Picture by: Stephen Tanham
It was a house like any other house. A little house over a bridge, doing what little houses over bridges did. Only it wasn’t.
This house long thought to be a small house in which shelter could be sought when crossing the bridge held a dark and sinister secret.
So dark and sinister that it curled the hair of straight haired people and straighten the hair of the curly headed.
People avoided it if they could, which made it hard if you wanted to cross the river in the most direct way.
The house was one in which murder was a preferred event. Once the location for birthday and anniversary celebrations it also had a dark and dangerous past. Every birthday, every celebration was marked with death. Be it poisoned cake, exploding candles or spiked drinks there wasn’t a single event anyone could remember where death hadn’t visited.
Its reputation never stopped people from hiring it. Some thought they did so to dispose of the unwanted guests they invited. But death they discovered did discriminate. You could invite your worst enemy but that didn’t mean death would do you the courtesy of complying with your wishes. So often you would be disappointed to find your grandad dead in his chair and your worse enemy still eating everything in sight.
But its quaint history and dark past became part of the local folklore. It became a significant part of the towns tourism trade. The President of the towns Tourism Guild prided herself on a rich knowledge of the little house’s past and present. That was until she was found dead, suffocated by her own speeches, stuff down her throat. It was a sad end one that was most mourned. After her funeral the Guild met again and another President was elected. And so the little house breathed a sigh of relief and awaited its time.