The Mold in the Walls

I’ve had a few incidents happen to me since my last posts, mostly two years ago (can’t believe it’s been two years already), feels like all this happened less than a year ago).

In 2014 I was staying in Westdene-Melville near the Westdene dam, my favourite place in Johannesburg- very artsy-fartsy the nightlife’s amazing. It has lots of art galleries, pop up restaurants, thrift shops and book shops. It’s basically hippie heaven.

I was at that time working as a Casting Director for a casting agency (fun times) which wasn’t far from where I stayed. There was also a University close by so most people turned their houses into boarding houses for students and young professionals like myself.

I’d just gone through a nasty break up with my ex (I stayed at his place), meaning I had to quickly find a place and move out. Lucky me, I found a very cheap one bedroom cottage with a beautiful yard, bay windows in the lounge and bedroom that ran from ceiling to the floor. I’m not great at describing things but it was a charming little place, nestled behind a larger Victorian house that had been converted into student flats. The landlady, Mrs. Kriel, was a frail old woman with a perpetual smell of mothballs, and she warned me that the cottage had been empty for a while, but the rent was so low I didn’t care.

My first night there, I noticed a faint, musty odor, like damp soil or old books. I chalked it up to disuse and lit a lavender candle. I slept surprisingly well, considering the move. But in the morning, I saw a thin, dark stain seeping from the skirting board in the corner of the lounge, right where the bay window met the wall. It was moist to the touch and left a greenish smudge on my finger. I cleaned it with bleach, but it reappeared the next day, this time spreading a little further along the baseboard.

Over the next week, the stain grew into a patch of dark, velvety mold that seemed to pulse faintly, like it was breathing. I scrubbed it with everything I had – vinegar, mold remover – but it always came back, darker and thicker. At night, I’d hear a subtle, wet crackling sound from that corner, like something growing. I mentioned it to Mrs. Kriel, but she just shrugged and said, ‘It’s an old house, dear. You have to expect a bit of damp.’ But her eyes darted nervously to the wall, and she left quickly.

I started having nightmares. In them, I was standing in the lounge, and the mold was spreading up the walls, covering the bay window, swallowing the light. From the center of the mold, a voice whispered, not in words, but in a language of moist, sucking sounds, and I felt a pulling sensation in my chest, like my heart was being tugged out. I’d wake up gasping, and the mold would have crept a few inches higher.

One evening, I came home from work to find a strange thing: the mold had formed a shape, a rough outline of a human face, pressed against the inside of the bay window, as if someone was looking in. My blood went cold. I pulled the curtains shut, but I could feel it there, waiting.

The next night, I decided to sleep on the couch, away from the bedroom window. I left the lounge light on, but the mold had reached the ceiling and was now dripping a slow, viscous liquid that pooled on the floor. The smell was overwhelming, like rotting vegetables and copper. I heard the crackling intensify, and then a soft, wet thump, as if something had fallen from the wall.

I got up to investigate. My heart was hammering. I pulled back the sofa cushion, and there, nestled in the fabric, was a small, fleshy nodule, about the size of my thumb, covered in a thin layer of greenish mold. It was pulsing. I screamed and threw it across the room. It hit the wall and stuck, then began to wriggle and grow, sprouting tendrils that reattached to the wall.

Panic seized me. I grabbed my phone and keys, intending to flee to a friend’s place. But as I passed the hall mirror, I caught a glimpse of my face. There was a tiny patch of mold starting at my temple, greenish and dark. I touched it, and it felt cold and spongy. It was inside me.

I locked myself in the bathroom, trembling. The mold was everywhere now, seeping through the door cracks, crawling along the ceiling. I looked at my reflection; my eyes were becoming filmy, like a dead fish. I knew I couldn’t escape. The cottage was alive, and it was claiming me.

I don’t remember much after that. I woke up on the floor, covered in a cool, damp layer of mold. My skin felt tight, and my thoughts were fuzzy, like through a murky film. The room was dim, as if light couldn’t penetrate the mold covering the windows. I tried to scream, but only a wet rasp came out. I looked down at my hands; they were covered in fine, green tendrils, sprouting from my pores.

I am still in this house. I write this from my laptop, which still works, though the keys are sticky. The mold has become a part of me. It feeds on my memories, my fears, my identity. I can feel the thoughts of the house, the consciousness that slumbers in the walls. It wants to grow, to spread, to find new hosts.

And tonight, I heard a knock on the door. Through the mold-caked window, I saw a young couple, dragging suitcases, looking at the ‘For Rent’ sign. Mrs. Kriel was with them, her key jangling. They smiled, unaware of what they were about to enter.

I am not alone anymore. And I am so, so hungry.