It was 1978 in Jacksonville and Mr. Anderson had just moved out of his house. In his right hand was a leather briefcase with an iron rim. And in his left, his pet parakeet, Evee and her cage. He laid his suitcase and his bird in the back of his car and looked at his home one last time. He had lived there for over 10 years; and Mr. Anderson knew he would miss his old house. He inserted his key into the Porsche Targa and started the engine. He was ready for a new adventure!

The house that Mr. Anderson pulled up to in his convertible was petite due to his budget. A Yale blue paint stretched across the two story building. A walkway made of brick tiles lead to an oak door with a small window. Mr. Anderson twisted the brass door knob and pushed the door open. The inside had eggshell white walls and a hardwood floor. The house was empty except for a pear, sitting on the counter.

The basement was by far the largest room in the house. With shelves lining the walls and cardboard boxes all throughout the room, it was also the messiest. Knick-knacks and Cuckoo clocks gathered dust on the shelves. Mr. Anderson jumped when one of them went off. He brought all the boxes upstairs. 

       When he returned with wood polish for the shelves, he saw a miniature door in place of the boxes. They must have been covering it. He jiggled the old door knob, but the door was locked. He didn’t pay it any mind and left the basement.

***

      Two days later, Mr. Anderson was on his couch watching television. When all of a sudden his house started shaking. The pictures on his side table fell, and his pottery above the mantle came down with a crash. Porcelain lay on the floor. Carefully, Mr. Anderson ran outside. But the odd thing was, the earth wasn’t shaking outside. “It couldn't have been an earthquake.” Mr. Anderson thought. This happened again three more times that week. One happened during his sleep. Mr. Anderson grabbed his phone and called a seismologist.