Days of Horror

Day 1: Showtime

On October 1st, 1988, news channel six, located in Connecticut, received a vague, unmarked package. The package was empty save for a single, handheld voice recorder. The recording inside was so bizarre, so creepy, the news station couldn't help but release the recording on air. This is the story that was found inside the recorder.

Listen to me carefully. I don't have a lot of time. Hell, I don't know if your even going to hear this recording.

Let me start from the beginning. My name is Michele Burton and I'm dead.

Yeah, it's a lot to process and honestly, I'd love to tell you the full story but I really don't have time right now.

All you need to know is that I have been dead for three years now, ever since I dropped a hot iron on my face(don't ask).

Because I died a painful and early death, I can't move onto the afterlife. Instead, I'm trapped in my old home here in Connecticut.

I can't leave. Anytime I try to, I get attacked by some giant, woman eating worms that pop put of space sand and I end up being stuck there for hours when it's really only–

You know what, maybe this a little too much. Let me rephrase all of that.

I'm stuck in the house. Can't leave until eighty years have passed for some bullshit reasoning.

Wow, I really should have just led with that. Kind of hard to stop talking. I haven't spoken with another soul in three years. Not since the day I died.

Well, unless you count Juno in the afterlife. But I digress.

Honestly, talking with someone–even if there just a a tape recorder– is nice. It means that someone will be listening to my somewhat rushed story.

Will know the pain I've gone and am going through.

And will hopefully evict that terrible family.

Despite being lonely for the past three years, living in this house by myself hasn't been all that bad.

I get the entire place to myself.

I get to read all the books I want

And it's always nice and quiet.

Or at least it was. Until three weeks ago.

When the Ryders moved in.

The Ryders are a family of three: a former Miss America mom, a dreary insurance agent dad, and a boy whose as idiotic and bratty as his mother.

At first, I thought it would be fun to have other people living here. Finally, I could talk with someone and coexist with society once more.

That wasn't the case.

Not only could the Ryders not hear me, but they are probably the worst family in America.

The mother does nothing but talk on her phone all day and blare the TV at the highest volume at night.

The father is always redoing some part of the house, tearing down one wall or piece of furniture after another and yelling at someone for no reason the next.

And the son–Jesus Christ, the son. It's at moments like these I'm soooo glad I didn't marry.

The kid's always screaming at the top of his lungs, running all over my once beautiful home, scuffing the floor, tearing up the carpet, staining food all over the place.