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Rated: E · Short Story · Gothic · #1541894
This tale is centered around delusion, mystery, and pure idiosyncracy.
Mrs. Blunder and the phantasms of Mr. refrigeratoore

By: Matthew Mann

Phase One

         "As the effervescent light that billowed into one room and the next appeared in the house of hollowness and pretty plates, Mrs.Blunder must’ve not noticed because the dreary woman just sobbed in her stubborn floral recliner. Her life had proved meaningless and dull, staying home each day to wash the dishes and sew sweet nothingness. Her vision had been bothering her as well. Well, a vision of sorts. When Mrs. Blunder looked into the mirror to reapply her make-up (only fitting, her husband should be home any second) she was horrified to see her face rotting before her. She placed a bony finger upon her decaying eyelid and forced her eyes closed. When she reopened them she saw a beautiful gentle face, young but still apparently aging. A knock at the door unraveled smiles and ratified her thoughts of happiness, love, and grandeur. As Mrs. Blunder’s wait is thus over, she coordinately hangs up his jacket and removes his hat from upon his head and he smiles back at her and says…"

         O dear God, I must’ve been dreaming again. The knock at the door is real. I fling myself from the floral recliner I mistakenly had dozed off in. That ridiculous cozy chair, I hate to love it so. At the door, Mrs. Moore, with her grievances pie, the short stout woman entered firmly without waiting for me to receive her jacket or fedora. “Oh, Mrs. Blunder. I must tell you how delicious my pie is,” Moore smiled with her gritty teeth, old and jaggedly sharp.
         Mrs. Moore specialized in pies in the small town of Murk. And on the occasion of my husband’s death, a pie was to be received. Usually for this juncture, a crumpet pie was for death of a loved one. Instead the pie was that of caramel; peculiar. Moore began to cut a piece and annihilated the piece of pie very unlady like. The grotesque drippings of fresh caramel on old papery skin made my insides want to burst.  She cut another, “Are you of appetite, my dear?”
         “It escapes me,” I moan apologetically. 
         My moan, probably of the upmost displeasure, didn’t seem to bother Mrs. Moore very much. “Suit your fancy, madear,” she gorged herself on her own pie, a gift of selflessness.
She may offer and prod but to most the offering is less than kind. The old lady, dressed uncanny and like a gypsy, did not bother me. I found her company, as always, pleasant. Of course, not to be rude, but I did wonder when Moore would mention the death and burial of my husband. The drastic change in my appearance might’ve told her or the whisper of a small town’s hearsay. The burial was not public, it was secret and as for leaving for the burial, I have not left the house since. 
As I mentioned earlier, the pie, which was now completely gone on the dining room table before me, was peculiarly caramel which didn’t fit the occasion. I blurted, “Peculiar pie for the occasion. And you act rather joyous, Mrs. Moore.”
My habit of blurting is worse than Moore’s gluttony. “Well, madear, it just seemed like a lovely day for caramel,” Moore smiled at the crack in the ceiling.
That crack always seemed misplaced. As if I were to tear the wall paper o so gently, a modern mosaic mural would be bounded before me. “Lovely day occasion? Why me, may I ask?”
“Well,” Moore’s eyes grew dark so suddenly, “I felt uneasiness about you today so I thought it swell of me to pay a visit.”
Mrs. Moore has a way of connecting with people in strange ways, usually through their eyes. Although, she did tell Ms. Plymote about a tickle in her voice and after discerning Moore’s gesture, the next day the poor lady lost her voice. She never got her voice back again. Moore senses these types of things in Murk. “Uneasiness? You confuse me when you speak of such things…,” I paused, looking directly into Moore’s eyes, “I mean the death-“
“No death,” Mrs. Moore said so sternly, straight into my eyes; it scared me, “I must go. I cannot be here no longer, madear.”
Moore left almost as quickly as when she arrived, indulged herself into her own grievances pie, and scurried away, her body moving like a pig in a slaughter house. She left on the account of oddity and pure idiosyncrasy.  No death? What so ever should that mean?
She forgot her pastry dish on my dining room table, so she must’ve been in quite the hurry. I studied the dish, one rose placed in the middle with diminutive fragments of crumby caramel surrounding the forlorn flower. I took the dish to the sink and hummed the tune of “Laura” for it was on the radio before my nap. I imagined my husband and me on top of a soaring burst of star. I could just see him napping in our room, curiously so; just like it was yesterday or the day before.
Mr. Blunder never talked much but his expressions told me all that he was thinking. A long day at the job was no excuse for not eating dinner. He would stand at our new refrigerator and mumble sour whispers and leave the door wide open. I would get upset but just smile and closed it after him. My ideas of romanticism as a young lass went awry. I loved Mr. Blunder, and he, I, however we had no common threads of interest and I began to get agitated when he would beat me. But a proper lady is to say nothing to her spouse when being beaten.
There was a smile of a recluse in the vacant house of pretty plates and sewed portraits that meant nothing. These thoughts always made me feel like I was that of a bad wife. I wanted so much more. I wanted children, a life outside of a big home with alluring recliners. Mr. Blunder never wanted any of that. He scorned at the talk of it.
The day was long, the garden, unattended, the abode, undusted, and my appearance was rather hideous. My hair was in a tight bun, no makeup, and I wore my nightdress most casually. The floral recliner seemed to whine my name through the cushions between the foot rest and the seat. I sat upon him, switched the radio on, picked up my sewing fabric and embroidered sewing hoop, and somehow drifted away on some slight breeze sifting through some unknown window.

