It didn’t seem that big at first. The house grew, seemingly, more dank corners and mossy hallways with every visit. After 5 or 6 half-mile hikes up the overgrown path in a year’s time, Jackson was certain that something was awry. Paint cracked, siding creaked, and small fissures in the panel-bottomed wainscoting gave up the truth about this expanding universe of lathe and 200-year-old plaster.

The groans should have given it away much sooner, but he remained skeptical even after taking numerous photographs with his cell phone, for comparison. He perused, again, from room to room. “Houses don’t grow, unaided” he thought. “And they don’t have any innate ability to sprout new walls or chimneys.” Particularly not overnight.

He was chuckling at this thought when the musty kitchen suddenly heaved; and like a fat man overeating at a hot dog stand, stretched to add an entire foot to its girth. He steadied himself, and in disbelief checked under the sink to see if even the pipes were expanding. They were.