To Tabatha Pope, an apartment in a house outside downtown Houston seemed too good to be true after living in a $35 a night motel for the past nine months. All she and her boyfriend had to do was spruce the place up according to Pamela Merritt, a woman who was also renting in the building. Merritt’s explanation for the horrific stench that wafted out when she was about to show Pope the work to be done on the second floor seemed dubious. And where exactly was Colin, the landlord who lived on the third floor? Little did Pope know she was stepping into a house of horrors.
Two days later, Pope caught a ride to the grocery store with Merritt and Brown. She didn’t exactly feel safe in the car with them, but she didn’t have her own vehicle, and she needed food. Merritt and Brown sat in the front, whispering; Pope, in the back, strained to hear them. They were saying something about a dead dog back at the house, under a staircase. Pope stayed quiet. The next day, in the late morning, she joined Merritt on the porch and asked directly about what she’d heard: What was this about a dead dog? According to Pope, Merritt didn’t seem at all surprised. She looked up, the light of a dare flickering in her eyes, and asked if Pope wanted to see it.
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