The House That Rents You

The House That Rents You

By Hasnain Shah

When Emily first saw the listing, she thought it had to be a scam.

“Two bedrooms, big kitchen, backyard, all utilities included—eight hundred a month?” she read aloud, blinking at her laptop screen.

Across the couch, Michael nearly choked on his coffee. “Eight hundred? That’s less than half what we pay now for that shoebox apartment.”

They laughed about it, then went to see the place anyway. The house was small but charming: pale blue siding, rose bushes out front, and a porch swing that creaked with every gust of wind. Inside, it smelled faintly of cedar. The landlady, a thin woman with silver hair and bright eyes, greeted them with an oddly formal bow.

“You’ll find the rent affordable,” she said softly, “but do keep in mind—the house has its own terms.”

Emily thought she meant “rules,” like no smoking inside or no pets. They nodded, signed the lease that night, and moved in the following weekend.

At first, it was perfect.

Emily unpacked her grandmother’s quilt and draped it over the couch. Michael strung fairy lights across the kitchen window. They laughed while painting the second bedroom, bright yellow, even though they didn’t yet know what it would be used for. For the first time in years, they felt settled.

The first fee came a week later.

Michael woke in the middle of the night and found his guitar missing from the corner. He searched every room, even the basement, but it was gone. In its place was a neat envelope on the kitchen counter. Inside, written in sharp, angular handwriting:

Rent received. Fee: one beloved object.

They told themselves it was a prank. Maybe one of their friends had snuck in. Maybe Michael had misplaced the guitar. But when Emily went to make coffee that morning, she couldn’t remember the recipe her mother had taught her—the little trick with cinnamon that made it taste just right. She opened the fridge and saw another envelope tucked between the milk and eggs:

Rent received. Fee: one treasured memory.

Her hands shook so badly she dropped the carton.

The house was taking things.

Every month, right on the day rent was due, something vanished. Not money, not objects they could replace—but parts of themselves.

Emily lost the memory of her first kiss, the nervous thrill of it erased from her chest. Michael lost the scar on his hand, along with the story of how he’d gotten it. Then came whole afternoons, entire feelings. Emily opened her phone one evening to scroll through pictures, only to realize she couldn’t remember their trip to Chicago two summers ago. The photos looked like strangers smiling in front of museums she didn’t recall visiting.

They tried to fight back. Michael left cash in an envelope, but the bills turned to ash overnight. Emily taped notes to the fridge: We pay in money, not in us. The notes were gone by morning.

The house grew greedy.

By the sixth month, it demanded whole years. Emily found herself sitting at the kitchen table with no memory of her twenties. Her favorite books and songs lost meaning; she didn’t remember choosing them. Michael forgot his high school years entirely, then chunks of college. He woke one day unable to recall his best friend’s face.

Still, they stayed.

Because the house was beautiful. Because they were terrified of leaving and learning what it might take as punishment. Because, strangely, the emptiness inside them began to feel… peaceful.

With each memory gone, arguments they’d once had blurred into nothing. Old insecurities evaporated. They no longer cared about things that had once seemed urgent—job promotions, family feuds, unpaid bills. The house was hollowing them out, but in that hollow space, silence blossomed.

One evening, nearly a year in, Emily found an envelope waiting on her pillow.

Final rent due. Fee: the years ahead.

She stared at Michael, whose hands trembled as he unfolded his own identical envelope. His eyes were tired, like a man who had already forgotten how to hope.

“What happens if we don’t pay?” she whispered.

But deep down, they both knew the answer. The house never asked twice.

The porch swing creaked outside. The walls seemed to breathe, patient and steady, as if waiting for their decision.

Emily reached for Michael’s hand. It felt unfamiliar—like holding hands with a stranger she used to know.

They lay back on the bed, envelopes still open, and closed their eyes.

And in the dark, the house collected its rent.