Haunted house, a ghost story in one

This is a haunted house story that was written on the back of a postcard and sent into the either to land at my feet, and after looking at it I put it here...

A devil as an old tin can kicking about on the ground was giving the evil government plotters their final instructions for world domination when a postcard came through the letterbox.

“What is it?” said one.

“It’s a postcard,” said another one picking it up.

“We can see that, what does it say?”

“It says: I am watching you,” said the one holding the postcard.

“But who is it from?”

“Well, it’s signed by God,” said the postcard holder.

They all laughed at this.

“Throw it with all the other ones,” said the devil one that then began to wrap up the meeting.

Behind a row of two raw onions in the kitchen the death of doom was crying its eyes out and grinning hugely for all its fans on TV who were wondering what was going on.

A clue, hanging about in a corner was looking for a spanner but had been under intense therapy for months and so was somewhat dazed and not a little confused by all the goings on and truth be told didn’t have much of a leg to stand on in this the eleventh hour come so soon.

“Give us a kiss,” said the electric nursemaid putting the clue to bed with a hug and a hot water bottle to keep the feet warm.

A sigh of relief momentarily went up as the last of the evil government plotters departed to go off and do evil things in the night, until the devil one rattled some more fear into the minds of the defeated and broken who had long since turned into the dearly departed and so were now ghosts to moan their lot in the haunted house.

“We have your measure now,” said a crumpled postcard near the bottom of the pile.

“Rivit, rivet,” said a green frog from the garden.

“Oh do shut up,” said one of the ghosts pulling the chain of redemption to find yet again the parking lot of its expectations still empty.

“So no hope there then,” said a sign on the fridge.

The rusty stew pot agreed wholeheartedly as more tears fell from the eyes of the death of doom that had become a river flowing to the ocean of all tears.

The coffee pot still gurgling didn’t have much to say on it all and was ready to turn off and go to bed if only the misrepresentation of all that’s holy would turn over a new leaf and stop already its dirge and lay down with the rest of us, maybe everyone would get a night’s sleep. But no, around and around it rattled in there as if it meant something and was the Holy Grail of grails to be thought on.

“We understand your concern,” said the bats flying here and there outside in the darkness.

“I never sleep,” said the clock striking two A.M.

A tramp hiding under the table and who’d snuck in earlier hoping to find the place empty so he could have a good night’s sleep was shivering in terror at all the goings on and was gathering his courage to make a run for it.

“We can see you,” said the ghosts milling about in their ghostly light.

A wild and despairing gibbon screech came from the tramp that powered him up and running for the door, and clawing his way through it he was off running down the path to leave the haunted house far behind him never to return there again.

Image from Pixabay

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