The Round Room

No one remembered building the house at the edge of Leland Hill. It appeared in the county records one spring listed as "abandoned." Locals said it had been there forever-but no one could say what "forever" meant anymore.

Henry Delgado, a retired cartographer with a fascination for architectural oddities, discovered it while scanning old maps for inconsistencies. The house didn't match any topographic surveys before 1982. Intrigued, he decided to visit.

The house had no address, only coordinates. As he drove up the hill, fog coiled through the trees like something alive. The house emerged all at once-flat gray, two stories, with windows like lidless eyes. It wasn't decayed. It looked... untouched. Henry noted the strangest thing immediately: it cast no shadow.

Inside, the air was warm and dry. The door shut behind him with a gentle click. He walked the first floor with careful steps, tracing each wall. The rooms were ordinary enough-bedroom, kitchen, sitting room. But something was wrong.

There were no corners.

The walls curved subtly where they should've met. No 90-degree angles. The effect made Henry dizzy, like he was walking inside an egg. He pulled out his laser level. It malfunctioned-spitting out flickering red light before dying completely.

He climbed the stairs.

The second floor had only one room, empty but for a grandfather clock that ticked without hands. Still no concerns. He approached the far wall, trying to photograph the curve.

That's when he heard it.

Breathing.

Slow. Measured. Behind him.

He spun around.

No one.

The room felt tighter now. The air thicker. His ears popped. The walls seemed to bow inward. The clock ticked faster-no hands, but ticking all the same. The breathing grew louder, not behind him anymore-but inside him. Matching his own breath, syncing to it like a parasite.

Panicking, he ran back down the stairs.

But the door was gone.

There was only wall. Seamless, smooth, corner-less.

Henry screamed and turned back-but now the walls were closer. The house was shrinking. No-he was growing. Or... falling inward? He couldn't tell. Gravity twisted sideways. Up was wrong. Time was wrong.

The house began to hum.

He dropped to the floor, clutching his head, as a voice-not a voice, a thought-pierced his skull.

"You know how to read maps. But you never asked who drew them."

Then everything folded.

A month later, a realtor listed the house again. Still abandoned. Still prefect. Still... corner-less.

And on the mantle, beneath a layer of dust, lay a laser level and a note in shaky handwriting:

"It's not a house. It's a mouth."