The house was not a large one, but nor was it a small one. It was simply a house. 

A family lived inside. They had two daughters, twins, and one son. They were happy. 

The family went on vacation. 

When they returned their house was not the same. 

It looked exactly the same, but it was different. 

None of them could explain why. 

It could have been the oven, which always smelled vaguely of burning flesh, no matter what was cooked on it. 

Or maybe the old grandfather clock, which always told the correct time's ticking changing. 

It couldn't be explained, but it was different. 

The family lived with the changes, of course, but they were changes nonetheless. 

Their stairs always had an oily tinge to them, and their rooms an iron smell, but they lived with that. 

It wasn't as if they could sell the house after all. It had been in the family for years, it would be sacrilegious, but they considered it. 

Even as the house appeared to grow odder, and odder, they did not move. 

They couldn't explain why. 

When they all no longer showed up for anything one day, a few brave, or foolish, souls went to check the house.

They searched, but the house was never found, until one day. 

The house had popped up again, and a new family with it.