The wallpaper peeled like old skin, curling down the walls in yellow strips. The smell was the worst—damp wood, mildew, and something sour he couldn't name. Adrian sat at the kitchen table, a stack of unopened bills spread before him like a fan of bad fortune.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying not to look at the red stamps: FINAL NOTICE. URGENT. COLLECTIONS.
"Damn it," he muttered, shoving one envelope aside. His voice sounded too loud in the quiet house, echoing back at him.
Silence. Then the faint groan of wood settling.
"Right," he whispered, almost laughing at himself. "Talk to the house, Adrian. That's how you know you've finally lost it."
He tore open a bill, scanned the numbers, then dropped it onto the pile.
"Two hundred I don't have," he said, shoving it away. Another. "Three-fifty. Sure. Why not? Let's add that to the mountain."
The refrigerator coughed in the corner, as though mocking him. He slammed the paper flat against the table.
"Don't start, old man," he muttered at the fridge. "You die, and I'm living on canned beans cold out the tin."
Another groan from the house. Somewhere above, a floorboard shifted. He froze, listening.
"Probably a raccoon," he told himself. "Or the ghosts of bad financial decisions."
His phone buzzed on the table. The screen lit up: Unknown Number.
He stared at it. No one called him anymore. Not his ex-wife. Not old friends. Not colleagues. Unknown meant one of two things: telemarketer or debt collector.
He swiped to decline.
The silence that followed felt heavier, pressing against his chest.
Adrian pushed back from the table, scraping the chair across the warped linoleum. "Coffee," he said, standing. "That's what we need. Liquid courage."
The faucet sputtered brown water before clearing. He filled the pot, set it to brew, and leaned against the counter. His reflection in the kitchen window stared back at him—thirty-two but looking forty. Unshaven jaw, dark circles under his eyes, hair too long and too messy.
He lifted a hand in mock greeting. "Good morning, loser."
The reflection didn't smile.
The coffee dripped slowly, each sound echoing in the empty house. He hated that. Houses should be full of noise—laughter, footsteps, arguments, life. Not this endless creak and sigh of decay.
He poured a cup, burned his tongue on the first sip, and cursed softly.
Then he said, "Bills are going to kill me before the house does."
The stack on the table seemed to grow larger every time he looked at it.
"Alright," he sighed, picking one up. "Dear Mr. Cole, we regret to inform you… blah blah blah. Yeah, you and me both, buddy." He tossed it aside. "Next. Dear valued customer. Oh, now I'm valued? Where was that kindness six months ago?"
He read another, slapping the words with his finger. "Failure to respond will result in legal action. Fantastic. Add that to the bingo card."
The sound of dripping cut through the air. He turned his head. Not the coffee. Not the faucet. A slow drip, drip, drip from somewhere deeper in the house.
His stomach knotted. He set the bill down.
"Pipe leak," he whispered. "Just a leak. Old house, old pipes."
But the stench seemed to grow stronger, faint but undeniable, like spoiled meat hidden in the walls.
He shook his head, forcing himself back to the table.
"Bills first. Ghost smells later."
The phone buzzed again. Same unknown number. He grabbed it this time, stabbing the answer button.
"Hello?"
A pause. Then a woman's voice. Smooth. Polite. Too polite.
"Mr. Cole?"
His throat tightened. "Who's asking?"
"I'm calling regarding your outstanding account with—"
He hung up before she finished.
"Collections," he spat. "Always collections." He tossed the phone down, hard enough that it clattered against a bill.
Silence again. Then another groan from the house, longer this time, like a sigh.
Adrian rubbed his eyes. "You and me both, old man."
The coffee steamed between his palms. He stared at the table, at the pile of envelopes like soldiers lined up to execute him. He hated them. Hated the red ink, the fake politeness of the letters, the way every line reminded him that he'd fallen from grace and no one cared enough to catch him.
His voice grew softer. "I used to help people, you know. I was good at it." He wasn't sure if he was talking to himself or the house. "And now… I can't even help myself."
A knock rattled the front door.
He jolted upright, spilling coffee onto his shirt. "Shit."
The knock came again, firmer this time.
"No one visits," he whispered. "No one should be here."
He set the cup down, grabbed a towel, and padded toward the door. Each floorboard creaked under his weight. He hesitated, then pulled the door open.
No one stood on the porch.
Only the wind, carrying the faint smell of rain.
He leaned out, peering left, then right. The street was quiet. A dog barked three houses down. Curtains twitched in a neighbor's window.
"Kids," he muttered, closing the door. "Just kids screwing with the creepy guy in the rotten house."
Back at the table, the bills still waited. He slumped into the chair, dragging one forward.
"Alright," he said, voice weary. "Let's see which one of you bastards ruins me next."
The house creaked again. Somewhere upstairs, faintly, a door clicked shut.
His breath caught.
"I live alone," he whispered.
The silence that followed was deafening.