Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 76347 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76347 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
The toilet, sink, and tub are retro in a way that I don’t think is cool anymore, but how would I know? I mean, I am the person who has dreams and a useless degree, after all. Not exactly a life planner over here.
Okay, so that’s full-on bitter.
I swallow it back and swallow it down. I refuse to prove them right about me. I’m going to write. I’m going to write my buns off. I’m going to make something of it, and I’m going to fix this place up and make it shine again. I’m going to shine right along with it, even if I’m a city girl through and through, have a fear of spiders and mice, and don’t really like old things all that much.
“Okay, bathroom. You and me? We’re going to be friends, I promise. I just need to pee right now. Just a little. It’s no big deal. Just some yellow. If you don’t flush, Mr. Toilet, that’s all good. We’ll get that worked out later. A little yellow, let it mellow, never hurt anyone. Ever. So, do you think you could do me a favor and, when I lift your lid, not look like something I need to get an exorcism for? Hmm, can you do that for me, sweetheart?”
I know I’ve sunk to new lows, sweet-talking a toilet over here. A pink toilet, no less. Powder pink. The vilest of all pinks, in my opinion. And the tile behind the tub? It’s mint green. The whole thing gives off hued watermelon vibes like the best of them.
I clasp my phone tight in one hand, and with the other, I reach out. I’m going to do it fast, like ripping off a bandage. I’m just going to open it, and if death itself is living in there, I’ll slam it shut and run.
“Holy mother of swiss cheese!”
The toilet lid flips up, and I stare at what looks to be a black, hairy monster living in its depths. Reaching. It’s reaching for the lid. It was trying to break free. The mold in there is so thick and fuzzy and scented that it could be a living creature. I drop the lid with a bang, turn on my heel, and make a break for the back door. There’s a small porch area off the kitchen, and to my utter relief, the door there isn’t locked either. I stumble into the fresh air. I might be staring down eight-foot weeds back here where there used to be grass and flower gardens, but hey. At least there’s sunshine.
At least the toilet of nightmarish death didn’t sprout legs and chase after me.
That thing was so vile that it could be its own knock-knock joke.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Hairy scary.
Hairy scary, who?
A hairy, scary poo monster coming to eat you, literally knocking at the lid, demanding out.
Ugh. Shudder times a thousand.
I realize I’m standing on a small wooden back porch, though it’s almost completely obscured by the weeds growing through the slats in the wooden boards. I really, really need to pee now. The urge is REAL. I still have my phone’s flashlight on, and when I take a step and press the button on my phone to turn off the light, there’s a mighty crunch, a huge crack, and whoa there, man down.
I’m suddenly waist-deep. Again. This time, in the back porch.
“Mother clucker, chicken plucker!” I feel stupid yelling, but there isn’t anyone to hear me. I slam my fist on the ragged boards that I’m half buried in and scream until my throat is hoarse and my lungs are dried out and empty.
And right about now is the time that I decide I can’t do this alone.
I have savings—savings from my high school job, part-time college job, every birthday and Christmas, and whatnot. This is my house now, and I refuse to go down like this. I might not be able to restore it to its former glory, but I’m dang sure going to make it safe. For better or worse, I live here now, and I’m not going out as a failure.
I’m not going to let the hairy, scary poo monster inhabiting that powder-pink toilet or some rotting porches get the best of me.
I’ll tell it what I told the imaginary devil earlier.
“Not today, you friggin’ haunted house. Not. Today.”
CHAPTER 2
Atlas
You know that feeling where you’re stuck in limbo, just waiting for something to happen, so sure it will indeed happen, but then it doesn’t happen?
I guess that’s where I’m at.
We’ve been open for a month, but seeing as our computer repair store is just a front for us while we do nefarious deeds that aren’t so nefarious when taken into context because they’re done to nefarious people—the not-mafia mafia as Granny often calls us—it’s not as exciting as having a real business. The other downside? Being a start-up means not being overly busy. Also? The whole thing we’re doing that coming here to Bloomington, Indiana, was about? Also not really happening. It means that not only is Granny chaffing at the bit, but so are my brothers. Now that the store’s space is renovated and open, we’re just standing around, waiting to make things happen.