My grandparent’s house

I remember someone saying once, an author I think, that you always go back to a certain place in your writing. A moment in time or a building in my case. That building is my grandparent’s house.

A house I remember vividly over any other. Mainly because it was a haunted house.

You don’t believe me? It had all the requirements.:

1. It was very old. It was one of those Minneapolis houses that the city had built itself around it. The house absorbed all that history. The good and the bad.
2. Someone had shed their mortal coil in the confines of the house. This was a juicy tidbit that I and my sisters used in many late-night ghost story scaring sessions.
3. It had a basement complete with dirt floors and only a single bulb. This was the room where the “fudgesicles” and orange soda were, of course. If you got…