Obsession | Kendra S

Her friends thought it was a game at first. They’d come over and help her measure the crack with a fabric tape measure. 14.3 centimeters. Then 14.6. Then 15.1. “It’s growing,” Kendra would whisper, and her friends would laugh and say, “It’s just drywall, Ken.”

The next morning, the crack in the ceiling was gone. So was Kendra’s notebook. So was the third stair’s creak, the smell of cigarettes, the faucet’s seven drips. The house was quiet. The house was patient. The house was full.

Her parents noticed the change. Dinner became a negotiation. “Kendra, you’ve barely touched your food.” “Kendra, why are there maps of the house taped to your wall?” “Kendra, the school called again. They say you’re not paying attention in class.”

Because the house had already learned her voice. And it had no intention of giving it back.

Kendra’s blood turned to ice water. She flipped to the last page. The ink was still wet.

“Who are you?” Kendra whispered.

December 22: I don’t need friends anymore. I have the house. The house loves me.

Behind her, in the real room, Kendra heard her mother’s footsteps in the hallway. “Kendra? It’s 11:30. Why is your light on?”