Horror Mansion: Short Stories

Six - Diary of The Cleaner

For a moment, I would like for you to follow my instructions.

1. Put the diarydown if it isn't yours.

2. If you insist on reading, despite the diary NOT being yours, please read the following statement in your best happy-go-lucky voice, "Hi! I'm an asshole, and I don't care about other people's privacy!"

3. If you REALLY insist on reading, then please read the rest of this journal in that same tone. If you'll be snooping around my thoughts, might as well make it sound a bit like me, and not some deep toned creepy dude.

Entry - 12/18/12 – Hotel Lovin'

When it came to jobs that people couldn't stomach, I was the one to call. No, I'm not some assassin for hire. I'm a Freelance Cleaner. Being a Freelance Cleaner doesn't mean all I did was scrub floors and wipe counters. I'll mow lawns, haul garbage, clean up poop, get rid of your ex-husband, and so on. My aim was to make whatever environment you drop me into spotless and free of filth. People get in touch and hire me to clean whatever it is they needed cleaned. I started this self-made job almost a decade ago. I was only fourteen then, and all I did before was rake leaves. Now that I think about, I kind of am an assassin for hire. An assassin of unknown stains and dirty laundry. Maybe you should ask for my number, but you already know all of that, don't you, Diary?

I suppose I'm heading to a different direction with this entry. Since the beginning of my very successful profession, it has become a little bit more complicated. At least now it is. I'm not lying, I'm still a cleaner, Diary. You call me, I'll clean it up. Whatever it is. I once had a request to clean up a barn literally full of horse shit. LI.TE.RA.LLY. (not sure if I did that right)

I didn't always get dirty jobs, but I welcomed them as they came. It never really bothered me, and the pay was always considerably better. It was only recently when my job took an unexpected turn and got more complicated.

Diary, hold your book spine.

The FBI called me.

Right? Don't even ask. Somehow, ten years into this job and four years into college, my reputation as a self-esteemed cleaner of many places, many things, and many suspicious corners reached even the ears of the FBI. Ridiculous, Diary? Maybe I'm just that good. I, myself, thought that it was just some kind of joke or prank that my fraternity plotted. Why in the hell would the FBI get in contact with an art college student like me? And something like that wouldn't be above them. I was reluctant at first, but I eventually gave them a call back and asked about the details of the job. Money is money. Scratch that, debt is death.

So I spoke with the "FBI" agent for a little bit and got the address of where I was supposed to meet him. I got to the location, and I ended up in some motel just outside of the city. When I got out and walked towards the building, a parked car a little bit further down the sidewalk honked at me. "Are you the cleaner?" someone asked.

"I am," I answered, but I was pretty nervous. The man got out of the car and walked towards me. He wore an all black expensive looking suit and dark glasses. Along the way he pulled out a badge to show to me. We started talking, and soon I was convinced that these guys really were the FBI.

"So, uh. What can I help you with tonight?" I asked him. "It's a little hard to believe that the actual FBI would contact me. I mean, all I do is clean."

"Don't worry, we won't be asking you to do anything different." He removed his glasses and placed them inside his suit. "You're here because the boss needs something cleaned, simple. Though, I do hope it won't prove more difficult for you to accomplish."