A pentagram. An inverted cross. A picture of a goat’s head. All painted blood red. It sent a chill down my spine.
Then I heard something even more terrifying: my wife’s footsteps.
She was trudging up the stairs, no doubt checking on my progress. I was tasked with removing wallpaper in our extra bedroom.
“Honey, can you bring a cup of coffee?” I shouted.
A shameless ploy. I need to cover up this satanic mess. Fast. One look and she’d have our new house back on the market. Tomorrow.
And there was no way in hell I was moving again.
The Weekday One Hundred 