The house that my husband and I had lived in for two years now was never quite my cup of tea. I was agreeable, and poor, so it was really whatever he wanted. My aunt told me that he should've included me more when it came to picking it out.

"A man should always place a woman in charge of the home," she'd say. "A real man at least." I'd stifle a laugh and softly shrug. My mother, on the other hand, was just proud that I had a home. She lived with much lower standards than my aunt. She was agreeable, and poor.

"She's grateful." My mother would chime in.

But truth be told, I think I had some good reason to feel the way I did about the house. There was something so peculiar and off-putting about it from the moment you walked in. I may not have grown up with much, but I knew what a home was supposed to feel like and this was not it. It was always incredibly cold, it lacked natural sunlight, it never quite took on our natural scent - it was persistent with its own. One of rotting wood, old metal, and what almost came off like the sour notes you'd find in a jar of mayo. When you closed the front door behind you, it almost felt like the foyer was sucking you in. It was narrow and dim, and impossible to sweep completely clean. Of course, I've tried. The constant dust and water the audibly leaky pipes nurtured the foundation of the home with left me in a constant state of allergic reaction. Yes, allergic to the house. Not dramatic, just true. The appliances were old, the wall paint was old, and the floors were old and absolutely awful. The creaky wooden floors were the worst part of the house to me. They swelled, and made noise, almost convincing me they were breathing and groaning and hated being in the house just as much as I did.

"You should decorate," my mother told me. "It may make you feel better." My aunt said that I should do it to assert my dominance over the household. I haven't worked since I married my husband. I spent days and days at home cleaning relentlessly, but never decorating. It never felt clean enough. It never smelled clean enough. It never looked clean enough, even given how dim it was. I took her advice and headed to the store, picking up a few groceries and knick-knacks for the house. Candles, pillows, a rug. Bread, milk, cheese. I sat it on the floor while I turned to lock the door. When I turned around, the bags were gone. I looked down the slim hallway and over my shoulders - there were only so many places it could've gone. I was stunned. Had mice dragged it away? Anything heavier would've likely made the floors holler. Wouldn't it? I suppose. I sighed in defeat and knelt to the floor for a closer look. I didn't find anything I was looking for, but I did find quite a few dead bugs and a thick layer of dust. I walked to the kitchen to fill up my mop bucket and grab a few other supplies when my husband came home. "You will never believe what happened," I told him, as he dropped his wallet on the small, make-shift kitchen island. "I went shopping and everything just went missing when I brought it in the house. I know it sounds crazy. I don't know."

He stared at me blankly, his eyebrows furrowed. "What do you mean? That can't happen." He trailed off, unfastening his watch.

"I don't know what I mean," I sighed. "Maybe mice. You think?" His back was already turned. "Sure." He said, his head down reviewing his phone screen.

"I really don't like this house," I started, walking closer to him. My heart was beginning to race. I hated this conversation. "Maybe we could rent it out? Some college kids or something. Or someone in need."

"Because our house is eating stuff?" He laughed. "It has a big, hungry, hungry appetite!" I was silent as I carried my mop bucket to the foyer. It was 4 a.m. when I was awakened by a loud noise. My husband was no longer laying beside me. I got up and reluctantly stepped down the wailing stairs, one by one. "Hello?" I called. Silence at first. I called out again. "Hey, honey," he said, coming around the corner. "Found the problem. Patched up the mouse hole. Take a deep breath sometimes." I did as he spoke. The hall light flickered until he flipped the switch, softly brushing past me and up the stairs. I gained speed to follow him, and held on tightly to his pajama bottoms. The next day, I started my morning with a hot cup of coffee. Black. I slept terribly. I walked over to a tiny window in the kitchen and peeked out of it. Across from me, I could see my unfriendly neighbors, who never stopped to wave at me and would ignore me when I'd say hello. My husband was brave enough to speak to them, and they spoke back. Though, it never seemed like they wanted to. I stared out of the window at them before I got lost in my thoughts. I thought about the foyer, and started to scrub the cabinets. I wiped down the fridge and inched closer to the foyer, wiping down light switches. Before I knew it, I was across from the very spot of the disappearance yesterday. I looked down at it trying to find his work, and eventually had to kneel again. Then, I noticed something. No hole patched, but wood that looked new. Vinyl, almost. I dragged my finger across it. No dust, sure, but it is new. I'll consider that. I dipped my rag and began to scrub it anyway, for good measure, so it could be like the rest of them. Suddenly, an adhesive began to lift around the sides. I examined the substance on my rag. The panels around it began to do something strange. They began to breathe. They moved up and down, in and out. I laid my hand on one until it freaked me out. Before you know it, the movement had caused the new panels to start wiggling in place. Eventually, they completely caved in and left a gaping hole. There were other new panels, all falling down the hole like if Alice played dominoes in Wonderland. Stunned, I took a peek down the hole, before a panel caved in right beneath my knee, and sent me flying into darkness.