It was cold outside and the sun was setting. Time for a cup of tea thought Tarquin Shcmittendorf, resident of Mistyfront Manor and earl of Chinchester, England. Tarquin always had a cup of English earl grey tea in the evening, before settling down to watch the English football.
Tarquin made his way to the kitchen where the kettle was. He filled the kettle with water and switched it on. He took a mug from the mug tree and placed two crumpets in the toaster. The kettle had nearly finished boiling. Tarquin got the tea pot ready and placed a tea bag inside it. But the kettle didn’t switch itself off…it kept boiling. The boiling water splashed out of the kettle and onto Tarquin’s hand.
“Ahhhhhhh! That hurts!” said Tarquin in fear.
The kettle had just malfunctioned and shot boiling water out, burning Tarquin’s hand. He ran it under a cold tap.
“Bloody thing” said Tarquin. “I need to get a new one, that one’s old.”
Tarquin had finished watching the football and was readying himself for bed. He had just finished reading his book on horses and had switched out the light. He closed his eyes. Silence, save for a few nighttime noises. An owl. The sound of wind outside. Then an unexpected noise, the sound of…a kettle boiling. Could it be? Yes! It was that bloody kettle! Making his way downstairs Tarquin saw that the kettle was indeed boiling.
“I thought I’d turned it off” he said to himself inside his head.
Now Tarquin unplugged the kettle at the mains. He walked the long, winding stairs to his bedroom. He slipped back into his still warm bed and closed his eyes. Thoughts danced across his mind…the football – Beckham had scored!…his dead wife Elise…he still missed her. Tarquin opened his eyes suddenly, his train of though interrupted. He could hear a low gurgle, the sound of boiling water. It was the kettle! He had unplugged it, how was this possible? Once again he made his way downstairs to the kitchen and switched on the light. His heart skipped a beat, sure enough the kettle was boiling…and it was unplugged. This was too much for Tarquin, in a rage he threw a left hook at the kettle, knocking it to the lino floor. Boiling water spilled out, steam rose.
“Just stop boiling!” screamed Tarquin.
Tarquin had returned to bed and, after a restless night, awoken and made himself breakfast – crumpets with marmite. The kettle was now in the box it came in, in the garage. Tarquin had to open a supermarket today, such was the responsibility of an aristocrat. He was cleaning his teeth in the bathroom when he felt a cold chill, goosebumps appeared on his skin. There was a malevolent entity in the room, he could sense it. Spinning around Tarquin gazed with horror upon the kettle rocking it’s way towards him. His mouth dropped open spilling toothpaste and saliva down his shirt. He threw his toothbrush at the kettle, but this only enraged it and it rocked more vigorously. Slowly it came nearer, the water inside it starting to boil with an evil gurgle.
“Aaaaaahhhhhhhhh!” said Tarquin, leaping though the bathroom window onto the sloping roof outside. He scrambled down it’s tiles, a few came loose. Tarquin fell through the conservatory…then everything went black.
He woke with an intense pain in his head…was it all a dream? He had had and accident. He was confused. He slowly turned his head to the side…a vague shape came into focus. The kettle, it’s lid rising and falling on it’s hinge…it was laughing. The kettle was laughing. The kettle was evil. And now it had him just where it wanted, and it wanted him boiled alive.