All The Traps...
by Don Bagley


The great house had stood empty for years. It was like a monolith on a small rise at the end of a court of other empty houses. The street, and all the houses along it, had been constructed just before the last real estate crash. There were no lawns, just sidewalks bordered by mud from the heavy late winter rains. Some of the mud had run over the concrete walks and settled in round peninsulas on the paved roads.

Winslow, sodden with rain, and muddy about the feet, found his way into the great house. He would hole up there, at least overnight. He had nothing to eat. Perhaps there was food within?

But he found nothing, and he soon fell asleep on the Berber carpet in the living room.

In the morning he awoke dry but famished. He needed to eat something. So he began to sweep through the house, checking the kitchen first and then the bedrooms. He found no food. He went upstairs and scoured through he bedrooms—nothing.

By midday Winslow was dizzy with hunger. He imagined that he heard a voice. “I have some cheese,” said the voice.

Where is that coming from? Winslow wondered. That voice?

“It’s cheddar,” said the voice. “Sharp.”

“All right,” said Winslow. “Just tell me where you are.”

“I have cheese,” said the voice.

Winslow looked in the closets, and he looked in all the drawers in the kitchen. He found nothing. He pretended to be exhausted and went back to the living room for a nap. He closed his eyes and relaxed. Soon enough he was asleep. He awoke to the sound of his name.

“Winslow,” said the voice. “I have some cheese for you."

“I don’t believe you,” said Winslow. “You’re having me on.”

“No,” said the voice. “If you’re hungry, you just need to find me.”

“I don’t trust you,” said Winslow.

“Why would I harm you?” said the voice. “When I have cheese for you?”

Winslow felt that it was against his better judgment, but he was ravished. He had to eat soon. He began to search for the location of the voice again.

“Mmm,” said the voice. “It’s delicious.”

Winslow felt the saliva spilling over his lips. A block of cheese would be like a filet mignon to him now. He zig-zagged through the hallways, looking for some kind of clue. Where was the voice, and where was the food?

He was crazed with hunger, ready to kill for food if he had to. There was no place in the house he hadn’t considered, except…

The garage! He hadn’t even looked in the garage. He raced to the door that led to the garage and found it open wide. He ran into the dark depths of the garage and saw the block of cheddar. It was just sitting there on a small wooden table. He ran to it and bit into the cheese, and SNAP!

* * *

“Rodents?” said the man, looking at the twisted little body in the mousetrap.

“No big deal,” said the real estate lady. “Once you live here, your presence will drive them away.”

“I hope so,” said the man. “I know the prices are good because of the market downturn, but I don’t want to share a home with vermin.”


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Don Bagley writes from his home in north California. His work has appeared in Weiryear, Anotherealm, AlienSkin and Hackwriters UK. He's not mad like they say.