BULLET

A man came home one day after work, earlier than usual because he wasn't feeling so well.

Upon entering his house, he realised that something seems amiss, as there was an extra pair of men's shoes there, put neatly at the doorstep.

The ominous foreboding started to rise as he tried to rush up the stairs as quietly as he can, his heart beating loudly beneath his ribs.

And it was as bad as he expected. His wife was on the bed with another man, thoroughly naked. He, that horrible horrible man, had the nerve to nuzzle her neck!

Flashbacks of their relationship came to him; their courtship, how it stabled into marriage, how she promised she'd never do anything to hurt their love... The pain suddenly hit him with a pang as he realised how much he loves her, and how this fragile trust is going to be forever broken, just like the marriage he worked so hard on.

He lost control of his emotions. He must kill the this man - this man who must have seduced his wife! Without a second thought, he pounced on him, strangling his neck, while his wife tried to explain the situation to him.

No explanation is needed, he thought. The sight of her naked before that man angered him even more, and she had the cheek to defend him? He'd settle her later - killing the man is more important.

The man fought back hard, and managed to fling the estranged husband onto the floor beside the bed. That slut started to help him wipe away the blood from his broken lip! That was more that the husband could bear. He opened his drawer, and whipped out a revolver.

The cheating couple froze, terrified. The wife had never known what was inside that locked drawer - but he knew. He had put the gun in himself for this precise reason, and the innate feeling he had that told him one day this would happen gave him a mild surprise.

How ironic, he thought. Because if he could have predicted this, then he shouldn't be impulsive enough to kill them, would he? And how ironic it is that he had told himself, while putting the gun in, that he wouldn't be using it, but it is "just as a precaution" - but here he is, holding it ready.

At this he laughed a maniacal laugh. His wife and her lover had been talking to him from the other side of the bed - the bed they fucking slept in, fucking hell; did he sleep on that man's semen? - trying to make him put down the gun, but -

"NO! SHUT UP!" he hollered at them, not absorbing a word.

"Calm down, Russell," his wife said, "I can explain, I really can! Please listen to me!"

She blabbered on as usual when she is nervous, her words tumbling over each other. Usually he listens because it is funny, but now it is just an irritating hum against his confusing thoughts.

"Shut up Agnes, or I'd blow your head in." Russell said in soft voice. "You fucking slut," he added as an afterthought.

Silence.

The man made a move to rush out of the door.

Russell aimed to shoot at him, but fumbled with the cold metal's switches. It was in safety mode. This was the moment the lover needed and he jumped on Russell, trying to get the gun.

Russell, in desperation, fired a shot that went out of the window into their garden.

During the struggle, Russell was shot in the chest, and died.

"Oh Adrian, Adrian, what have you done?!" Agnes cried. "We killed him!"

Adrian stood numbed, his naked body splashed with fresh blood (and also some semen from just now).

*

Years passed. Adrian and Agnes buried Russell's body and led a new life together, still staying in the same terrace and sleeping on that eventful bed.

They now have two daughters, and that unfortunate event was never mentioned again.

"Adrian," said Agnes one day. "Would you go chop off that tree in the garden? It pains me to look at it; it is so diseased and old."

"Hmmm..." said Adrian who was beginning to find Agnes a pain in the ass. He was patronising her and hoping she'd just shut up.

"Will you go? Now?" Agnes said, with a cliched look of an angry housewife with a powdery apron and a rolling pin in hand.

Where are that woman's beautiful curls gone to? Adrian thought. Stopped growing the head and started growing down below? Adrian laughed to himself.

He dragged himself out of the house and took up the chainsaw.

What dull work, he thought, as he begins to saw down the old tree.

He was halfway into the trunk and still feeling rather dull when suddenly the blade of the fast-spinning chainsaw hit Russell's old misfired bullet and it ricocheted out in an angle, finally hitting Adrian in the face and through his brains, finally killing who it was meant to kill in the first place.



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DREAM HOUSE

She woke up at 315am that night, nudging her sleeping husband.

"What is it, baby? It's late..." he mumbled.

"I dreamt of it again! It's that beautiful house! We must make our house like that!" she replied in excitement.

"You know we cannot afford it, baby. I'd love to buy it for you, but we can hardly afford such luxuries," he said.

"Hmpf," she said. "I've been dreaming about that house for the past 3 months! I want it."

But he had gone back to sleep.

It is no wonder that she wanted the place so much. Almost everyday she dreamt of it, and she knew every detail by heart. She loved its ancient Victorian settings, its lavish grandeur, and its lush red carpets. The funny thing is how the house never changed setting in her dreams. Always the same, almost faithfully urging her.

But their place is the exact opposite of her dream house. He liked the place with urban settings, and metal and glass filled their apartment instead of comfortable wood and old velvet. He knew his wife's housing preferences, but he also knew that such places are not going to be cheap - which, as abundant as his love for her is, he cannot afford.

He was still troubled over this when he drove pass a house in the countryside one day.

He stopped and stared.

The house proudly stood on soft green carpet grass, separated from the rest of the world by pearly white gates and flanked by two stone angels, exactly as his wife described to him ever so often.

A sign was hanging from one of the angels. "For Sale," it said. "Call Mr. Brown at 244-3958-375"

He laughed heartily and decided to call and try.

"Hi, how much are you selling the house off Dunhill road?" he enquired.

The real estate agent stated a ridiculously cheap sum.

"Really? Why is it so cheap?"

"Well, if you really want to know, the owner wants to sell it cheap because the place is haunted. She wants to get rid of it fast."

"Ha!" said the husband, who didn't believe in ghosts. "I'd take my chance! Can I view the house tomorrow then? I'd bring my wife along."

So it was settled.

The next day, when she arrived, she was stunned speechless.

The house was EXACTLY like what she had dreamt about. She followed the agent inside, still gingery from the shock. It wasn't a mere resemblance of her dream house; it WAS her dream house.

Its red carpets, that intricately craved wooden table at that exact place, the quaint fireplace... She was beside herself in joy!

"I want this house baby, I want it so! It is what I saw in my dreams!" she gushed.

Her husband smiled and said, yes, yes indeed they are going to own it, because it is affordable.

The real estate agent was glad to get a deal so easily. "Well," he said. "The owner will be arriving very soon, I think! As long as you sign this contract with her, the deal is sealed and the house is yours!"

The trio was having some pleasant talk about the house when suddenly a loud piercing scream filled the house.

The owner, standing a few metres away, was looking utterly thunderstruck and was had dropped her keys and bag in shock. Her eyes were popping and her mouth was agape in horror. Her finger was pointing directly at the wife.

"It is you," she said, "You are the ghost that haunts my house every night."


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Stories adapted from the popular TV series, Fact or Fiction. Rewritten by me. I love that show and thought I'd share the stories that I remember. Any more? If anyone has any to contribute, do write it in the comments!!

p/s: I am sorry if I scared you. But ... Both stories are facts.