The door wasn’t just unlatched, it was willing. Each knock pulled me in just a little more until I was just standing there, pawing at the door like I wanted it to reveal its contents. Inside, wallpaper unfurled in loose sheets; beneath, raw and moist flesh. Perhaps I could even see faintly translucent membranes coddling tiny pulsing veins. The house was almost identical to my father’s, but without his personality… and without the trail of black viscous mess trailing down the stairs. I knew it came from the attic.

I took a step forward, but it was too late. Something moved behind me.

“You’re early. They normally send someone after dark. Sometimes early morning I guess. Before ten.”

His face was unnaturally chiseled, beautiful in a plastic sort of way. High cheek bones and a confident gaze. He held a cup that said, “DAD” in large letters. Around him was the cleanest bright blue dressing gown I’d ever seen.

“I was just feeling sick,” I admitted.

He grinned at me. His voice was warm and encouraging, “the first time is always unsettling. You always wonder, is it worth it. This is my third one now, and I’m invested in two more.” He raised his cup to the pristine white double story house that looked like it badly wanted to go into the triple story business. “Clearly it’s worth it.”

I stared dumbfounded.

“Sorry! My manners. I’m Brian.” He shook my hand. Firm grip. “I still have a second job in Finance, but I’ll soon quit and do this full time,” he waved his arm around. “Someone new will really help. Drives growth. Drives property.”

“I’m not sure,” I whispered. It’s all I could manage.

“You should do this one. It’s perfect,” he pointed his cup at the door way. “It’s in a good place to grow, but not too obvious. Do you have a family lined up yet?”

At the time I wondered if I was delirious, but I remembered Nate. “My brother. Nathan. He likes property investments so—“

“Actual family! Bold choice. Cold strategy.” He slipped an arm around my shoulder. “Personal ties do complicate things though. You really want investors that don’t matter. Ones that don’t keep you awake at night. Especially at first.” He noisily took a sip of his mug and looked at me expectantly.

“The mess though—“ I managed.

Brian walked deeper onto the porch and turned to face the sprawling suburbs. Rows and rows of yellow teeth like houses, sagging porches, weeping black wood, and peeling plaster. “They clean up after themselves mostly now. The bin men come at night. They’re not like us investors. They know how to lift the remains without leaving a stain. You might hear them in the attic sometimes just before dawn, but they won’t bother you otherwise.”

I noticed he wasn’t looking at me anymore, and I was looking at him with something well past the point of hatred. I wondered if those soaking, wet plastic bags contained my dad. I wondered who’d actually closed on the property.

“You’ve got it in you, I can tell. Most don’t make it past the first viewing. But you…” He looked over his shoulder at the mess in the hallway. “You’re already halfway to closing, and you’ve got a yield lined up.”

It was around then I noticed Brian’s wife. He waved; big and wide. They called each other hun. Talked about the lawn. He yelled about a new neighbor; me. I was trying to hide my shakes.

“That’s Moira. We’ve been together about twelve years. If you come around later, you can meet my daughter,” Brain said cheerfully.

I managed to raise a hand to her. She made some hand signals at Brian. I could tell they were aggressive.

“No, no it’s fine, honey!” He looked at me.

I knew what he was going to ask, so I answer. “Ashley.”

“Yeah, see it’s fine honey!” He shouted over the picket fence. “She’s basically named after the place. She’s gonna fit right in.” He looked over at me then returned to grinning at his wife. “You’ll fit right in. You just have to understand, Ashley, there are always gonna be losers. Even if you can’t see them. If you feed the house, work in the system, it takes care of you. It was going to be here with or without us.” He raised his mug one last time. “So, what do you say?”

————————————

Brian clearly hadn’t seen the brick coming.

First I was looking at his perfect plastic smile, then there was nothing but perfect broken teeth; blood and soil. The sound was thick. The dull tear of soft cake collapsing from blow after blow.

I don’t remember picking up the brick. Maybe the house gave it to me. I don’t know.

His wife screamed. It wasn’t fear. It was outrage. I’d taken something from her. I was still trying to pick myself up when the gunshots came. Scraped my knees raw and cut my hands scrambling to my feet.

My hands won’t stop shaking. There’s no fear. Just rage.

