Why I Survived
The Evil House
by Michael S.
Collins
I once went to
live in a house in Cartside Road, and it hasn't
forgiven me yet. That house was evil, I tell you.
Nothing more than sentient evil.
I would be
minding my own business, dossing about the flat
like your average unemployed person. Watching a
bit of television, drinking a bit of the ol'
alcohol, occasionally leaving the house to go
look for work. Half-heartedly of course.
The trouble
started when my socks disappeared. The house ate
them. I had the proof, I sat and watched it eat
them. And it didn't just end at the socks either.
No, it ate my TV! And my shoes! And, on one
occasion, when it thought I wasn't looking, it
went and ate a six-pack of Guinness I had saved
up for for months. Of course, it subsequently had
a hell of a hangover, and that was a night I'll
never forget.
The house also
ate my next door neighbour, but I wasn't all that
fussed about him.
No, I tell you,
the house was evil. Eating my shoes, sucking them
right into the wall, that was something. But to
go as far, to be as malevolent and distinctly
uncouth as to steal another being's alcohol. Why,
that was the straw that broke the camels back, of
that I can assure you.
So, yes, to
answer your original question, the house going on
fire was probably my fault. Well, I did light the
torch. But as you can see, I was completely
provoked. I will say this, after stealing all my
drink, it didn't have go up in flames!
The evil house
is dead now, and since I still have no job I can't
pay you your rent anymore. Or the damages costs
you have sent to my mothers, where I picked up my
post earlier.
But you must
admit, damages or not, that house was pure evil!
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