Look, I know you’ll think I’m crazy when I tell you this but my neighbors, the Petersen’s, are cannibals.
There. I said it.
We’ve gone through twelve mailmen since I moved here a year ago. Twelve. This is not a normal turnover rate.
Then there were the guys working on the Petersen’s house. Started out with ten workmen. Then it was five. One day, I heard a loud crash, a scream and then silence. The next day Mr. Petersen was finishing the work himself.
Still think I’m nuts?
The old lady, Mrs. Tyson, who lived on the other side of the Petersen’s disappeared one day. How many eighty-something-year-olds just disappear?
The cops looked for weeks and never found the old bat. Now her house is for sale.
When my mom was sick last week, the Petersen’s stopped by to wish her well. They brought meatloaf.
Mom, dad and my stupid sister loved it. I almost gagged and had to leave the room.
Now I’m told that I’ll be cutting the Petersen’s lawn this summer for ‘college money.’ I’m leaving this note on my Facebook page in case you never hear from me again.
And Mr. and Mrs. Petersen? If you’re reading this, I hear sixteen-year-old boys are tough and chewy. My sister, however, eats nothing but ice cream all day and I’ll bet she’d go nice with a crisp white wine.