These are the back stairs, a few steps from the back door, and they go up to the hallway and to the back bedroom. That’s where she slept all of her life after the crib in her parent’s room. When she was eighteen she read Emily Dickenson and began her fantasy, which was that she was E.D. reincarnate. She became reclusive to her room, wrote horribly romantic poems which were sailed out through her window to the ground below.

Several young men of about her age became cult readers of her poems; superstitions were composed about the mystery poetess; her femaleness was poetically evident. One in particular entered a rapture and late in the night opened the back door and started up the stairs expecting to meet her half way on the way down towards him.

She was not on the steps so he went into her room. Both torn bodies were found next day; nobody knows how it started or what exactly happened, but those of such a mind constructed their plausible story and it stuck. It has been ever since a haunted house, haunted by their ghosts. And why not fairies instead of ghosts, and what is a holy ghost?

My son asked, “It was the dogs that tore them apart? At the first few drops of virgin blood the dogs went crazy with a shark-like feeding frenzy?” No, there were no dogs. Usually we visualize violence in terms of perpetrator and victim, winner and loser. Nope. Yes there was virgin blood, and then it became consensual, they took turns at each other. A wild night and a new road indeed