The House That Wasn’t Haunted, by Ben Sixsmith

(F.F.F. Website Story)

I woke up at four thirty with a pain in my head. The apartment was quiet. Outside, cars and taxis grumbled down the morning streets. I walked to the kitchen. The door creaked. The fridge was buzzing. I took out a can of Coke. “Pop.” I slurped it noisily. From Mark’s bedroom came the sound of snoring. It was all I heard from him. I thought of the house in Kansas with all of its bangs and creaks and rustling and moans. Here nothing was moving, and nothing was listening, and nothing cared. A car backfired. The central heating buzzed.

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