Her husband was so distraught she barely recognised him. Wild eyed he paced the kitchen as if caged. Flecks of spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke:

“I was up there hiding your Christmas presents … when it woke up. The attic … the attic is its brain. It was as if I was standing inside its head. I could see its memories in the clouds of dust. Synapses firing down mortar and cobwebs. My god … the house is alive!”

His panic was contagious. She steadied herself on the Formica kitchen top and took some deep breaths.

“But that’s not the worst of it. It showed me the true nature of things. Of the objects and possessions we fill the house with.” He jabbed his finger accusingly at a photo propped up along the spines of cookery books. It was of them on honeymoon in Cyprus. “Those aren’t our memories. We’re theirs! The objects around us: they own us, shape us … contain us! My god … you’re not even my wife!”

She let out a short stabbing scream.

“Our marriage … our whole life together is nothing but a projection. We’re just phantoms given off by all the useless stuff we own.”

She wanted to beg him to stop. Make him understand how much he was hurting her but his stream of consciousness was unrelenting. Blood flushed his features as a new line of thinking exploded into his brain.

“My god! What if it isn’t just this house? What if it is all houses? What if they are the planet’s dominant species and not us?”

He collapsed against the wall and buried his faces into his hands. Sobs wracked his body as he slid to the parquet flooring. She needed to get her husband psychiatric help and now. She yanked the telephone from the wall. Hands shaking she started to punch in the emergency services number.

The house groaned as a tiny ripple ran through its walls. Then all was still again.

She was staring at the phone in her hand trying to remember who she was about to call. She chuckled, silly woman, what was she thinking ringing someone at this time of night? She replaced the handset and looked around the empty kitchen.

Oh well, she may be a lonely old spinster but at least she had a house to call her own.