Henderson didn’t deserve this. My dad… he wasn’t perfect, but he tried. I guess that’s how it ended for him, bin men and body bags.

I stop at an empty road or at least as empty as I can find. My mind is consumed with the thought of jaundiced empty houses expanding into the horizon, consuming people one by one. That, and Nate.

————————————

I don’t remember driving. I just remember seeing the shoes. Every ten or so houses, shoes. Every fifty or so houses, a pristine home. One even has a child outside. He sits cross legged drawing unfinished shapes on the pavement. He doesn’t see my car. All this going on and he doesn’t even look up.

I think about getting out. I’d want to try to explain; I’m worried I’d do something else. I almost pull to a stop. A pristine mother steps outside. She’s almost identical to Brian’s wife in almost every way. She stares. She puts her hands around the boys shoulders, and stares some more. I think she knows. She knows that I know. I pull away.

I find a stretch of road. It’s too new for names. I can smell curing concrete and primer; the curb still soft and unpoured. Houses here are still forming; not becoming homes, but vacant hungry monsters waiting to swallow families. Perhaps it’s one by one, maybe it’s all at once. I don’t know yet.

My phone was shattered at Brian’s. Blood seeps through the cracks on the screen. I think the display is broken. When I paw at it, it shows me old photos of myself I don’t remember taking, and that one of Nate that I hate.

But dad’s phone is intact; familiar like a hand gun. I still remember Nate’s number even though I hate him. I tap the digits in and ring. It rings once. Twice. Then clicks…

“Ashley!” His voice sounds bright and breezy.

“Nate, I need—“

“I got your messages. I’m sorry I yelled, and it’s great you sorted everything with the real estate agent.”

“What?” I ask.

There’s silence. A long silence.

“Nate, are you there?”

Another pause. Then he speaks, “yeah, I’m booking time off work. I’ll be there probably by next Wednesday… Are you okay? You sound different.”

I remember screaming. I’m not sure what. I think I told him not to come again and again. I told him there’s no houses here, they’re mouths. It’s just mouths. He tells me he’s looking forward to seeing me in person; he’s looking forward to investing with me. It’s what he’s always wanted. I imagine some homologous of myself stitched together from Zoom calls and voice mails. Then I hear it.

“Luv. Yeah, Luv. Dad used to say that. I love you, sis.”

The call ends. Or maybe it doesn’t. The phone screen flashes, like it’s winking at me.

Fuck.

————————————

It doesn’t matter 2026:

I think this might be my last entry. I’m going to put this where someone else might find it.

Henderson is gone now. Not dead. Gone.

He was almost there the last time I saw him; soft flesh turning to thin papery flaps. I realise now the house was slowly sucking the moisture and life out of him. His face was collapsed into this sharp triangle, the geometrical proof of starvation.

I could feel the wood in his house pulsing under the wallpaper. He had tried everything. He showed me all of it. The floors were lined with chalk and talcum powder, his drawers filled with broken rosaries… He even turned around every mirror; he told me he was worried they were eyes.

“I convinced them I’m one of them,” he told me once.

I believed him for a moment or just a few days. I can’t remember. Now I can see it though, his kitchen filled with cages. The remains of rabbits, some cats, maybe a dog.

“You can’t convince them forever,” he told me. “Sooner or later, you have to consume someone. Not just the house. You consume them with the house.” To this moment I hope he didn’t mean what I thought he could mean. Particularly because of what came next. “I gave it my mother,” he told me blearily. “I couldn’t afford it any more. The care. I was tired. I thought maybe it could just consume part of her, and I would be like the ones in the white houses. But I couldn’t keep up. You think you can ration it. Budget it like rent, but the amount it wants… It’s too much.”

I thought about Nate when he was talking. He would still be on his way. Would it be so terrible? He would be the perfect candidate. That was his goal after all since we were kids… burn hot, invest early, retire. Just live off the rent he would say. The house rewards those who pretend, and Nate was always very good at pretending; me? I stopped being a Princess at some point.

I’m going to put this behind the cutlery drawer. If you find it, find a way out. If you find me and I have perfect teeth, and a large house; don’t pity me. Run.

…

The light just went out in the hallway. I’ll finish this later.

Ashley. <3