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Hey guys, it's E. J. Miller, writer, creator and producer

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here at Fast Food Horror. Unfortunately, igorre Froedrick is off visiting family in

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Transylvania, which leaves me to do
the honors to introduce this episode. So

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here we go. Welcome to Fast
Food Horror. This is episode two of

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our story entitled The Tale of the
House on Morrow Hill. The second night,

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as the summer sun rose the next
morning, so thankfully to the temperature

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in the room like a curtain on
a stage for the second act of a

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show, the ominous sounds that once
echoed throughout the house had subsided some time

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earlier. So, sensing that whatever
threat there was or might be was no

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longer that normalcy had returned, I
left my wife asleep in bed and made

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my way down to the kitchen for
what would surely be the first of many

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a cup of coffee. Not long
thereafter, Steph joined me in the kitchen

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and took in my bleary eyed presence
sitting there in the morning silence. Unperturbed,

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she poured herself a cup of coffee
and settled in across from me at

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the breakfast Noot took her first delicate
sip and asked how I slept. With

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an exhausted chuckle, I went into
my now well rehearsed account of what had

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happened that night, awaking with the
temperature drop of the chilled room, the

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banging that echoed throughout the house all
night while she soundly slept unable to be

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awakened. She never interrupted. She
let me talk and took in every detail

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and concern I had, sipping her
coffee as I went, and when I

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was finished, she took her last
gulp and placed her mug on the table

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and laughed and applauded. She thought
this was my initial attempt at writing my

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novel, and I was using her
as a sounding board. It took me

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a while to get in a word
edgewise over her enthusiastic suggestions and questions of

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where I was going with it with
the story. But when I did,

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when she really saw how tired and
concerned I was, she chalked it up

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to the ancient furnace and my exhaustion
and stress over the move. Steph said

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when she went into town for supplies, she would inquire at the hardware store

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about furnace or heater repair companies in
town that made me feel better sorta.

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Steph came home a few hours later, groceries and cleaning supplies in multiple bags,

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as I had continued to move the
rest of the boxes into our new

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home. She reported that she found
a handyman that agreed to come out at

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the end of the week, but
he couldn't make it any sooner due to

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his backlog of work from the holiday. That would have to do since one

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of the locals told her none of
the big fancy name heating places would come

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all the way out here without it
costing us a pretty penny, and that

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was just for the consult, not
even the repair. So the handyman waiting

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game was on. That second night, though I awoke from a dead sleep

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physically shaking. The chill in the
air was more so than first night.

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I found myself lying there in bed
without a blanket or a sheet. I

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searched in the dim light of the
room on the bed for either or both

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of them. I searched the foot
of the bed to see if her or

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I or both of us had kicked
them down there, but they were not

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there. My wife hadn't pulled or
rolled with them either, so not there.

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I rolled to my right to my
bedside night stand and activated the flashlight,

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trying to control my shivering. Now
sitting up in bed, my exiled

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puffs illuminated by the flashlight's beam.
I scanned the room, arms clutched around

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my chest, knees drawn in,
searching for the sheets and blanket with the

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tiny foam flashlight, and found them
not on the floor on the sides of

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the bed. The sheets in the
blanket were clear across the room in a

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piled heap, like they had been
ripped from the bed and thrown across the

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room. I whispered my wife's name
to try and wake her, before reaching

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across and gently rocking her awake.
She did not respond. I became more

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insistent with my voice, and my
rocking became more of a gentle shaking nothing.

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She was warm to the touch and
in a deep sleep. My eyes

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drifted to the screen of my phone, clutched in my hand. Two thirty

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three a m. There had to
be a reasonable explanation as I watched the

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puffs of white escape my mouth with
each exhalation, this unnatural temperature drop,

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and now the sheets being ripped from
the bed, not kicked off by one

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of us, but thrown clear across
the room. The master bedroom wasn't exactly

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small either. The opposite wall was
more than fifteen feet away. I would

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have to ask Steph in the morning
about that last bird. I walked across

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the room, scooped up the sheets
and laid them across the bed, and

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opened a window to let in the
July warmth, then climbed back in bed

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next to my wife. Just before
I closed my eyes, it started.

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That metallic thud from the other night
echoed throughout the house, repeating again and

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again. The whack, the whack, the whack. Steff didn't stir the

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whack, the whack, the whack. It was going to be another long

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night, ditt