"He fills a jug of clear white musk and drinks it condescendingly. She knows it is Him. His eyes are empty just like the souls of Murk. The drill rings but even so, no infernos are ablaze. No kittens abandoned in some god-awfully tall tree. No small child entrapped within a water well.  Just a man with condolences for Himself and His wicked endeavors. He may stay alone some midnights, sipping wispy white musk but He talks to a friend, Mr. Refrigeratoore. He’s a nice man. He whispers of secret things and sings silly songs.
She does not like this fellow, Refrigeratoore. She will explain this to Him but He will not understand. Instead, He spits His musk in her face while Refrigeratoore laughs monotonously and twirls around her. She starts crying ungracefully so He will continue to batter already broken bruises. Her makeup will smear. After He leaves, she chases away Refrigeratoore and curses His name quietly.
She wants to ask Refrigeratoore why he goads her life so but his taunts and riddles were unbearable. Refrigeratoore would shriek and rattle displeasing melodies to her. Refrigeratoore spit out caramels from that of grievances pies. Blunder reappears… it is him, folks! It is! “Mr. Refrigeratoore! Why must you waste away all of my caramel grievances? Those may be my favorite delights but must you waste them on my own lady?”
“AHEM!” Refrigeratoore loudly grumbles, spitting up the rest of the caramel grievances and Blunder quickly eats them.
“Wait, Blunder!” exclaims she, “I did not know the news you have offered! This is why Moore brought me caramel!”
“Where?” Blunder seems desperate.
“In the sink… I think.”
“The dish is empty, you disgraceful harlot!” Blunder whacked her on the head and she fell to Mr. Refrigeratoore’s feet.
Refrigeratoore did a little rat-a-tat-tat and with a poof, the caramel reappeared within the dish. Blunder eats and eats and begins drinking musk and all the while, she wilts away upon the floor. When she is gone, Blunder will lie beside where she once was and caress her indiscernible curls. O what a wish she was to…"

