I was living by myself in a two-story suburban house. Perhaps I was only house-sitting for someone; I'm not sure. There is only one other completed house, inhabited, on the street (sorta like the movie Neighbors, see?). It is inhabited by John Goodman. I think this all has something to do with the fact that Arachnophobia was opening about this time. The only way into his house was through a small, square, cobwebbed trapdoor in his garage ceiling.
Soon, I was caught up in some kind of brutal paranormal chain of events, in which little dwarvish monsters besieged my placid lifestyle. They looked like little bearded children dressed in oranges and reds and then set on fire. At one point, I saw their leader, an old man in browns and blue robes, in a mirror reflection.
John Goodman was having troubles with his house, too, so we traded houses and agreed to eliminated each others' problems. All hell broke loose then, but we eventually learned from the old man that all this psychokinetic distress was resulting from the death of their little creature, a hideous beast that looked like a six inch long Scotty dog with eight legs.