The Hands of a Writer

This house is going to kill me. I can feel it.

I've owned this place for little over a year now; my real estate agent showed me this place, a bit out of the city but overall a very quaint, nice, house. The house looks like some Frank Lloyd Wright and Bauhaus amalgamation, which was exactly my style. I got it cheaper than usual, too (I guess that should have been a sign). It was good for the first month or two.

That's when the things started happening. Windows opening and closing, doors slamming everywhere. It's not the wind. It's something else, I know it. I haven't gotten real sleep in weeks. I've never really been the exactly paranormal guy, but my time here has - opened my mind.

So I did some research on the history behind the house.

fuck it.
i suck at writing prose.
it's so clunky, and it sucks.
i have too many ideas but i can't even fucking execute one properly.
goddamn i am a useless writer.
i should do shitty screenplays or something.