The Villa

Matteo Renaud hated the city.

He hated the crowds and the noise, and especially the drab, grey buildings. In his opinion, no one should be compelled to live in such a place, let alone someone who was getting rather old—not that he'd admit the latter.

And so, packing up his clothes and his books—can't forget those—he clambered into his little car and zipped off to the countryside, where he had secured a villa from a friend at an astoundingly low price.

This was a point of pride for him; he considered himself a master at negotiation, and felt that he had honed the skill to a razor sharp point. Albeit, said friend had been shrieking about...what was it? Ghosts and floating cutlery.

Matteo shook his head. He was a no-nonsense man, and had no time for, well, nonsense.

Pulling up at the villa after admiring the green countryside—and definitely not stealing a flowering plant or two, he was a no-nonsense man—he furtively wiped the mud off of his hands and stepped out of the pale yellow car, surveying the property.

He scratched his head. Well. It could use some renovation. Stepping inside, he breathed in deeply. And coughed. The place was rather dusty. And was that...was that a floating knife?
He stepped forward, plucked it out of the air, and placed it one a nearby table, muttering about safety regulations.

Strolling around the house—leaving footprints all of the floor—he looked into the bathroom. It had a large, round mirror, gilded at four points with lovely flowery patterns, and...the pale face of a girl with empty eye sockets and a gaping, bloody mouth.

He shook his head. 'Must be my medication,' he thought, and walked out of the room and into the bedroom.

It sported a large, full-size oil painting of a regal figure, with a flowing green dress, and a delicate gold circlet .
It also had a red, viscous substance dripping from its painted eyes.

"Modern art is so strange", he said aloud, shaking his head yet again.

He walked out. Again.

As he was setting his beloved books up, grumbling at the flickering lights and ‘'All these cold drafts, in my day we always had heating", he heard a rattling, blood curdling shriek, and felt a freezing gust of wind pass through him and slam open a window, escaping into the sunlight beyond.

Turning around, he saw, viciously scratched into the wallpaper, three large words: 'We Give Up!'