It was a snowy Saturday night in Wyoming, Pennsylvania. That’s never good news since all the main roads out there are so awfully steep and icy.
In my determination to disregard all the neighbors’ warnings, I decided to take a chance on entering the scariest house in the neighborhood. All the locals, whose families were all born and raised here, have often reminded me to stay away from this one house.
“Beware,” they said. “You don’t want to have a run in with Chance.” When I asked what chance was, they explained that he was a local eight year old boy who’d dared to defy the Bob Weaver curse about fifty five years ago. They claim he’s never once been seen~alive anyway~since then.
“Folks here’bouts swear up and down, though, that he always picks random nights to play the piano in the house his family lived in back then,” Mrs Gump insisted. She even showed me an old picture of him from a party he’d attended long ago.
At first I naturally assumed it was all a load of garbage. “In the first place,” I wondered, “what couple in their right minds would even dare to stick a boy with a name like Chance anyway?”
Mrs. Gump, however, was quite adamant. “You’ll recognize him by his little dark blue suit and light blue beanie. He sits mesmerized, playing ‘It Had To Be You’ on the piano for hours at a time. He won’t deliberately hurt you, but you’ll be quite paralyzed by a crippling permanent fear.”
Anyway, I walked over to the old abandoned house, opened the door, and walked in. “Safe enough,” I thought at first. Then I thought I heard a faint, familiar sound in the background. Walking up a steep flight of stairs, I came to a somewhat ajar door. When I opened it, I saw something unbelievable. “So it’s all true,” I thought.
It’s been several years since that fateful encounter with Chance. To this day I still can’t deal with the completely unspeakable horror.
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