My father was a man of rough edges, not like I remember most of those edges when all I can remember in my child’s mind is being read bedtime stories at night, eating snacks together, and watching the news while…
On a cool summer night in 1912 someone broke into this peaceful Iowa homestead and bludgeoned all six family members plus two houseguests with an axe. The horrific scene was discovered the following morning by a concerned neighbor.
The next day, I awoke to see that I was no longer on the couch. I was laying on bare, hardwood floor with a thin pillow under my head and a wool blanket sprawled on top of me.
I truly hope some of you who have more knowledge in the fields of mental illness and/or the strange and unnatural could possibly help me rationally deduce what’s happening with my daughter.
At night, when we’re almost asleep, we can just barely catch the scuttling sound as they hurry across the hardwood floor.
Legend has it that the daughter of the building’s original owner died in Room 108 and has never been able to leave.
I remembered my husband’s stern words from the week before: Always let me answer the door. At this time of night, you never know whom it could be, lurking out there.
Here’s something I don’t advertise on my SitterCity profile: I hate children. But I do love video games and easy money, so that makes for a pretty smooth operation when it comes to taking care of other people’s kids for a few hours.
