Wednesdays can be grey. They don't make an impact on the week, as they're the pause between the uphill struggle of a working week and the gleeful, expectant slope into the weekend. They're grey. A foggy, forgettable gap between days that never manage to commit themselves to memory.

It was on such a day when you first noticed it.

The postman, whom you know as Andy from the occasional brief conversations you've had over the years, walks past your gate without looking up at your house. You call out to him.

"I didn't see you," he says, looking embarrassed. "Thought this place was empty."

You laugh. He always did have a strange sense of humour. Whereas yours was so dry the Sahara could be an oasis, his was... off. But, people said stuff like that about your street all the time. It's quiet, tucked away, the kind of place where people say, with that smug little shrug, nothing dramatic ever happens here. That's why you like it. Quiet and unassuming is nice. Undramatic is even better after the divorce and what went before.

Andy frowns at your laugh before smiling awkwardly and walking away, dropping by Mrs Halley's with what appeared to be the junk mail you were expecting. It'd go straight in the recycling, but at least it meant someone, somewhere had thought of you – even if it had been just as a potential customer or mug.

But that night, when you go to lock the back door, the key doesn't fit. The lock is the wrong shape, expecting an older, larger key than the standard Yale you had on your keyring. You walk slowly through to the front of the house, staring at the bundle in your hand. They're the same as they've always been. The front door is the same. A hole too big for the key you've had since moving in. You check the windows. Their keys are left in, though you've never thought to question why that would be the case. Except, there are no locks. No handles. The windows are all sealed. Not stuck, needing a sharp shove with the palm of your hand. Sealed, as if the frames grew from the surrounds, and the glass was an offshoot of that.

You're tired. It's late. The house is old. Houses settle and wood warps. Everything shifts, as, no doubt, you will, too in a few years. It's nothing to worry about that a decent night's sleep won't fix. Houses certainly don't change.

That can't happen.

The next morning, you stare out of the kitchen window, waiting for the kettle to finish boiling. The lock issue is forgotten, lost to the grey. You move to pick up a teaspoon, and stop, your hand outreached. You look at it, wondering why it's bothering you. Then you look up. The light is different. Not dimmed or brightened, just... different. Then you see why. The window is smaller. Not by much, just a centimetre, maybe two, but enough that the light falls at a different angle. You stand there for a long time, your gaze moving from your hand to the frame, trying to remember if it was always like that. You try to picture yesterday's sunlight, and how that might have fallen across your hand.

You can't.

You go out to the garden, not noticing that you didn't need to unlock the door, but the garden fence is taller. You can't see over it anymore, and you definitely had been able to. Mrs Halley had a somewhat annoying habit of always appearing whenever you were out there. She'd been lonely since her husband died. You forgave her her need to chat. To connect.

You knock on your neighbour's door. Mrs Halley answers, smiling instantly. She brushes the flour from her hands onto her apron, succeeding only to produce a cloud of coughable dust.

"When did you replace the fence?" you ask.

She blinks, her face taking on a similar, quizzical look to Andy's.

"What fence?"

"The one between our gardens," you say, pointing.

But, something... you know something... What...?

She gives you that soft, patronising smile she reserves for people who worry too much.

"Oh, love. You're a funny one. We've never had a fence between us."

You gesture helplessly. "But it's right there. It's taller than..."

She cuts you off with a gentle laugh.

"No need to get yourself worked up. You must be tired. Go have a lie down. There's really nothing there."

You point at the tall, solid boards.

She stares at empty air.

You don't sleep that night. You don't even try. You sit in the living room with every light on, Alexa your smart home friend. You're watching the walls. You swear they're closer than they were. The ceiling feels lower. The corners feel sharper. Never one for claustrophobia, you can taste it edging into your bones.

At 3:17 a.m., around the time you'd usually be waking up for your middle of the night bladder evacuation, the electricity cuts out.

The darkness is absolute.

You hear a breath. Not your own. It's the house.

You don't move. You barely breathe yourself. You wait for the lights to flicker back on, but they don't. Instead, the floorboards shift under your feet, as if the house is adjusting its weight, or preparing to eject you.

You whisper to the dark, "This isn't happening. It can't, not here."

The house exhales, long and slow, like it's been waiting for you to say that. Waiting for you to deny the truth.

When dawn finally comes, the living room door is gone. A smooth wall fills the space where it used to be. You run your hands over the plaster, searching for a seam, a hinge, anything.

There's nothing.

You turn to the window. It's half the size it was yesterday. The glass is thicker. The light is dimmer.

You shout for help. You bang on the walls. You scream until your throat burns.

No one hears you.

Or, perhaps they do, and they tell themselves the same thing everyone in this town tells themselves when something feels wrong. When something feels off. When something feels impossible.

It can't happen here.

By noon, the ceiling is so low you have to crouch. By evening, you're on your hands and knees. The air is warm and stale, like the inside of a mouth desperate for hydration.

You press your cheek to the floorboards and whisper.

"Please."

The house sighs, contented.

And the space around you grows smaller.