Confined to an upstairs room of a rented colonial mansion for the summer, an unnamed young woman is undergoing a "rest cure" prescribed by her physician husband, John, after what he dismisses as a temporary nervous depression following the birth of their child. Forbidden to work, write, or exert her mind in any way, she keeps a secret journal — and, with nothing else to occupy her, becomes fixated on the room's lurid, sprawling yellow wallpaper.
As the weeks pass and her isolation deepens, the pattern of the paper seems to shift and move, and she grows convinced there is a figure trapped behind it, creeping and struggling to get out. What begins as idle observation slides, entry by entry, into obsession and unraveling.
Charlotte Perkins Gilman's 1892 story is a landmark of feminist and psychological literature — a chilling first-person descent that doubles as a scathing indictment of the era's treatment of women's mental health and the silencing of female autonomy. Compact, unsettling, and endlessly studied, it remains one of the most powerful short stories in American letters.