The house is dismal. I'll own my mistake for choosing it. Done under the stress of sleeplessness and panic, I made a huge error in judgement. Here we are.
The rain pours in above the bedroom window.
We had a live rat. Now there is a dead rat in the kitchen wall and rat shit in the attic insulation.
Dare I think there is a leak in the furnace duct work in that attic, or the dirt filled basement, that blows all sorts of spongiform spores into our rooms? Yes. In the dark, I listen to The Hound beside me suck in her breath. My canary. Her hopped up biology is superior to mine. I still wait for her to suffer to draw permanent conclusions about this sickly environment.
The bathtub creaks when any weight is applied.
The oven doesn't work.
There are holes in the brick foundations big enough for rats to crawl through.
There are a wide array of bugs to battle.
Someone didn't prime before painting the walls and cabinets. The paint sticks to fingertips like chalk.
The washer doesn't do cold water.
The owner put a For Sale sign in the yard yesterday. It's the smart move.
Rather than feel the combined weight of human in competence and my own stupidity, I've invented a ghost. A hostile ghost is easy. People suck. I'd certainly rather talk to her, the spirit thing, than humans. Neither are much help but conversations with her are more entertaining.
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