Strange rumours spread of the Weird House. First, you feel the static and hear the whining. It builds and builds as suddenly it seemed all the other streets were just decoration leading to it. The Weird House. It sits on the eyeball like a retinal burn, whether your eyes are open or closed. He knew he had been there before, inside, to the Corridor of a Thousand Doors. He knew he had to get back. He just couldn’t remember why. The contract between Mankind and its own landscape was renegotiated. Suddenly. Violently. Like a concrete and glass version of a tsunami or a force ten hurricane, our environment had transformed and started to digest us. Supermarkets, office blocks, churches, cinemas, conference centres, and hotels became instantly deadly, places of certain death. The footholds that we had built on top of the green earth had weaponized themselves against us, sealing us off from nature and forcing us again to roam. Then the rain came. The only refuge for those that survived were the houses. Immortal and ever changing, dangerous and inscrutable, some would tolerate man’s refuge and scavenging, at least for a while. Ragged groups of survivors trudge through the endless warping landscape, the abundant deadly housing surrounding them. Traders and rumour merchants convene as ever moving Markets for the few of mankind that are left. This is the Housing Crisis.
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