The Table

This is the story of a table. Nothing much I know but even a table can hold more meaning than anything else.

I had just moved to a new town. It was very small. So small it wasn't even on any maps in the history of the world so not much to do. I forget the name of it now but i remember the table. The table. That fucking small nothing of a fucking table.

I had just started talking to the townspeople when they had told me that they had some of the best antiques in the country. (Like they had ever been out of their tiny town.) So the next day, it was Sunday, I decided to find a store. Maybe even buy a table. I had a very set mind on the type of table as I pulled into the store's parking lot.

I went inside and saw a man behind the counter. I nodded and began to look around. It took me no more than a minute to find that dumb table. When I saw it I knew it would be mine. I picked it up and brought it to the man. He said nothing.

I began to feel uneasy. I had not seen this man in town before. I thought I had already met all the 50 people in the town but apparently not. He waved his hand at me in a gesture meaning I could have it.

"No charge?" I asked. He shook his head. I thanked him and left. As I began to drive home however I glanced back at the table and noticed it was damaged, and the farther I drove the more scratches and nicks I noticed. I got home and left the table in the car thinking I'd return it tomorrow. I went inside and turned on the TV. Knock knock!

I jumped out of my seat. Who would be at my door everyone was in church right now. Knock knock! I went to the door and opened it. There the man was. The man behind the counter. He was holding the table. On it was a note. Written in blood. "I was hit in the head with an axe and died making this table and you don't have the decency to even bring it inside.

I have sold this 4 times since I've been dead and every time it's been brought back the next day. I'm sick of this. You are going to die right now and be forced to sell this table for the rest of your days." I looked up thinking this was the lamest joke I'd ever heard. Then I saw the man's head. There was an axe stuck in it with blood dripping down.

I don't remember what happened next. Hell I can't remember my name, my birthday, or what my voice sounded like. I can remember that day only. I couldn't start selling the table like my killer had said until everyone I had ever met in the town had died. Don't ask me why but it must be some afterlife rule. I'll stay here for the rest of my days selling that table the man had died making. I don't know why I can't pass on the curse like he did. I've killed all the owners and more, but every Sunday I set up shop here and try to sell it without saying a word. So come buy it I may try to kill you but its nothing personal I just don't want to be here anymore. No more of that single evil table.

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