As asked for by Ange…

The house stands alone, atop a windy Cape Cod cliff.

Windows and doors boarded against the elements, weeds growing around the walls.

Children whisper in hushed voices in the school yard about the house, about the crazy old lady who lived there.

They say if you break in at midnight and make your torch-lit way to the palor, there is still an old type-writer atop a rickety table.

A sheet of water stained paper still in the roller.

If you wait and watch the keys begin to move and the type-writer begins to clack and whirr, all on it’s own, typing the same sentence over and over again…

“Arnold raced out the door…”

And then you’ll hear her laugh and the moans and groans of the bodies in the basement and then you’ll run.

“She always blamed her nephew,” the high schoolers say, behind the gym, smoking cigarettes, “but he always got away with it. Hundreds she killed, hundreds and she always wrote about it afterwards…”

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