Blood and stale ichor flowed through the wires of that old house, slowly spreading through shared pipes and infecting the entire neighbourhood. Both the old house and the current owners did not live as such, they existed - they survived and loathed every second they were aware enough to know that they hadn't died yet.
The walls ached and eggshell paint festered into blister-red around the sockets and doorways. The house was rejecting itself, fighting and tearing itself apart from the inside as it desperately tried to not be. It only succeeded in making itself somewhat uninhabitable.
The ground beneath the windowsills is wet with pus and from a distance it looks like the house is crying. Nothing grows on the ground around the house, it won't let anything grow - poisons the soil with leaking pipes til everything is as dead as it wishes to be - as they wish to be.
The owner dies long before their house, body so stuck to the carpets that they were cut out and loaded into the ambulance with a shroud already at their back. They say the house screamed that day - officially it was a spontaneous and violent gas leak but we all heard it and know better.
The house is nos a half-deflated mass of wet bricks and dark blood, moans lost in the wind.
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