Seven weeks had passed. Those were seven of the longest weeks in Solomon’s life. The judge had taken pity on the poor man with a limp and a fret about his pig. So, a deal had been struck, he had to go to the prison school and learn. Solomon learned and he learned until he could step outside once more.

No glance was cast, nor stare was shot, as Solomon strolled out into the pouring rain. ‘How ironic,’ thought the man as he splashed down the street. A stamp and a sloosh and his shoes drowned in a puddle, he raised his foot cautiously only to see a great gushing of dirty water from the seams. Having returned the water to the puddle- he didn’t want to get arrested again oh no not he Solomon Brown- he turned to peer in the estate agent’s window.

What he saw with his bright button eyes was the house that he had built in his dreams. Solomon couldn’t stop the grin that spread like a disease across his face, with a nod and a skip he pushed open the smart red door. “Good morning!” No words could be brighter on that dull dreary day than those that tumbled from the beaming man.

Stunned and bamboozled the employee spun around so fast the seat of her chair rotated several times before dizzily shuddering to a halt. “How may I help you, sir?” Her syllables slurred together, unsure of their correct positioning.

“I would like to buy this house!” Solomon pointed with trembling excitement, that threated to bubble over, at the advert in question. Relieved at this simple request the woman with hair styled like a jelly beehive let her sharp nails fly clickity clack over the keys.

The hands on the clock twisted with anxiety, waiting for the final handshake. At last, as the clock struck half-past-three, two hands extended, clutched, and shook the deal was done. Solomon hopped, skipped, and danced out of the estate agent’s a happy man. A tune planted itself like a seed and sprouted into a tuneless whistle, swinging around the lamppost at the end of ‘Suspicious Lane’ Solomon could barely contain the joy he felt.

His legs spun themselves into a clumping uneven run, careering down the slight slope in the road Solomon yelled, “Rosemary! I’m home!” Freezing like a creeping mouse Solomon whispered, “Rosemary! I’m home!” Emerald orbs skittered over the neighbouring houses hoping not to have disturbed the peace of the late afternoon. Silence…No incriminating snap of a camera shutter to be heard.

A pair of well-tuned ears heard the squelching tap dance of four eager trotters, pulling the rest of the body along to peer over the wall. Caked in mud a very happy pig shuffled, large ears flapped and slapped the top of her head in glee. Dangling the keys in front of his best friend Solomon nodded sharply certain about his choice, “We are moving house. Would you believe?” A heavy snort answered, as if Rosemary was in disbelief, “Don’t worry, my dear, you are coming too! We will be packed and gone before the moon rises!”

Poor Solomon got his times in a twist, but that didn’t stop him moving bags, boxes, baskets, and odd shaped things in the last of the watery light. Just in time for supper he flopped into his chair, dark and sweet coco threatened to sloosh over the edge. That’s when Solomon heard a shuffle, a creak, and a moan. Startled he shot up to his feet, remarkably not spilling a drop, his head whipped left to right, right to left, up to down and down to up. Nothing could be seen.

The strange spidery senses, all humans are equipped with, tingled all at once in Solomon’s weary head. Taking exaggerated lopsided steps, Solomon tiptoed across the fresh wooden boards out of the living room into the hall, down the shadowy space and straight to an innocent wall. That is where the sound seemed to come from, yes behind the wall how queer!

Trapped in a vicelike grip the handle squeaked in alarm, as Solomon’s index finger probed the ordinary wall. Anyone might think he was mad, and quite possibly so, apart from himself and Rosemary, of course. When unexpectedly the wall sneezed and yawned wide. Blinking owlishly Solomon stepped into the inky shadows. You see Solomon doesn’t think before he does, a dangerous way to be.

Every ten paces he would stop and muse over a sip of lukewarm hot chocolate, so he could find his way back. “Always have to be prepared!” He murmured to the listening secrets of old. Behind him a mighty bang echoed in rolling waves down the empty space…Solomon was trapped with no way out. His only weapon was a drained mug.

Blindly, he felt his way down the dusty passage. His nose at full capacity tickled dangerously. His vision became foggy, veiled by the welcoming arms of abandoned webs. His tongue felt furry after consuming copious amounts of dust. Unable to cope, he wiped his nose with a grim encrusted hand to dire effect. A thunderous sneeze shot out from his nose and hollered out for attention. Attention it got, “Who dares enter the Sacred Tomb of Hozalar?”

Solomon turned into a statue, his cells remembering the childhood game of ‘Granny’s Footsteps’, “Don’t move! I have a…mug?” Menacing in their intent the words cowered away unsure who they were.

Oh, poor Solomon found himself in another sticky situation. And the question remains: would a mug be enough?