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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!