Those Stories Aren’t Real

Those Stories Aren’t Real by Nicolas Kefalas, age 11

Remington Manor. It has been called many nicknames. But there is one nickname that has eluded this place of mystery: Home. At least not in seventy years. Well, I could be wrong about that. It could have only been forty. But the characters would soon regret their words. They were a couple. Both in their 30s, one kid. A boy, the American dream. Then suddenly the dream became a nightmare. The kid asked his parents to play in the new house. Their last words to him were, “Don’t play for long, honey! Be back for dinner!” Kid was never seen again. Forty-eight hours later, pronounced dead. It’s funny how the house has adopted the original owners’ qualities. It’s old and bitter. The couple did nothing wrong to the house. Didn’t try to gut the place or flip it either. They only did renovations—and nice ones too. Speaking of the original owners of the place, I should describe them. Old, ancient, fossils, crazy, insane, nuts. We could go on all day, but they weren’t cardboard cutouts, they seemed different. Not special, just odd. Like a fruit that grows a different shape. It’s rare but not unique. Or maybe like an off-brand product. They just seemed off. Anyway, besides their off-putting demeanor, they just seemed to be people whose mental health corroded because of suffocating loneliness. Just to show, not a single person saw them leave their porch for their entire lives. People still don’t know how they survived so long. Then one day in 1931, a sunny spring day, nothing about the day seemed eventful, but some people close by said they heard huge racking sobs emanating from the house. The sounds sounded like pure unadulterated

186 Cartoons for all eternity • Caricaturas por toda la eternidad