Such was titled the ad, as bland as any other (all caps, no picture, no special character) — except for its peculiar proposal.
The body read: “Build the house of your dreams, and start with yours! Email steve@dreamhou.se”
Nothing else.
It’s 2024. Who the fuck would pay for that?
A few days later, and I am forced to admit, I think I’m gonna pay for that.
I brought it up with Marcy and Kendra during a break at work on Monday.
“Oh my god,” said Marcy, “I haven’t played that game in ages! 2004 maybe? Dear god that makes me sound old.” Kendra, however, didn’t look as enthralled. Marcy went on for a few minutes about Mr. Burns’ latest whim for the company logo, but Kendra wasn’t listening to her. Neither was I, but that wasn’t new for me.
“Show me it,” said Kendra, an odd glimt in her eye. Marcy stopped talking and looked at me, puzzled. None of us had our phone on us and Marcy wouldn’t dare using her “work” computer for anything other than “work”, so I told her on what website I found it on… but stopped just short of telling her on what board. My answer seemed to satisfy her nonetheless.
Kendra nodded and left, like she had a pressing urge or sudden business to attend to, but not before whispering to both of us: “Don’t answer it.”
She didn’t go back to work that day, and hasn’t since. She called Marcy on Tuesday morning to take a sick day, but didn’t today. “She had told me last Friday already that she wasn’t feeling too good, maybe she caught a virus or something. She’s got a young kid you know, these things will bring home illnesses you thought were eradicated. Real germ factories at that age. And her worthless husband, doing nothing all-day on the couch eating barbecue chips and frozen meals while she—”
Marcy cut herself off, footsteps echoing outside her office door. She raised her finger to her lips, and we waited for the footsteps to fade away.
Marcy is the office gossip manager, human trashrag (she calls herself that) and secretary, in that order. Kendra and I hang out at her desk during breaks mostly because the best coffee machine in the building is in her office, but some times Marcy really comes in clutch with the perfect 15-minute anecdote to distract us from the grind. “Trevor’s been dating this older chick, that’s why he wears those thight-ass suits all the time now”, “Monica hasn’t kept her puppy dog — too much work she said — but managed to sell it back to the sellers for a profit”, “Parker licks assholes” are some good ones from recent memory, and only from the last month. None of those this time though.
Her answer caught me off guard. What would Ken tell her that she wouldn’t tell me?
The footsteps finally stopped, a door creaked open, then shut. Marcy finally lowered her finger. Just as I was gonna ask her about what Ken had told her, the phone rang and the finger went back up. “Yes Mr. Burns? Yes, I am aware my break isn’t until three o’clock. Yes. I am sorry. I apologize.” I left the lobby and returned to my desk, my cold cup of coffee between my hands.
The day dragged on, and only now have I just remembered about the ad. Could that be why Ken suddenly went AWOL?
I’ve mulled over it all night.
Her face, her demeanor, her vanishing act… it all traces back to the moment she heard about it.
From me.
I tried to track down the ad, but it’s gone. Deleted I guess, and the user’s profile has no other ad posted on any board, or any contact detail.
Thankfully I remember the guy’s email address. “Steve” — a man I presume — @dreamhou.se
I went to the site, but the URL returned a 404. Tried to google it, to no avail. That email address is probably bogus. The ad probably spam.
If so, why the hell would Kendra miss three days of work for such a trivial thing? It doesn’t make any sense.
She probably really was sick.
Thursday. Kendra was back at her desk. She’d even beat me in — a rarity, as I usually arrive first, by a long shot — a looked genuinely spent.
Back at my desk — we work two floors apart, she’s on the fourth I’m on the sixth (and Marcy’s on the fifth) — I couldn’t shake it off my mind. My work suffered as a result, I’ll have to come in even earlier tomorrow morning…
Just as I was ready to punch out early to go see Kendra, a new email popped in my inbox. I skimmed it absentmindedly while rising from my seat, but froze in my tracks.
From: St. Eve “steve@dreamhou.se” Subject: “I WILL CREATE YOUR HOUSE IN THE SIMS 2! LAST CHANCE!”