Story: The House of Hell

 The House of Hell

Remember me, James? Well, I'm here with a new story about Crasson and me. Continue reading if you want to hear more.

Yesterday, when I went to see my friend Crasson, he wasn't there. I waited for about a whole hour before he came back. But, he barely looked like himself! He was wearing a disguise. He wore a black coat and a green hat, black, baggy trousers, glasses, muddy boots and ripped gloves.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"Ah, there you are James," Crasson replied as he tore off his disguise. "Oh," I replied. "Hello, Crasson."

"Have you been thinking 'where was I?'" he asked.

"Oh, yes."

"Well," said he, "Someone requested that I come to St Daniel's Park in a disguise so we could talk."

"What were you talking about?" I asked.

"You can probably guess that he had a story for me. The story was that the man's house was locked!"

"I'm in the dark."

"A couple days ago, this man (Mr. Kitterden was his name) had gone out to buy some more tabacco, but when he returned, the doors of his house were locked! And when he patted his pockets for the keys, they weren't there!"

"Why, this is very strange!" I said.

"Quite!" Crasson replied. "Now, he said that when he arrived, he saw a man run away from the house, though he couldn't see any details except that it was a black person.

"And he also found a piece of paper laying on the ground in front of the door."

He put some ripped paper onto the table:

Have you wondered who has closed your door?

Have you wondered if there is blood on floor?

Maybe it was your old friend,

Whom you forgot to mend.

Maybe it was your rival,

Whom thought that it was his survival.

Or maybe it was your parents,

Whom did it for their dead grandparents.

"This makes no sense," I said

"Yes, this is peculiar," Crasson said. "Very peculiar,"

"What do you think of it?" I asked.

"Hmm... " he said. "Do you see that word crossed out?"

"Yes. What does it say?"

"Grandparents."

"But why would parents lock up their own son's house up for their grandparents? None of this makes sense at all!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, yes, but it's not over!" Crasson interjected. "This is a very odd way to write!"

"What do you mean?"

"Only few people in this area write like this!" he said excitedly. "James, hand me the London encyclopedia!"

"Yes, of course!" said I as I gave him the encyclopedia.

"Da da da... aha!" he shouted. "Here is our street!

"Hmm... someone named Harold- wait, what? It doesn't show his last name or anything except his first name and that he writes the same way as the paper shows!"

"Oh, no!" I cried.

But Crasson just laughed. "Ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! I'm just kidding around with you, James! Ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!" 

"Phew!" I said. "So, then, what's the information?"

"Well, you'll see!" then beckoned me to the door.

* * *

As me, Crasson and Mr. Kitterden walked toward a house, I checked my watch. It was 3:56 PM, and I was supposed to go at a diner with my wife at 4:10, so I was kind of in a hurry to get this done.

Crasson knocked on the door twice, and out appeared a short, black man with dull, purple hair.

"Hello, Harold Reppili," Crasson said. "I think you know what you done."

"Oh, it seems to me that you are trying to catch me, am I right?" he replied.

"Yes. We are here to place you into the police station." Crasson said.

Harold smiled. He turned to jump out a window, but he backed away, and I saw the reason he did that was because there were policemen guarding that window. He turned to leap out of another one, but he backed away again because there was more policemen at that window too.

"It's no use, Harold," Crasson said. "Police have cornered ever exit. You cannot escape."

Harold frowned, then put his hands in front of him. He was handcuffed and put in the police car.

"That," Crasson said, "was a easy mystery, thanks to the encyclopedia,"

The End