This is a true story. A completely genuine, authentic, actual, real story with nothing false, dubious, fictional or fabricated about it. I do not lie all the time. Sometimes I will be honest, open up my heart and spill my true feelings. Like now. I’m going to tell you about the haunted house I lived in.
Now it was a crap piece of shit house. Really really bad. I cringe and shudder just to remember it. This place? It has potholes indoors. The windows were rusty. Apparently glass can actually rust. There was always dust in the house even when it rained. It came off the floor. As in the freaking house generated its own dust when it couldn’t import from outside. The place was so gross that I woke up to find dead overturned roaches on the floor every morning. They had wandered innocently in at night, become lost, realized that they were going to be stuck in here and just gave up on life. I didn’t kill them, they just… expired.
This house had a ceiling but the ceiling sagged and drooped and generally looked like it was reaching down to smother me.
The walls smelt of socks.
Look, I was young and young people make mistakes, okay? I know now that I should never have set foot in such a treacherous and miserable hovel, but I did and I’m sorry. I apologise. Now leave me alone.
The most disturbing thing about the place was the door.
You know those glass doors? Metal frame with panes? Locked with padlock? Yeah, one of those.
When I first took on the house, in whatever state I was in, whatever level of stupid I was on back then, I noticed that one of the lower panes was missing. The landlord said he will fix it before I move in, but he never did, and when I did move in I found out why.
See, the real lock didn’t work. To secure the house, you had to squat, snake your hand in through the hole left by the empty panel and manyanga a padlock from inside that way.
Now, that we have established the setting, let’s introduce the characters.
Self. As Me. A hardworking, up-and-coming journalist who, in spite of his utterly mad way of chosing residences, was serving very well at a local newspaper and was building a career at a decent rate.
This means that I would work a lot and get tired and get home exhausted.
Umeme: As The Power Company. Their role was to frequently cut shit off.
One night I came home feeling quite exhausted. It was late and I was pissed off and I just wanted to sleep.
Man I just remembered that night. And eugh! I actually entered that house. Eugh!
But I must soldier on through this traumatic memory for the sake of telling you this story. How I met the ghost. Let me take a break. I’ll be back with the rest.