The Haunted Traveler May 2017 Edition

weaselpress

After a brief hiatus, The Haunted Traveler is back to bring you some of the best horror out there. Open up and tread with caution, the next scare is just a page flip away.

24

these adults were never quite teens, making up for

hours making love to their calculus books by slapping

tinted windows with clammy hands, toes too deep in

the leather cushions on which toenail edges often left

modest scratches. The garaged cars eventually sold,

while most of the young people stayed nearby. I intended

to stay for just a year. The area, strewn with

paper-thin leaves with veins reaching at any obtuse

angle, was where I resolved to live, at least for a year

given increased rent.

I didn’t bring much upon moving in, wheeling my

belongings in a red buggy cart from the room I rented

down the same street. I would hang my freshly laundered

clothes on the third floor, place pots, pans, and

cupcake trays in their proper cabinets, and sigh with

relief at the absence of brown recluses, pharaoh ants,

feral ferrets, and the like. The hot water worked, the

stove brought my rice noodles to a subtle crisp, and

my windows stood firm within their frames during

the meanest rains. But of all things in this open space,

I couldn’t open my microwave oven. Nor could I store

lettuce in a fridge twice my height.

Moles in the wall, screaming, moaning, and shriveling

with a final coo, their singed summer fur driving

yuppies away every several months. This was a common

complaint, published on Yelp and directed towards

the efficiency in which I wrote lists of things I

regretted on a cheap red futon. I could not smell too

well, though I felt the nightly frequencies, the scratching,

and human profanities.

The window to my microwave was tinted solid

black, though I noticed minute dents from the inside.

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