October 17, 2015.

SPOOKTOBER STORY #12:

At first I found it unsettling when the floorboards began to give me advice. "Dig... dig... dig..." they implored. I hadn't been sleeping a lot around that time and had felt (but not really registered... I've never been the most observant cowpoke on the dude ranch) the vibrations for a few weeks beforehand, it wasn't until the clarity my mother's funeral provided that I was finally able to suss out the floorboards'... let's say "exotic"... accent.

I clawed at the floor for a while with knives and screwdrivers and my fingernails and so forth, but the pit I drew after two weeks was barely even worth mentioning. Eventually I gave up. What can you do? I'm not an excavator. I live in an apartment building. I'm on the third floor, for chrissakes! I really dinged up my security deposit, doubtlessly, but I'll probably just end up slipping away in the middle of the night anyway.

I've been asking the floorboards for dating advice lately: I'm pretty lonely! But the advice they give always seems distracted, half-hearted. "There's other fish in the sea, you deserve someone special, just be yourself,"... that sort of thing. I think they were really set on the digging and are disappointed in me for giving up on it so early. Maybe I'll start hitting up garage sales, if I ever get a pickaxe or a shovel, maybe I could make some headway on their project, so they could help me with mine! I really am very lonely. I really, really am.