The Creepy Old House
This is installment #8 in my several-part series, Shit I Wrote a While Ago. Every year in elementary school, we had to write two McCaigs. McCaigs were stories we wrote, and then our teacher scored them holistically from 1-7, 1 being “shitshow” and 7 being “lost diaries of John Donne.” Their ostensible purpose was to gauge how our writing was improving, but as far as I can tell, if you were able to put words onto paper, you earned yourself at least a 5. This harrowing tale is from 1994.
The Creepy Old House
One Halloween night some kids were trick-or-treating. They saw a spooky old house.
“Looks scary,” said Jill (she was five).
“Maybe it’s haunted,” said Pete (he was three).
“There’s no such thing as haunted houses,” said Jennifer (she was ten) [ed. note: I elected to spell Jennifer’s name Jennipher, but since I assume that I did not intend for her parents to be mentally retarded, I’ve changed it for this edition].
“I read in a book once that a little boy about nine years old got snatched up by an army of vampire gerbils,” said Lisa (she was also ten). “Now that’s scary,” she said.
“That’s only because you’re scared of rats,” said Jill.
“Am not!” screamed Lisa.
Jennifer decided to change the subject. “Let’s go in,” she suggested.
“Ok!” Jill said.
“I guard candy!” shouted Pete.
“That’s the last thing you’re going to do!” said Lisa.
“Come on,” Jill said.
“Yeah, Jill, come on,” said Jennifer and Lisa, who were already at the door.
“Maybe it’s not such a good idea after all,” said Jill.
When they got to the door they saw a black cat playing the piano.
When they opened the door it was a Halloween party! So they stayed.
Lame sauce! This story reads like a Goosebumps book: unsupervised children, urban legends, unspeakably beautiful prose, most of the plot wasted in meaningless decision-making dialogue, and a lame twist at the end. I probably could have put RL Stine out of business. C-
