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Aunt Molly's Haunted Attic

Aunt Molly's Haunted Attic


"You fun ball well, Rebekka" -- Fort Worth Victorian Ghost

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My friend, Frances, came over to my house for coffee one Sunday morning, gushing, (as usual) with newsy tidbits of this and that. She actually caught my interest though, when she said, "You’re a believer in ghosts, I know, so I can tell you this story?" "Sure." I replied. "You remember my friend, Becky, right?" "Sure." said I. "Well, you know she’s working part-time for that Architect that offices out of his home. That old Victorian home in the Museum District, remember." Waxing monosyllabic as always, I said, "Sure." "Well," said Frances, breathlessly, "She’s been working for him for several weeks now, and some strange things have begun to happen." "What?" I said. "Well, she and the architect started noticing things disappearing, or having been moved, almost like a prankster was moving things around." "Hm." said I. "Yes." said Frances. "And one day, Becky was typing away at the computer, and she heard a funny sound. She looked up, and she saw a child’s old baseball rolling all by itself down the hallway towards the studio/office.

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She was the only one in the house, and this was a pretty strange occurrence to her. The ball slowly rolled until it lightly touched her feet. Becky gently kicked the ball in fun back down the hallway. A while later, the ball came rolling back." "Weird," said I. "Yes." said Frances. "And then, Becky began testing what she could only assume were ‘ghosts’. She would hide the ball weird places, like on top of the coffee bar, this also when she was the only person at the office...the ball would turn up someplace really bizarre, like the middle of her chair." One day, the ball came rolling up to her from down the hallway, and on it were written the words, in arcane handwriting, in old-fashioned ink, "You fun ball well, Rebekka." Then the word "fun" was crossed out, and "play" was written above it, again in the same childish, old-fashioned hand. This really freaked Becky out. First of all, how did the "ghosts" know that her real name was Rebekka, spelled the old fashioned, biblical way. One day, the Architect’s mother came to visit the studio. She came breathlessly in, saying, "I just had the strangest experience as I was coming up the sidewalk. A little boy in old fashioned clothes asked me if I was his grandmother, and if I was, was I here for his birthday, and if so, could I bake him an apple pie for his birthday, because he really loved apple pies better than anything." Becky assured her there were no little boys that lived even nearby, most of the Victorian homes in the area being turned into professional offices." "Wow." I said. Frances continued, "I don’t think my friend Becky’s going to go back over there any time soon, though." "Why not?" said I. "Well, the architect began restoring the basement, and when they started digging in the basement? They found the skeleton of two little boys, one grade school age, and one pre-teenage, buried in the basement, together. Their skulls were bashed in. The architect did some researching, and it seems perhaps their own father murdered them." "Poor things," I thought. "Yep. ‘You fun ball well, Rebekka. R-E-B-E-K-K-A. Her given name. Imagine." said Francis. "Oh, yeah. I can." said I, with a knowing grin.


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