Fever House (Fever House, #1)

by Keith Rosson

A sitcom is on, an old one in which an anthropomorphized lasagna lives with a family, offers sage advice, tries to convince a widowed neighbor to have sex. A resoundingly odd, short-lived series Hutch remembers from his teenage years.

The same sitcom is on the screen, a marathon. The sound is low, the riot of a canned laugh track reduced to murmurs. The lasagna on its familiar plate, dripping great, frothing strands of cheese, talking to a crying girl in a beret. This juxtaposition feels like something culled from hell.

“Perhaps, Nick, if you’ve come across a severed hand that makes you want to kill just by being near it, you’ll reconsider the possibility that the stories put forth by a tarot card reader really are not quite such a leap. Logistically speaking.”