BANG! BANG! CRASH! BANG! All pretty plates toppled upon the ground and shattered out of the cupboard, awaking my eyes to the mind turning china carnage.  How did I end up lying on the kitchen floor? I don’t remember dozing off, I remember sewing sweet nothingness, and clandestinely hoping a knock at the door would be my husband, but never sleep. Sleep was hard upon this household. Why would these pretty plates just fall all on their own?
I gathered bits of broken china, china that had been passed for ages, into the rubbish disposal. Tears may stroll down my face like a Christmas day parade, but I won’t choke. It is not lady like. Why must I be lady like? No one else is around. Well, then, I must fancy my appetite. “I shall and I must!” I exclaimed to the new GE refrigerator.
When I opened the door, all the food was lukewarm and the light was not on. Somehow, my fridge was unplugged! “The events in my house are not pleasant!” I shouted to the vastly empty ceilings.
Might I call a doctor? Ring ring! The phone started ringing; what a coincidence, a coincidence, indeed. When I answered it, however, nobody seemed to be on the other line. I hung up. Ring ring! Holy molasses! Who is calling me again?  “Hello?” No answer. “This isn’t very funny, let me tell you!” I hung up, irritated.
I tried to ignore things like these. Young boys, thinking they’re cats for pranking some poor, lonely lady. Shame on them! I thought to make some corn griddles for I had them out upon the stove the night before when Ring ring! I stamped my way to the phone. “Alright, buster, who is this!?”
“I’m the telephone, lady. Mr. Telephone,” said the phone receiver.
“Very funny! I get it. I’m the fool. Stop scoffing lonely ol’ widows!”
“Think what you want, lady, but I’m just trying to do my everyday job.”
I hung up the phone as I sighed o so deeply. “I’m still here!” shouted the telephone once again, “Are yaw convinced now, lady?”
“I’m going crazy. That’s what I’m convinced of. This house is going crazy!”
“Nobody’s going crazy, lady.”
“Then how are you talking, may I ask? How does that happen?” I walk back towards the phone cautiously.
“Well, if yaw don’t want to hear me just unplug the cord I’m connected to.”
I quickly unplugged the telephone causing it to fall upon the floor. I noticed I was shaking and was rather sweaty. “Such tomfoolery, telephone!” I exclaimed cracking a careful smile.
As I began back to the kitchen, a shrill laugh came from the receiver of the phone. “I told yaw Mr. Telephone.”
Without temptation, I started stomping out the noise, the penetrating hilarity coming off of the receiver. “Go away, Mr. Telephone! Leave me be!”
The laughter continued so I went for my husband’s gun he had left me for possible intruders. Up, the winding staircase I inevitably avoided. Each step I took, closer or furtherer away from hysteria, made my stomach churn. The cracked marble, I noticed beneath my slippers, began to quiver and jump out at my eyes. I could still hear the echoes of laughter drowning from downstairs. Static and erratic noise made my ears tremble like never before. Is this hell?
I finally reached the top of the wielding winding spiral staircase. I walked carefully to the end of the hallway. I hadn’t been up here since that of my husband’s death. I opened the door to my husband’s workroom, where he rarely ever did anything except proper construction attributing to the house.
Dust and cobwebs groomed my hair as I walked closer and closer to the rifle. I picked it up from upon its rack and cocked it. Suddenly, I started running towards the downstairs again. I nearly fell down the spiral steps and I began firing as soon as I saw the phone. I shot it again and again and again but the laughing continued. The phone began to catch on fire and smoke filled the house.
Choking is very unlady like! This time my lungs couldn’t grasp that and when the strong sense of musk came upon me, I don’t remember much more. Blurs of lights and sounds came upon me and I thought that it was the end of Mrs. Blunder as Murk and the rest of the world knew it…

Phase Two

         "Dr. Chimera placed the ashes of pretty plates within the suitcase and began to set off when Blunder approached him. “She said Mr. Telephone was distressing her so.”
         “As so,” Chimera paused, “A grueling inferno not even Murk’s best fireman can extinguish… this calls for the Institution.”
         Over hearing this, the woman started sobbing within her tresses. “I will not be going!”
         “Refrigeratoore might think differently, Dearest!” 
         Tip-Tap-Tip-Tip-TAC came about Refigeratoore. “No! Not Refigeratoore! Anything but him! Please Blunder!”
         Blunder would not have this begging. He began to clout her so. “Stop this madness! This turmoil you’ve caused my life!”
         “If I must… I will! No Institution!”
         “Alright,” Blunder disdainfully agreed, “Be on your way Chimera. We won’t be needing your assistance any longer.”
         Refigeratoore began to get flustered as he got red and his dilapidated rancid teeth filled with caramel. The oozing caramel began to smog and turn to a murky emerald. The caramel smog began to be too much to bear and the choking gas began to infiltrate those of Blunders. Chimera began to peel off his skin from his face only to reveal that he was…"

