…After all, each story is a Rorschach Test, isn’t it? And if people find beasties and bedbugs in my ink-splotches, I cannot prevent it, can I? 53 more words
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The Richards House was a staple of my childhood. A rotting Victorian perched atop a hill in the rolling hills of southeastern Washington; every citizen in my little hometown under the age of 12 knew the place was haunted, even though there wasn’t a shred of confirmed evidence suggesting so. 4,252 more words