My Short Stories

The Mysterious House

A hint of misery surrounded this particular suburb, although everything looked the same. Brown, unremarkable houses with dull black roads—some which had turned slightly grey and lost its paint decades ago.

The houses were very old, decades old in fact. No one bothered to remove or sell these houses. They were thought to be gifts from their ancestors.

Mice came out in the dark and scurried past the houses. Insects chirped and called. It seemed like the normal town you would picture.

But there was one thing—one particular thing that stood out like a sore thumb. A rundown, 2 storey house even older than its cousins. The cement was peeling in some places, the windowsills of the upper storey were dusted and caked with grime, as if no one had ever bothered to clean it. Nevertheless, the house gave off an enigmatic and mysterious air.

It looked deserted and bland, but the locals knew someone lived there. To be more precise, Mr. Robinson.

Robinson, called "Rob" by his friends and colleagues, was a very normal person with a very normal house and an even more normal, but slightly dusty room. Rob never let guests go up to the second floor.

No one knew why that was the case, but no one wanted to complain. Rob was very strict and touchy. Last time he chased some mischievous teenagers with a baseball bat for destroying his window.

Unfortunately, some one decided they needed to be sure what was happening around the second floor.

James hummed a tune as he sauntered down the sidewalk. He had made the decision of not doing his homework. After all, it was Friday today. He could do it one Saturday—or even better—Sunday. He walked with such confidence that you could feel it oozing out from his very being. Legs made large, powerful steps. Pedestrians wrinkled their noses at the queer display. They must have all collectively thought: This is the most stupidest and most physically painful thing I have ever witnessed.

He strayed to the road, still maintaining his gait. The roaring of a car made itself known. The sound of the car got closer and closer every second, but James didn't seem to hear.

A horn sounded.

James kept going.

The car screeched to a grinding halt. James cringed as the cra nearly slammed into him and sent him cartwheeling to the heavens. He had seen people get hit by cars—on the internet—and he certainly did not want that to ever happen to him.

A tomato-faced man poked his head out of the window. His piercing eyes glared at James. The man had a head so shiny that a raven would simply kill for it.

'What's the big idea!' The man roared. James raised a hand and slowly walked across the road, just to spite him all that more.

Why did he have to stop and yell at him? It was his fault not to just wait for some time, James thought angrily.

The car honked once again.

James resisted the urge to fling his school backpack and smack the guy across the face. He scowled a the driver and got off the road.

The car zoomed off, hissing and leaving smoke behind its wake. Why couldn't the car stop for him? He strayed to the side because he felt like it, so his wish shouldn't be challenged like this. Fre country, except thoughts and actions weren't.

He reached a small park. The park was—unlike everything else—new. James sat down on a bench. He placed his leather bag down. It was from the Roman times, which James proclaimed proudly to anyone who listened.