Yellow Wallpaper Novels & Stories

KNOX’S POV My touch only sets her off. She wails again, holding onto her father, harder and louder than before, and the heat instantly intensifies. The room responds to her. The wallpaper nearest to her blisters, peels, and blackens. The concrete beneath her knees glows red at the edges, hairline cracks spreading outward in a web pattern, as if the floor itself is fracturing from within. The metal pipe running along the wall begins to glow orange, the chains attached to it starting to warp.

I turned back and went closer to him "Look at these wall straps," he said as he pointed at it "What about it? Do you think there is something behind it" "I’m not sure yet but it looks like we weren’t the first people to have entered this room" "What do you mean?" "I’m not sure yet but take a closer look at the wallpaper, I think something is wrong" I walked closer to the wallpaper and looked at it but didn’t notice a thing "You just lost me, what are talking about, I don’t seem to understand"

The strong smell wafted through the room instantly, overpowering the sweet fragrance of Lara's lemon air freshener. Their room was painted a cool shade of purple and white with a bunk bed leaning against both side of the room. Posters of Halle Berry, Naomi Campbell and a half naked Latino male model lined the wall. In the far end corner of the room, blouses, jeans and every size bra imaginable were carelessly draped over a chair. Strings of colorful waistbeads dangled from a bent nail on the pastel wall.

Black is my favorite color after all. The wall was covered in black wallpaper with grayish patterns on it. It also had a huge masterbed that looked really comfortable. I could practically hear it calling my name. A black chandelier was hanging in the center of the room. Overall, the whole second floor of my aunt's shabby house could have easily fitted inside this one room.

The nursery wallpaper is the color of a summer dawn—soft yellow, innocent, untainted. It’s a lie. Everything in this house is a lie, even the silence. Especially the silence. I run my palm over the textured paper, tracing the embossed pattern of small, silver stars. They’re sharp under my fingertips. One. Two. Three. Four. I count the stars in a square foot of wall space. I try to anchor myself to the present. To the weight in my womb. To the fact that I am still breathing.

The hallway of the apartment building smelled of stale tobacco and the slow rot of neglected dreams. It was a stark contrast to the sterilized luxury of the Alvarez estate or the perfumed chaos of P-Valley. Here, the air was stagnant, trapped in a narrow corridor where the wallpaper peeled like sunburnt skin.

Like something under my skin was trying to claw its way out. I turned left instead of right. That was all. One wrong turn. The change was immediate. This corridor felt abandoned, forgotten. The wallpaper here was older, darker — a deep burgundy with a pattern that seemed to shift when I wasn’t looking directly at it. The hallway narrowed as I walked, the ceiling arching lower, like it was hiding something deeper in its spine. This section felt different — less decorative, less maintained. The art was older, darker. Abstract pieces that suggested violence rather than beauty, charcoal sketches of figures caught mid-scream. Dust had gathered in the corners of the trim, and I realized the cleani

Hell or not, it always felt cold when Abby wasn’t here. Upstairs, in the room that was painted yellow and white, Abby had spread the soil provided by Kora and created her own greenroom, a mini-version of the one that Kora has in the mansion. She said that the yellow reminded her of the sun and she thought that the colors would encourage the plants to grow.

That tiny office had once been important. You could tell by the way the rot refused to take it all in starting at the door. Still, grey mold curled along the edges of the plain green wallpaper in patterns that looked like failed maps. A steel filing cabinet leaned sideways, drawers open, as if it had been mugged and no one had called the cops. Glass crunched under our boots—the remnants of the unlucky windows that had lost their argument with bricks.

The violet light spilling out was so intense it began to blur the edges of the hallway’s flickering fluorescent light. ​"The Quiet Life is a lie, Nora," a voice echoed from within the violet glow. It was Christina Wilder, but her voice was layered with a thousand other screams. "You can’t hide in the mundane. You are a creature of Excess. You are a creature of The Tropes. And I am the version of you that was never 'Cleaned Up' for the publishers." ​The Infection of the Ordinary ​The hallway began to undergo a terrifying transformation. The grimy linoleum floor began to ripple, turning into polished black marble. The yellowed walls sprouted ornate gold leafing. The smell of rain was being cho