         COUGH! COUGH! I awoke, coughing; just as I had since expired before. But when I had opened my eyes to the penetrating imperceptible gas, there was nothing before me except that of earlier remnants of a telephone. Mr. Telephone. I began to position him together piece by piece. “My apologies are all yours, Mr. Telephone. I do not know what came over me.”
         “I’ll tell you what came over you!” Mr. Telephone’s eyes opened and revealed the menacing features which came from his haughtily pupils, “That of disgracefulness and unlady like tendencies! Blunder would be disgraced with how you acted!”
         “You are surely right! Please forgive me, Mr. Telephone. I may not deserve it but your condolences will get me through the discerning day,” I begged Telephone.
         “Pity you, I will not! You have shot me! Several times, I mustn’t add!” rattled a skewed Telephone.
         “But I will fix you!”
         Telephone, however, ignored this and he started screeching unbearable irate high pitch clamors. I covered my ears and ran through the house of hollowness which began to slowly unravel into a jungle of Needles and Sewed Nothingness.  A cluster of the Alluring Reclining soldiers began to march through the tumbleweeds of needles. As I looked upon my raggedy nightgown, I realized I was wearing a sovereign’s robe.  I felt o so mighty at an instant and Telephone’s clamors began to fade away in the distance.
         The head of the Alluring Reclining soldiers was General Florael. He was an ominous man.  He began to hum my name as he got closer and closer. “What must you want, Florael? Telephone was screeching and hollering, so I had to leave his presence! I had no other choice. Give him my apologies,” I said to Florael as he just kept humming as he got closer.
         “NO, ma’am! I have not come with my soldiers on the account of Mr. Telephone. I have come on the account of Refrigeratoore. He would like to meet with you. He craves that of Caramel Grievances for Blunder.”
         “I will not meet with Refrigeratoore. And Blunder is deceased. Why must he talk of such craziness? Florael, you know I don’t care for the man,” I muttered bluntly.
         “Then you leave me no other choice!” shouted Florael angrily.
         Suddenly, Florael had engrossed me onto his seizure. I was trapped beneath the vines of rugged thorny stems that had tied me onto Florael. He began to roll into the kingdom of Kitchen Grievances. Mr. Toastere had offered me a bottle of musk, to which I declined. Mr. Radioe offered me crumpet loves and I again denied.  Other Kitchen appliance men offered me grievances in other forms but no kindness made me shine. I tried to wriggle my way from Florael but it was no use.
         Before I could struggle anymore, it became completely dim within the kingdom of Kitchen Grievances. I could not see as far as the eye could travel and with an “AHEM!” a toggle of a light switch created an astonishing spotlight.
         The spotlight traveled upon that of Mr. Refrigeratoore! Mr. Toastere began to play a rusty piano to which Refrigeratoore did a little tap ballet to.  Refrigeratoore laughed his smoggy laugh as he danced and began to sing, “OHHHH, BLUNDER!! WHY MUST YOU STEAL MY THUNDER! I NEED MORE CARAMEL GRIEVANCES UNDER MY WONDER!! DO-DAP-Doo-DO-DAP-Dooooo!”
Refrigeratoore proved to be loud and smelly. His breath, frosty with pure agony, and his smell, that of freezer burn, was putrid to my nostrils.  “Refrigeratoore! These caramel grievances are those of Mrs. Moore’s. I must fetch more. However, I would like to know, who are these grievances for?”
         Being almost blown out of the kingdom by Refrigeratoore’s pressing whoosh of breath, I had to regain my composure to speak. “General Florael has told me about how you wish to fetch these grievances for my late husband, Mr. Blunder.”
         Refrigeratoore’s riddles, dances, and rhymes began to aggravate me. “There is a minuscule predicament, Refrigeratoore. If you are indeed talking of my husband he has passed, therefore, it is pointless to fetch these grievances!”
         “AHEM!” was all that was said.
         Before I could take notice, Toastere grasped my arm with his extension cord and began dragging me along, past the kingdom of Kitchen Grievances. “What are you doing with me?” I whined.
         “I am taking you beyond this jungle to Moore’s, ma’am!” said Toastere directly.
         I wanted to argue but it looked like Moore was already approaching. Out from the jungle of Needles and Sewed Nothingness, Moore whistled her way from over the hill. She was flying upon a broom in a black gown and a pointed hat. Moore was a gypsy witch! I had known all along. When Moore saw Toastere and I, she let out a bellowing but cringing laugh. She hovered above us on her broomstick, “Mrs. Blunder! I had sensed you were looking for me! He he!”
         “Yes indeed, Moore! I have come on behalf of Refrigeratoore. He seeks that of caramel grievances!” I shouted to Moore above.
         “Well, well, well madear. I shall but out of all my concoctions and spices, I lack that of caramel. You must fetch the ingredient and I shall make Blunder’s delight of caramel grievances,” Moore chuckled, her razor-sharp teeth clutching in between her rotted gums and her frail lips.
         “Wait, Moore! I do not know where the caramel lies!” I bellowed to the flying Moore who was apparently departing.
         A terrible echoing laugh is the only thing Moore left behind as well as trail of frayed broomstick bristles.
         “What should we do?” I exclaimed to Toastere.
         “Well, ma’am, maybe we should travel the mountain of Spiral to Blunder’s fortress,” said Toastere thoughtfully.
         “Oh dear,” I murmured faintly, “The mountain of Spiral frightens me so.”
         “Yes, however, there may be evidence of Caramel within Blunder’s fortress, ma’am.”
         “You may be accurate, Toastere, but I have not traveled to Blunder’s fortress since that of his death!”          
         Toastere tightened his grip upon my arm and lead me past the jungle of Needles and Sewed Nothingness, past the kingdom of Kitchen Grievances, and past the rolling hills where remnants of a loud Mr. Telephone still rang throughout the land. We arrived at the base of the mountain of Spiral and I could not see the top of the great forbidding mountain.
         “Do you think this is safe, Toastere?” I quivered and my voice shook.
         Without a word to console me, Toastere dragged me begrudgingly onto the base of the mountain. The slight breeze sifting through some unknown window between space and time began to get sadistic as we traveled. My sovereign’s robe began to rip and tear. My hair came completely out of its bun and flowed freely. Toastere’s extension cord was wrapped tightly to my arm as he flung about. 
         Needles from the jungle began to peel off their stems and get caught within the whirlwind. The needles cut me from every which angle. As Toastere and I walked further up the mountain, it began to get harder to walk.  I saw swirling laughing remnants of Mr. Telephone and Mr. Radioe switching static beneath its foundation. Broken pretty plates began to fly about and scrape my knees. Moore was seen flying backwards on her broomstick, cackling.
“Stop!” I screeched, “Just stop! Please! Make it all stop!”
“We’re almost there…” Toastere sounded unsure for the first time.
“No, I can not do this! Take me back to Refrigeratoore. Now!” I demanded.

