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My Landlord Isn’t Human Average 4 / 5 out of 1
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Summary
On my first night after moving into the Old Western-style House, I heard someone chopping meat in the kitchen.
I charged in with a mop raised high, only to find half a chicken lying on the cutting board.
Beside it stood a man in a white shirt, his cuffs rolled up to his elbows, a knife in his hand, his face paler than the light overhead.
When he saw me, he was silent for three seconds.
“You’re back.”
My knees nearly gave out.
“Who are you?”
He lowered his eyes to the chicken.
“The landlord.”
“Then what are you doing in my kitchen in the middle of the night?”
He fell even more silent.
“I was worried you’d order takeout. It’s unhealthy.”
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