My grand parents 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.:
- 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.
- 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.
- 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…
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