Ivy

The man had not slept well in a very long time.

This suburban house, remote and aged, came at a low price.

Though not wealthy, the man yearned for a home of his own, and so he purchased it.

He had resided there for several years already, content in his solitary yet cozy dwelling, especially since his factory job was also located in the suburbs.

But lately, something felt profoundly amiss.

Despite it being summer, the house grew colder day by day.

Initially, the man paid it no mind, even feeling a secret delight.

A cooler house in summer was ideal; it would save him air conditioning costs.

What truly felt wrong was the pervasive dampness that followed the chill.

One morning, as the gentle, morning-grumpy sunlight streamed through the small kitchen window, the man rose and noticed beads of water clinging to the pane.

He reached out to touch them.

They were, unmistakably, condensation formed inside the house.

Frowning, he scratched his head.

The man then opened the refrigerator, tugging forcefully to open the freezer drawer, intending to fry two frozen sausages for breakfast.

He placed the food on the slick stovetop.

The freezer drawer, however, refused to close.

Crouching down, the man peered inside, discovering the back of the freezer was completely choked with ice.

“Hiss… didn’t I just defrost this a couple of days ago?”

The man was reclusive but not numb to his surroundings.

He began to wonder if a water pipe had burst beneath his house.

Yet, if that were the case, the floor should have been the first to suffer.

Unable to deduce a logical reason, the man had no choice but to leave for work.

The front door slammed shut with a bang, plunging the house into silence.

A patch of paint on the wall, darkened by the damp, swayed twice before crumbling onto the floor.

After a day of labor, the man returned home, carrying his dinner.

He switched on the lights and the television, then sat alone in the dining room, eating his takeout meal.

The news on the television remained the same: everything was fine everywhere, yet none of it concerned him.

Oh, there was one fresh report: a somewhat well-known entrepreneur from the South City District had gone missing, and the police were investigating.

Once full, the man took a shower.

Then, clutching his phone, he settled on the toilet, mechanically playing a game.

Was the game enjoyable?

Not particularly.

He played without even thinking, simply because he didn’t know what else to do if he wasn’t playing.

‘Living alone for too long, I really do wish for companionship.’

Pulling up his trousers, he stood.

The toilet bowl was pristine and empty; it was a peculiar habit of his to ponder while sitting there.

“Damn it, why is it so sticky and damp?” Just as he was about to lie down, the man recoiled, pulling back the covers in disgust.

The moment he lay on the bed, it felt less like sinking into soft, smooth comfort and more like plunging headfirst into a tropical rainforest’s moss layer.

The nylon sheet, permeated by dampness, offered a sickeningly clammy touch.

A shiver ran down the man’s spine, and the seemingly colder temperature in the room made him tremble.

He dragged over an extension cord, picked up a hot air blower, and aimed it at the bed for a long time.

Only then did he find it barely tolerable enough to slip under the covers.

‘This weekend, I should find a renovation worker to see what the problem is,’ the man resolved inwardly.

There were still four days until the weekend.

He didn’t trust leaving his home to a stranger when he wasn’t there.

Deep into the night, the man’s sleep was restless.

The dampness seemed to have spread again.

He heard a soft, rustling sound.

The man’s eyes snapped open.

He fumbled for the bedside lamp, switching it on, and listened intently.

As the sudden light flooded the room, the rustling sound immediately ceased.

‘A thief?’

‘Or mice?’

The man nervously and quietly turned off the bedside lamp.

He tiptoed, weapon in hand, to the door, peering through the crack.

No eyes met his, no shadows flickered.

The living room objects remained neatly in their places, their outlines blurred by the dim nightlight, utterly motionless.

The man sighed in relief, returned to bed, and drifted into sleep.

In his dream, the man seemed to hear another sound, not from the door, nor the floor, but from all directions.

Unable to escape the dream, the man’s brow remained tightly furrowed until dawn.

The man had slept terribly that night.

With dark circles under his eyes, he yawned, approaching the washbasin.

He stared at his reflection, then paused, lifting his shirt to pinch his stomach.

“I’ve lost weight??”

Three days remained until the weekend.

Having endured another day, the man slumped exhaustedly onto the sofa, staring blankly at the television and stuffing instant food into his mouth.

He didn’t know why, but today the man was wasteful.

He turned on all the lights in the house, only turning off the bedroom light before lying down to sleep.

Late at night, the rustling sound reached the man’s ears.

He jolted upright, leaping out of bed, and rushed to the door, flinging it open to look outside.

No one.

Nothing was amiss.

It was as if the strange noise had been a mere illusion.

Refusing to believe it, the man searched everywhere, rummaging through cabinets, a metal pipe clutched tightly in one hand.

“Pat-a!” A distinct sound of something falling echoed from the kitchen.

The man gripped the pipe with both hands and steadily approached the kitchen.

“Aaaah!” He roared, kicking open the kitchen door.

The kitchen was empty, save for a piece of white wall plaster shattered on the floor.

This was the source of the earlier noise.

