The Dough Presser

I didn’t think much of it at first. The pressure on my face was like a firm hand, but not painful—just insistent, as if someone were trying to mold me into a shape I didn’t know I could take. I’d been sleeping in the attic room of our old farmhouse, a place that always smelled of dust and dried apples. My husband, Tom, was beside me, snoring softly. I sat up, expecting to see one of the kids, maybe little Emma, who sometimes sleepwalked, or my son, Leo, who had nightmares. But the room was empty, and the only light came from the moon through the thin curtains. I lay back down, pulling the quilt over my head, and told myself it was a dream.

The next morning, I mentioned it over breakfast, cracking eggs into the cast iron skillet. Tom laughed, said I’d probably been dreaming of baking. Emma giggled, and Leo, who was six, went quiet. He asked, “Mom, can I sleep with you tonight?” I saw the fear in his eyes, so I nodded. That night, he curled up next to me, his small back pressed against my side. I fell asleep to the sound of wind rattling the window panes.

In the middle of the night, I woke to a weight on my stomach. It wasn’t heavy, but it was there—a flat, even pressure, like something was leaning into me. At first, I thought it was Leo, but he was still beside me, breathing softly. The pressure moved, slowly, as if it were kneading me, just like the night before. I didn’t feel scared, just confused. I tried to move, but my limbs felt like they were made of dough. I could hear a faint hum, like a distant motor, and I realized it was coming from the pressure on my skin. It wasn’t human. It wasn’t anything I knew. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, it was morning.

I told Tom again, and he frowned, but didn’t laugh. He suggested I see a doctor. I didn’t. But over the next few nights, it happened again. And again. Each time, the pressure was different—on my arm, my leg, my back. And each time, I felt a sense that I was being prepared, shaped, sorted. The hum grew clearer, but I couldn’t make out the words. It was like a language just out of reach.

Then, last night, I woke to find Leo standing over me. His eyes were open, but they were milky white, and his mouth moved as if he were chewing. He placed his small hand on my forehead, and I felt the same pressure, but stronger. He spoke, but it wasn’t his voice. It was the hum, made into words: “You are the mold. We will press you into the shape of the house.” I screamed, but no sound came out. Tom slept on, oblivious. When Leo blinked, his eyes were normal, and he asked why I was crying. I held him, but I could feel the dough in my skin, the give of my flesh under my own fingers.

Tonight, I haven’t slept. I’m sitting in the kitchen, kneading bread dough, just as I did before this started. The dough is soft and pliable, and I can’t help but think that I know exactly how it feels. The hum is in the walls now, steady, like the house is breathing. And I’ve realized—I don’t know if I’m dreaming, or if I’m becoming part of the house itself. Maybe I’ve always been the dough, and the house is the baker. I just hope that when it presses me into shape, it doesn’t hurt. It never did before.