Some people swore that the house was haunted. The young juveniles of the town were attracted to it like flies to cake on a sweaty summer afternoon. Not a soul had lived there since the end of the great depression, and not a soul had entered it since the sailors celebrated victory in Times Square.

Stories of the last poor child who had entered the house frequently ran rampant through the schoolhouse like wildfire. Everyone on the playground had heard the tragic story at least by the time they were out of kindergarten.

One day in the late summer of 1945, a young kid, about ten years old, James Turpin, determined to capture the girl of his childish dreams, decided to take a challenge and stupidly enter the decrepit foundation. Gertrude Turner stood idly by, unimpressed, at the front of the crowd of fourth graders. Eventually it grew dark, and the parents called the children in for supper. All came home except for young Gertie.