Thump, thump, thump...oh shit!
So, I promised a Hell House story. Sorry it's late. It's been a bitch of a couple days, and to boot, I lost my blood meter and the insulin I'd been using at school today. Luckily, I have my Humalog extras here, but not Lantus, so I need to go deal with that later. Plus, I had that Regents writing test. Y'all, it's basically an effort to make us look smarter. The test is so easy it's pathetic.
Okay, on with the story. Now it's obvious that my godmom moved, yes? And without her mom, who died in the house. Hey, we weren't kidding when we said the house killed her. Because it killed or maimed just about everyone there. She found a buyer, a woman that had a couple million in the bank and a new younger husband. On top of the world. After my mom reduced the house a hundred grand, just to get rid of the damn thing. This would be the lady whose painters shot up the walls (after painting them a lovely shiny, hard as hell to get rid of enamel paint in primary colors) and her husband liquidated everything, leaving her penniless. Oh, and last time Mama heard about her, was in a state mental hospital.
That means...time to hire a mover. Simple process. Pick one that's from a major company out of the phone book, hope to hell they're reliable, and you're good to go. And that's exactly what my godmom did. So the guy in charge comes over to assess the house and how much it'd cost to move. Of course the ghosts aren't happy because they can scare someone they know here. Or make her angry. Or both.
They're moving along and dealing with the psycho ghosts; she's just saying the resident ghosts are kicking up a storm. The usual thing to hear in the area, actually. Except then the ghosts do something so terrifying (and I've never been clear in understanding, and she's never explained it thoroughly) that he has a heart attack on the 4th floor. Which is three flights of steps. Which means the EMTs have to climb up them and down, or take the elevator. Only the elevator's made for like two people and not a lot. So they have to use the stairs.
Mom's pretty much used to dialing 9-1-1 at this point, so no big deal. And, of course, she's assuming the movers are out. Only, they're not. Totally in for moving her, even if the house did give the dude the heart attack. Now the kicker is that he's reduced the price in half! That's right. To move from Myrtle Beach to Atlanta is now half the price. And she had a house full of furniture that hadn't sold so it had to come with her; along with her clothes, kitchen stuff, usual housewares. Doesn't matter. The guy made it clear that she "had to be out of that house as soon as the last document was signed." And she was. They were out of there that day. Four floors. That's some serious dedication.
So how many houses have you lived in that caused someone to have a massive heart attack that landed him/her in the hospital for quite awhile?
Okay, on with the story. Now it's obvious that my godmom moved, yes? And without her mom, who died in the house. Hey, we weren't kidding when we said the house killed her. Because it killed or maimed just about everyone there. She found a buyer, a woman that had a couple million in the bank and a new younger husband. On top of the world. After my mom reduced the house a hundred grand, just to get rid of the damn thing. This would be the lady whose painters shot up the walls (after painting them a lovely shiny, hard as hell to get rid of enamel paint in primary colors) and her husband liquidated everything, leaving her penniless. Oh, and last time Mama heard about her, was in a state mental hospital.
That means...time to hire a mover. Simple process. Pick one that's from a major company out of the phone book, hope to hell they're reliable, and you're good to go. And that's exactly what my godmom did. So the guy in charge comes over to assess the house and how much it'd cost to move. Of course the ghosts aren't happy because they can scare someone they know here. Or make her angry. Or both.
They're moving along and dealing with the psycho ghosts; she's just saying the resident ghosts are kicking up a storm. The usual thing to hear in the area, actually. Except then the ghosts do something so terrifying (and I've never been clear in understanding, and she's never explained it thoroughly) that he has a heart attack on the 4th floor. Which is three flights of steps. Which means the EMTs have to climb up them and down, or take the elevator. Only the elevator's made for like two people and not a lot. So they have to use the stairs.
Mom's pretty much used to dialing 9-1-1 at this point, so no big deal. And, of course, she's assuming the movers are out. Only, they're not. Totally in for moving her, even if the house did give the dude the heart attack. Now the kicker is that he's reduced the price in half! That's right. To move from Myrtle Beach to Atlanta is now half the price. And she had a house full of furniture that hadn't sold so it had to come with her; along with her clothes, kitchen stuff, usual housewares. Doesn't matter. The guy made it clear that she "had to be out of that house as soon as the last document was signed." And she was. They were out of there that day. Four floors. That's some serious dedication.
So how many houses have you lived in that caused someone to have a massive heart attack that landed him/her in the hospital for quite awhile?
Labels: hell house, school, well fuck
posted by Jessie at
12:13:00 AM
3 Comments:
Definitely never. I did live in a haunted hotel for two years, that was fun.
Was it The Shining one?
You know, if you wrote a book on this, I'd be the very first one to buy it - I LLLUUUVVVV real scary stories (or "real" scary stories - depending on the story and the teller). ;) Oh, well. At least I can settle for hearing your tales every Halloween... or any other day I bug you enough that you spill the beans. :)
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