It's really creepy, this new apartment of mine and the house that it is part of. It's on the third floor, obviously built out of the attic as an afterthought. I regularly scrape my knuckles against the rough grain of the roof when I stretch up my arms to complement my yawns. There are 3 decently sized rooms which are eeriely empty as of now except for the few suitcases that me and my room mate are living out of. The only piece of furniture we had until yesterday was a sunnily coloured ironing board which would serve as the table for the laptop and my tough VIP suitcase as the chair. We have progressed to a table and four chairs from those days but the house still has plenty of room for vengeful spirits to play around in.
A furnished home definitely doesn't feel like it wants to drive you away. However for this apartment, the impeccable contrast that the sparkling untouched interiors present with respect to the shabby exterior and approach to the house is really striking. It's as if it takes care of itself by not letting anyone stay long. My landlord tells me that his mother used to stay here and pay $600 in rent (Only possible in America where you can even bill your own mom) before she got married again and moved out with her new husband! That's so like Norman Bates in 'Psycho'. Wouldn't be surprised to find her 'well preserved' in the basement. Yeah, my idle mind is playing tricks on me again but I feel rather excited about actually living in a house which can give off this kind of a menace.
That brings to the basement of this house where we go to do our laundry. There is a lone naked light bulb which casts it sparing yellow light on you would imagine in every basement of the stereotypical American psycho. There are rows of shelves stacked with nails, potentially violent construction/maintenance machines, pipes running in mazes overhead, a dirtbike which seems curiously well maintained even now in the depths of the Massachusetts winter amongst other things: all of which share space with two scared little Whirlpool coin operated laundry machines. You need to stoop to avoid knocking your head and pray that you don't fall prey to Hannibal Lecter/Jason from "Friday the 13th"/Leatherface from "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre" or whoever it is that hides in the darkness that lies beyond the shelves. The wispy cotton that is stuffed to form the ceiling of the basement remind me of a witches' hair in the spooky circumstances. I think I like this house. I have a feeling that it'll keep me from feeling bored... ever!