I remember when the house at the end of the road was kind. It was not always like it is now, insatiable, predatory. The family that lived there did so in comfort. Do not mistake me, it has always needed to be fed, but there was a time when it was content with what it was given. A time before I even knew it hungered at all.

Everyone knew the family that lived there. They were known for their amiability, the genuine curiosity they held for others' lives. They came to my store every week buying groceries. Round cheeked smiles that asked after me, my own life. I gave them their answers happily. And if I was a little more tired the next day, if I found the air just a bit harder to breathe, I thought nothing of it.

How I wish I could return to those days now.

It was October when everything began to change. The family came to the shop as they always did, smiling faces bright from the polishing wind. They did not say a word. I asked them if everything was all right. They nodded, met my eyes with honest reassurance, and all the while those plastic smiles never cracked. Not a word passed through their upturned lips.

That winter was not a harsh one, but it was cruel to them. They wore each passing week like sandpaper. I watched the days scrape them hollow bit by bit, until their papery skin hung loose from creaking timber bones. I watched those never-faltering smiles harden to solid plaster masks. Then the spring came, and I never saw them at all.

I found I could breathe more easily. The constant bands of pressure around my ribs loosened by increments, until the air that had once stuck like tar in my lungs flowed free as a river of song. My eczema cleared up. I needed less coffee in the mornings. My bones felt lighter, drained of the heavy tiredness that once dragged on my every step. And all the while I wondered about that family in the house.

Everyone else said the family had moved away. But they had not seen the way the house lit up at night, awakening like clockwork in the dark. They only saw it in the day, when it had fallen again to slumber. Something in that house was still alive. I wanted to know what it was.

I did not plan to go to the house that night. I simply ended up there. Splinters dragged across my knuckles as I knocked. The dull thunk was small and pitiful, swallowed by the empty night. Yet at my touch the door creaked open. I did not think twice about stepping inside.

Moving from the silky night air into the thick, sponge-humid interior sent chills eating over my skin. Floorboards creaked beneath my careful steps. Slow, itching tingles began to bloom on my arms. Dim moonlight filtered through dusty windows. I called out, to no answer. Thick, cloying air swirled around my legs as I drew deeper into the house. Leaden fatigue dripped into my bones. Up the stairs and to the left my feet wandered, drawing my body ever onward. Carving a hollow path through the dust motes that filled the gelatin air. I did not know where I was going. The house was guiding me.

At first I thought she was a statue. Her skin blended so perfectly with the wallpaper, that frozen smile twisted into a grimace. Then she spoke, and I recognized her. The youngest daughter. Her voice creaked wooden from a stone-carved face.

“You shouldn't be here,” she said. I did not understand. I knelt to face her, and immediately a weight pressed down upon my shoulders. I did not know if I would be able to stand up again.

“What's happening?” I asked.

“The house,” she said. “I'm sorry. It needs to feed.” She spoke nothing more. I looked into her eyes and saw only empty windows. That smile was still there, cracking across her carpet-mottled skin.

I do not remember leaving the house that day. I do remember that my eczema had returned, and my special lotion did not work anymore. I remember that with each passing day the air burned more and more acidic, and my skeleton rusted at the joints. I remember that I tried to stay away from that house. I remember that I failed.

Every night I would find myself back there. Dragged by some inevitable tether. The harder I fought it, the harder it clung on. The harder it dug in its teeth. It was hungry, and I had no choice but to feed it.

I quit my job. Started talking to more people. I asked them about their lives, their families, anything they would tell me. At first they were hesitant. But when they saw I meant them no harm, they loosened their tongues. They unspooled their lives to me, and I gathered those threads into a ball and brought it back to the house. I fed it on dreams and despair, tender morsels of humanity sacrificed to its desires. It was never quite enough. Every night I came back empty-handed, every story that failed to satisfy, it took a piece of me instead. But it is smart. It always leaves just enough, enough for me to still go out and gather more. More tiny bits of other people to sacrifice in my stead. I have lived in that house for many years now.

But enough about me. Tell me about you. I want everything.