“I’m afraid I-,” Toastere was ripped away from his beloved extension cord upon my arm and flew into the darkness of spirals.
I, too, began to lose balance. I fall. I come crashing down, down, down from the mountain of Spiral. CRASH!

"All She wanted was love. She was a young lass who went awry. All She wanted was some form of attention. All She wanted was an adventurous life. Unfortunately, readers, She never got what She wanted."

Phase Three

Everything before me lies in ruins. The mountain of Spiral has collapsed and I lie under parts of the toppled mountain. It seems as if nobody else is around. Everything feels hollow again. Just when the silence becomes nearly deafening, I hear a familiar “AHEM!”
I carefully start removing the rocks off of my feeble body.  Then I start running to the kingdom of Kitchen Grievances.
“Refrigeratoore! I’m confused and lost. Please tell me what is going on,” I pleaded with the hewed refrigerator.
“Well. Well. Well. My piano is gone, my taps torn, my rhymes sour,” Refrigeratoore paused and started singing, harmonizing with the silence, “YOU’VE RUINED EVERYTHING! EVERYTHING! ALL I WANTED WAS THE CARAMEL GRIEVANCES! THAT IS ALL I WISHED YOU TO BRING!! NOW I CAN NOT EVEEEEN… sing.”
Refrigeratoore began to weep and moan. “H-he will be back aAaAany second,” Refrigeratoore sniffled loudly.
“He who, dear?” I asked softly.
“Blunder of course! He will be back to fetch his favorite delights, the caramel grievances! WHICH you have failed to offer! YOU ALWAYS fail. WHY can’t you just please your husband for once?”
“B-Blunder? He is dead. He died! For the final time, he is dead. He died a few weeks ago from a dreadful fire. You see, my husband was the most respected fire fighter in Murk. One night he never returned. He died being a hero!”
“AHEM!” Refrigeratoore rolled his disdainful eyes, “Go to the dining room. There’s a crack in the ceiling. Peel the wallpaper back.”
“I do not see how that-,” I began.
“GO, GO, GO! GO, GO, GO! NOOOOW!!” Refrigeratoore shrieked utterly indispensably.
Refrigeratoore’s breath sure hasn’t changed a bit. I did as he desired and wandered into reality once more. There, in the lonely dining room of the atrocious hollow house of broken kitchen appliances and nothingness, sat that taunting crack in the ceiling I had always wondered about. I breathed in, closed my eyes, and began to tear the wall paper o so gently.
The ceiling revealed a letter, apparently written to me, on my own ceiling. The letter read:

