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House of Horrors

Published October 31. 2009 09:00AM

I live in a House of Horrors.

It's true.

Evil lurks in every corner.

I am filled with fear and dread entering my own home.

You think I jest?

Come with me as I take you for a walk on the dark side in the Koehler (dum dum dum) House of Horrors.

Be forewarned and enter at your own risk.

The front door creaks in protest when opened. The eerie sound leaves you wondering what horrific sights we are about to encounter.

(Or else the hinges just need to be oiled.)

There, hanging from the dining room chandelier is a spider web spun throughout. It is an indication that spooky spiders skulk about somewhere because every time I brush them away, new ones mysteriously reappear overnight. (Well, it seems like overnight.)

Entering the kitchen, we are greeted with the smell of death.

There, lying in the sink, are three cadavers. The hideous bodies have been decapitated and skinned. The macabre scene sends chills up and down our spines.

Opening the freezer door, we find more headless, lifeless frozen body parts.

Surely this is the work of a madman!

(Or, of a husband who hunts. I prefer, madman.)

With great trepidation we open the refrigerator door. There, several containers give off an abominable odor. You lose your nerve and urge us to leave all as it is but I insist that in order to purge ourselves of all evil, we must forge ahead. Opening the first container, I quickly close it. It is as I suspected. It has become a victim of the disgusting curse of the Mad Mold Monster.

"This," I point a shaking finger at it, "is why there should never ever be," I gulp as I utter the word that leaves a horrid taste in my mouth..."LEFTOVERS."

We quickly return it to the graveyard of Past Meals and walk down the hallway.

From the first door on the left there comes a frightful keening. It identifies itself as Moaning Myrtle and she has made her home in my toilet bowl. Upon a reluctant inspection, Moaning Myrtle screams at us to quickly pour bleach on her and take a revolting thing called a brush and scrub away whatever it is that's making her moan in sorrow.

Could there be a more horrendous household chore?

I fear not.

Leaving the bathroom, we come upon another open doorway. This is perhaps the scariest room in the house. For it holds the world of "Useless and Unused Knowledge." Dust-covered cookbooks line one shelf while others hold books of mystery, romance, encyclopedias and family photo albums.

A laptop sits open, emitting a ghostly bluish light. What ghastly picture awaits our scrutiny?

It is filled with figures of kings and queens and numbers.

"Is it a diabolical code for some witch's brew?" you ask.

"Nay," I reply. "It is just a game called 'Solitaire.' It sucks the lifeblood out of you and never lets you win until you go quite insane."

You shiver in revulsion as you back away from it.

Our gazes fall upon a hulking misshapened form. One can only hope it's sleeping eye does not awaken before we can make our escape.

Alas, you accidentally bump it and I cry out in dismay for surely you have disturbed the sleeping monster.

We watch with apprehension as its form shifts. In slow motion, the beast crumbles before our disbelieving eyes.

Books, magazines, unread mail, plastic containers waiting to be returned to their rightful owners, CDs, painting patterns, even a bra (now how did that get there?) is disgorged from the mouth of the creature known as "My Desk" and tumbles to the floor. This fiendish "thing" has been known to swallow everything that I don't return to its rightful place in a timely fashion.

I look with loathing at the pile when suddenly I spy something. I reach down and rescue a prescription for a blood test.

"I've been looking everywhere for this!" I shout out in disbelief.

We back out slowly, not wanting to deal with the unholy mess.

I lead the way to the Master's bedroom.

I warn you to not look under the bed.

The dastardly Dust Trolls live there.

They are devious and cunning. They have been known to spirit away socks, shoes, earrings, cat toys, sometimes even the cat, pretzels, (though I warn the hunter man who lives here not to eat in bed,) feathers from the pillows. They make nests of their booty and then they (shudder shudder)... reproduce!

When my vacuum cleaner dares to approach their lair, those dastardly Dust Trolls all roll toward the center where I can't reach. Someday I hope I will get them all... before they get me.

The last place on our visit is... The Dungeon. Some people call it the basement or cellar. In our home, it's The Dungeon. It's where the beasties live.

As we make our way down the musty stairs, we are met with the roar of the dragon that lives here. It spews fiery tongues of warm air throughout the house in return for the food we feed it. It's very costly to do so but we're slaves to its bidding. If we withhold it's food, it will let us freeze to death. I shiver with the thought.

In another room, three white robots work fiendishly trying to eat all our clothing. One likes to chew only on lights and brights and the other one can't feast enough on the hunter man's dirtiest clothing. The one next to them is a machine that derives great joy in shrinking what ever it is I put in its hungry mouth. I know it hates me. I can feel its hot breath of hostility toward me every time I retrieve what's rightfully mine. Whenever I snatch a pair of slacks or tops from its jaws and see how they have diminished in size, I can almost hear it laughing maliciously.

"Enough!" you scream. "I've seen enough! Surely you do indeed live in a House of Horrors!" and you run toward the door to freedom.

(Haunting music playing...)

I stare at your retreating form, rub my hands, throw my head back and laugh diabolically. You see, for me and my hunter man, it's just another day in Paradise in our (dum dum dum) House of Horrors.

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