One day, in a small town in western Pennsylvania, a house picked itself off of the ground and started traveling west. It rose on six metal spindly legs the size of telephone poles. The neighbors looked on in awe as the house shook off its plumbing and wiring, the shackles of an old life.
Now, this house did not move itself; that would be ridiculous. Its owner, Martin McCreary sat atop his makeshift captain’s chair, pulling levers and turning knobs. He cackled at the stupefied looks from his neighbors. The quiet old man had finally snapped, they must think.
McCreary took his house out into the street and headed west. The monstrous, spider-like legs treading destruction wherever they landed, marking the street with numerous potholes and gouging holes in lawns. The neighbors started shouting at him, but McCreary just whooped and hooted, waving at them with a childish grin on his face.
When they had made it into the country and the sun had gone down, McCreary stopped the house, setting it down in a meadow blossoming with dandelions and weeds. He went inside to make himself a cup of tea, remembered he had no water, and came back outside. Then he sat on the roof of his house and watched the stars slowly move across the night sky.
“It’s good to be somewhere else,” he said to himself, and fell asleep under the night sky.