Once there was a weasel named Walter.
Walter was like any other young weasel, but he had a secret; he was a bit terrified of his basement, as he always felt like someone was watching him in that dark and dingy abyss.
One afternoon, Walter’s grandmother, Wendy, was baking.
“Oh no, there’s no eggs left in the carton,” Wendy exclaimed. Walter’s heart skipped a beat. He knew what awaited him.
“Walter!” his grandmother cried, “Will you go downstairs and get another carton of eggs from the refrigerator?”
Walter flinched. But he would never think of making his frail old grandmother walk all the way downstairs to fetch a carton of eggs, so he reluctantly agreed.
Approaching the basement door, Walter’s palms began to sweat as he thought to himself “Why! Why, me!” He grabbed the doorknob, cracking it ever so slightly, turning on the tiny light that dimly illuminated the basement.
He took a giant gulp and made his way cautiously down the steps.
He got to the refrigerator and grabbed the carton of eggs.
Upon shutting the door, Walter heard a strange noise, and in a panic, ran back up the steps, as to escape whatever it was that might harm him.
Just as he reached the top of the steps, he tripped, and the carton of eggs spilled out.
“Walter! What on Earth is wrong with you?” Wendy the grandmother weasel bellowed.
Walter responded plainly, “I don’t know, grandma, I just don’t know.”
