RENT THE ROOM
When I arrived in the small, picturesque town of Maristone, I thought I had struck gold. A temporary job with good pay and a charming house to rent—what could go wrong? Mrs. Whitlock, the landlady, was a stern but seemingly kind woman who lived with her three daughters, Clara, Alice, and Belle. All of them were in their early twenties, graceful and polite, with the kind of old-fashioned charm you’d expect to find in a town like this.
Mrs. Whitlock greeted me at the door with a firm handshake and an appraising glance that felt like she could see through to my soul. "You'll find the room comfortable," she said, leading me upstairs. "We keep a quiet and orderly house here. Dinner is at seven, and I expect punctuality."
I nodded, feeling a slight unease. The house had a peculiar air—too perfect, like stepping into a well-kept dollhouse. My room, however, was tidy and cozy, with a modest wooden wardrobe and a bed covered in an intricately embroidered quilt.
The first few days were uneventful. I spent my mornings at work and my evenings awkwardly sharing dinner with Mrs. Whitlock and her daughters. They were pleasant but reserved, always exchanging subtle glances I couldn’t quite interpret.
One night, as I was finishing my meal, Mrs. Whitlock spoke. "You’re a young man with prospects," she said, her tone casual but her eyes sharp. "My daughters are all of marriageable age, you know."
I nearly choked on my water. "I... hadn’t thought about that," I stammered, glancing at the daughters, who were suddenly very interested in their plates.
From then on, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Mrs. Whitlock had some sort of plan. She watched me closely, her daughters’ laughter in the other room sounding almost conspiratorial. But as days passed, my concern about matchmaking faded into a much stranger worry.
It started subtly. My reflection in the bathroom mirror seemed slightly off—my hair looked fuller, my skin smoother. I brushed it off as a trick of the light or stress from work. But each morning, the changes became harder to dismiss. My face was softer, my body slimmer. My clothes felt looser in some places and tighter in others.
I tried to ignore it, but the changes were undeniable. My voice took on a higher pitch, my hands became more delicate, and my posture more graceful without effort. Panic set in when I realized I was starting to resemble the Whitlock daughters.
One morning, I opened the wardrobe to find all my clothes had been replaced. Neatly hung dresses, blouses, and skirts filled the space. Even the undergarments were undeniably feminine. I tore through the wardrobe, searching for my old clothes, but they were gone.
“Mrs. Whitlock?” I called out, trying to keep my voice steady. She appeared in the doorway moments later, her calm demeanor unnerving.
“Yes, dear?” she asked, her tone almost sweet.
“My clothes...” I gestured helplessly at the wardrobe. “Where are my clothes?”
She stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. “You’ve been adjusting so well, I didn’t think you’d mind,” she said, her smile cold. “It’s time to embrace your place here.”
“What are you talking about?” I demanded, though my voice wavered.
Mrs. Whitlock’s gaze hardened. “You’re becoming one of my daughters. It’s best for you to accept it. We’ve been waiting for someone like you to complete our family.”
My heart raced as I backed away. “This is insane! What have you done to me?”
“The house has its ways,” she said cryptically. “It’s only a matter of time before you’ll feel right at home.”
Over the next days, I tried to leave, but the doors wouldn’t budge, and the windows wouldn’t open. Each morning, I found myself further transformed—my features completely feminine, my body unmistakably that of a woman. I wore the clothes, not out of choice but necessity, as none of my old belongings remained.
The daughters treated me like one of their own, calling me "Lila" as if I’d always been their sister. I’d argue, fight, and plead, but they only smiled serenely, saying, "You'll see, it’s better this way."
I’m writing this now in the hopes that someone will find it and understand what happened to me. The house won’t let me leave, and Mrs. Whitlock’s plans are nearly complete. Soon, I fear I won’t even remember who I used to be.
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