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Summon House
Summon House
Summon House
Ebook60 pages32 minutes

Summon House

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Summon House (1) is widely regarded as the worst television program ever made. No one has ever seen it. "Summon House" (2) is an unusual story. Duplicate chapter numbers and other unique formatting is intentional. Summon House (3) is a real place and one should not go there.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateJan 27, 2022
ISBN9798201078546
Summon House

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    Book preview

    Summon House - Brad D. Sibbersen

    I

    That's it? She unbuckled her seat belt and was stepping out of the car almost before it had stopped.

    It's larger on the inside. Or so they say.

    Like Snoopy's doghouse, she nodded.

    He double-checked that the headlights were off, locked the door, tested the handle to be certain that the door was, in fact, locked.

    No one's going to break into it way out here.

    He grunted an unintelligible response.

    The House – all capital H of it – was impressive, she decided, even if it wasn't the sprawling architectural monstrosity she'd expected. Three proper stories, in a gothic revival style, faux towers and peaked attics and ornamental chimneys seemingly slapped on, here and there, at random. The windows were all barred, even the tiny circular ones looking out of those after-market attics, and she half expected to spy the half-wit brother or some musty family ghost briefly peering out of one before fading back, into the darkness. It looked like a magician's house, or at least an eccentric's.

    Desmond is staring at it like a man who's come home after a long absence, but hadn't wanted to.

    Dutch...? she prodded gently. You okay?

    I can see myself...

    -

    ...outside, arriving. Peyton's with me. Talking about the House. I'm just staring at it, like I know something's going to go wrong. Like I know. Except it can't be me me because now I'm lighting up a cigarette, and I don't smoke. I've never smoked...

    -

    You won't, Peyton said. I have faith in you.

    There were six additional vehicles parked in the circular driveway. The Benz looked like it belonged there. The others were mostly as nondescript as their own, generic American bourgeoisie, although the little yellow sports job – something British – stood out, as did the monstrous pickup truck, showroom new and peppered with patriotic bumper stickers, like red white and blue buckshot.

    -

    I've never smoked, and Peyton's hair is wrong.

    1

    It's a damn fine thing, Chester told the hitchhiker he'd picked up, a truck like this. He slapped the outside of the door for emphasis, turned up the music. Waylon Jennings.

    I don't like country music, the girl said. Cut-off shorts that would put Daisy Duke to shame. Tied-off work shirt. Designer cowboy boots. And she doesn't like country music, she says.

    What do you like then?

    Molly.

    I mean what music.

    EDM, mostly.

    I don't even know what that is.

    She stretched out her short (but impressive) legs and planted her ridiculous designer boots right on the dash.

    It's a good thing this truck is stolen, Chester thought.

    How old did you say you were? she asked him.

    She asked him.

    "Are

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