The house my family lived in when we moved to Indiana was built in 1932, a brick Tudor with a lot of character and very few closets or electrical outlets. Every winter, the mice would come to frolic, and one particularly cold year we kept a tally on the fridge of how many had been caught by the cat, the dogs (two terriers--excellent mousers!), and the traps--and one by a neighbor boy who dropped the firplace screen on it.
The most successful trapping place was underneath the gas stove, on either side of the broiler drawer. One evening I recall my mom setting both those traps, and before she could sit down next to me at the kitchen table we heard "Snap!" ... "Snap!".
I was always afraid that a mouse that eluded the trap would catch fire when we were baking something and run back into the walls while still aflame, perhaps setting the house on fire.
Sometimes, imagination is not a good thing.