Dear Love:

         If you are reading this, you’ve done it again. I have placed this letter here because I know your curiosity. I know your forgetfulness. And I know your loneliness. I knew when I married you something didn’t seem quite right. Not only are you purely delusional, you are completely insane. But I loved you and offered to take care of you. The doctors always disagreed with my choice of caretaking you. They wanted you in an institution. I hated to see you cry, so I wouldn’t let it happen.
Now, you and your official care giver, Mrs. Moore, do not get along very well. She makes me my favorite desert, caramel pies, and you get so extraordinarily jealous. Last time you tried shooting her and set the place on fire. You know what to do now. Make amends with your “Refrigeratoore” friend and when I get home, we will have a nice drive to the Institution.  I love you so much. You were always my lass. I am and will always be madly in love with you.

Love, Your Husband,
Ray Blunder
P.S. Don’t you worry. I will meet you on a soaring burst of star very soon. I’ll wear your favorite musk of mine. Promise.

         That was the type of reality I didn’t want to enter. I began sobbing greatly, realizing what’s true and the only things that ever meant anything to me: My kitchen appliances I always talked to, my sewed portraits I would cry my dark secrets to, the pretty plates I loved to hate, that stupid floral recliner Ray bought me, that broken radio, the telephone that gets no reception; these were my loves.
         I am walking back to the kitchen to my favorite thing, the shiny brand new GE refrigerator, Mr. Refrigeratoore. “Mr. Refrigeratoore! Please wake up! I need you. Blunder will be back very soon and I need your advice,” I begged the motionless refrigerator.
         Suddenly, the lights began to dim. I was filled with happiness, love, and grandeur! A sterling silver grand piano was being played in the opera house of Kitchen. A spotlight then shined upon that of the stunning, Refigeratoore! He began his famous tap ballet routine.
         Refrigeratoore’s voice smelt purely delicious. His voice was soothing and almost romantic. “Thank you Refrigeratoore! I love you. Now, what must I do? Blunder is coming!”
         “Dead? As in murder?”
         Refrigeratoore’s eyes turned incredibly dark and the piano stopped its playing. Refrigeratoore slowly tapped his way to me. He kneeled down to me and whispered, “When Ray is dead, we can be wed. Don’t you want to be with me forever?  Or would you rather go live in an institution?”
         “No. No! NO! NO! NO!” I shouted in the upmost displeasure, “I am a lady! And you are crazy, Mr. Refrigeratoore! I am Mrs. Blunder and I am a good wife! You are having some terrible phantasms, Refrigeratoore.”
         Refrigeratoore jumped back in complete shock. “I have been having horrible phantasms. I thought I saw a swindling harlot distressing before me but then I realized you never existed.”
         “Huh?” I said in confusion.
         “AHEM!” Refrigeratoore suddenly got very ugly again. His teeth began melting into a puddle of green water and his eyes grew rather crimson.
         And like the closing of the grand curtain in the finale, Refrigeratoore became unplugged and came crashing down. Unluckily, I was below him and I went down with the great Mr. Refrigeratoore.

The Final Phase of Insanity

         "The effervescent light that billows from one room to the next in the house of hollowness and broken pretty plates proved to be just an illusion, as life is. The only two “real” deaths in this story are admitted in the final phase of insanity. As Mrs. Blunder is taken away to the Institution, she realizes everything. Mrs. Moore, the kind old caretaker who was famous for her “caramel pies”, was murdered when the spiral staircase collapsed on top of her.
         As Ray Blunder tried to take his wife away to the Institution, she brutally bludgeoned him to death with remnants from a GE refrigerator. The house, which is in shambles, is now being cleaned out, remodeled, and put up for sale in the rural town of Murk. You obviously thought these parts of the stories in italics were dream sequences. Well, you were wrong. Delusion often takes affect in form of a dream. As a matter of fact Mrs. Blunder never dreamed at all in this story. The only dream she ever had was…"

         “Whew! It was just a dream,” I thought as my eyes adjusted to the surroundings. 
         I didn’t recognize my surroundings at all! Everything was off white and made up of pads. When I try to move, I realized I couldn’t! The fear and agony welled up inside of me. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Suddenly, a door opened.
         “Hello, Barbra. I’m Dr. Chimera and I have something to show you.”
         The man, Dr. Chimera, began to peel the skin from off his face only to reveal… Mr. Refrigeratoore!!!!

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