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Huanted House
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Huanted House
Aeroplane65 I could not sleep that night, for I was not given the chance to. For numerous times I had been yelling at my cousin to lower down the volume of the Compact Disc player. He insisted on testing out every single disc of my brother’s heavy-metal music collection at a certain volume that made my heart jump too fast or choke my mind with angry thoughts. My tired eyes shifted to the alarm clock, which stood, on my computer. Eleven, another hour to a brand new day. The next day, I will be bringing my cousin to have a view of the things we have in stall for him in the small neighborhood of mine, but before that can be possible, I will require my beauty sleep! “Hey, you moron! Are you finished with those trashy sounds?” I yelled, throwing the blanket over my head. I then grabbed my soft-toy dog, and threw it at him, aiming for his head. He responded, launching the toy back at me, hard at the bum. “Self-defence,” he reasoned out, reaching for the power switch of the player, finally. I heaved a sigh of relief, dropping dead on the pillow. As soon as I was about to enter the dream world, someone tapping at my shoulder awakened me. “I cannot sleep,” my cousin explained. I felt like strangling him. Thinking of what the family might say for destroying or killing a potential family name-bearer, I guessed it was not a very healthy idea after all. I sat on my bed, rubbing my eyes as I looked at my cousin through blurred eyes. “ I remembered the last time you ...
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