The man looked up.

Sure enough, a large section of plaster had peeled from the ceiling.

He dropped the iron pipe.

The clanging sound irritated him.

The night wind stirred the window, its loose hinges creaking.

Running his hands through his hair, he returned to the bedroom, pulled the now-clammy blanket around him, and forced himself into a deep sleep.

Two days remained until the weekend.

Returning home from work today, the man’s eyes held a gloomy cast.

He no longer wanted to face this house.

Humans were so fragile; just two nights of poor sleep could shatter a person’s composure.

He ate mechanically, watched television.

But he didn’t shower today; the man had no desire to make himself feel clammy.

It wasn’t just the man who was different; his home was too.

“Is the kitchen light broken?” The man irritably flicked the switch.

Click-click-click-click.

The frequent switching brought no response from the bulb.

“Damn it!”

He blew dry his bed, then fell into sleep, only for the strange noises to arrive as expected.

The man shot up instantly; he hadn’t truly been asleep.

Turning on the light, the man sat in the living room and checked the recording from his phone, which he had set up to face the door earlier.

Nothing.

There was nothing there.

It was as calm and normal as usual.

The man sat in the living room, staring blankly for two hours.

This time, the strange noises were noticeably bolder, continuing their persistent rustle.

Rustle, rustle, ceaseless yet faint, making it impossible to pinpoint the source.

The man picked up his phone, hesitated, and finally dialed the number.

– “I think there’s a burglar in my house. I don’t dare move right now.”

– “Don’t panic. Tell me your address…”

Soon, the police arrived.

The man truthfully recounted the situation.

The officers took it seriously and quickly concluded that it was due to the aging house and a burst water pipe.

A simple repair would fix it.

The man finally relaxed.

Once it was fixed this weekend, this torment would end, right?

A drop of condensed water fell, landing on the man’s eyelid.

He awoke groggily, feeling sore all over, dizzy and disoriented.

His tightly clutched phone had only a sliver of battery left, its screen displaying the failed call to “110.”

‘A dream?’

Realizing the problem had not been solved at all, the man sighed deeply, yet a new hope flickered within him.

Perhaps it really was just a broken water pipe, an aging house.

Tomorrow, tomorrow it would be fixed.

The man got up, preparing for work.

Just one more day to get through.

‘Why is the living room light broken too?’

– “Yes, this is the address. Could you come and take a look tomorrow?”

Talking on the phone, the man returned home, having scheduled a renovation worker to inspect the house.

As if the problem were already resolved, he relaxed on the sofa, chewing on his fast food and switching on the television.

The television displayed a chaotic, static-filled screen.

The man stared, bewildered.

“Is the TV broken too?”

He walked over and patted the television.

It immediately went black, unresponsive no matter how much he switched it on and off or patted it.

The man decided to pick up the television and try to fix it.

The television wasn’t heavy, but the man couldn’t lift it.

He felt as if something was obstructing him, as if ropes were binding the television, pulling against him.

He pushed the television over, looking at its base.

A vibrant green, thread-like object was unmistakably connecting the television to the TV stand.

He jumped in fright, dropping the television to the floor.

The television became as fragile as glass.

Falling from half a meter, it shattered into countless pieces, revealing its internal structure.

It wasn’t circuit boards and wires, but a pile of lush, dewy green, claw-shaped leaves.

The man recognized them.

They were the leaves of creeping fig, which usually grew on the outside of the house.

But why were there creeping fig leaves inside the television?

The man stared at the broken creeping fig vine protruding from the TV stand, and something clicked.

He gently pressed his ear against the wall.

Rustle, rustle.

That was the exact strange noise that had tormented him for nights.

They had been making noise all along.

They had always been there, never stopping.

The man screamed in terror, rushing into the bedroom to grab a large hammer.

With one swing, he smashed the TV cabinet.

Inside the broken cabinet was not sawdust and splinters, but creeping fig.

Consumed by fear, the man lost his mind, wildly smashing everything in the house.

Beneath the floorboards, creeping fig.

Inside the walls, creeping fig.

In the wardrobe, creeping fig!

The electrical wires were vines, the wallpaper concealed leaves.

The man frantically tore open his mattress; it was stuffed with…

Creeping! Fig!

The man trembled, walking to the mirror.

He took out his razor and brutally slashed an incision on his arm.

In the man’s hopeful gaze, the inside of the gaping wound gleamed green, revealing a curled, tender leaf.

The man collapsed to his knees in despair.

“I… I am creeping fig.”

Light footsteps sounded.

Someone had entered the house.

“No, you’re not.”

“Not yet, at least.”

A strangely youthful voice rang out.

The man, his eyes vacant, lifted his head.

A small girl with a large box on her back came into view.

Behind her were several others, equally petite but armed… Wait?

Did they have animal ears and tails??

Realizing he wasn’t alone in his mutation and that there might be hope for rescue, a flicker of light instantly returned to the man’s eyes.

“I… I can still be saved?”