Chapter 6:
Horrid 3. The Wallpaper is Breathing Again
HG's horrid shorts
The floral pattern was a gift from the previous tenants, or perhaps a shroud. At first, it was just a faint shudder, a trick of the light in the periphery of my vision. But then the roses began to expand. Inhale. The paper pulled tight against the plaster, revealing the unmistakable outline of ribs and a sternum hidden behind the Victorian print. Exhale. The paper slackened, and a humid, stagnant warmth rolled off the walls, smelling of old fever and unwashed hair.
I tried to peel a corner back, but the wallpaper didn't tear—it bruised. Dark purple welts bloomed where my fingers touched it, and a low, subsonic moan vibrated through the floorboards. The room was getting smaller. With every breath the walls took, they moved an inch closer to the center of the room. I’m sitting in my chair now, and the damp, floral-patterned skin is pressing against my shoulders. It’s warm. It’s heartbeat is slow. And the worst part is, as it presses against my mouth, I find myself beginning to breathe in time with it.
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