They’re all afraid of the old rickety Victorian mansion up the hill behind the iron gate and weedy cemetery. They have good reason to be; it has a mysterious history. But no one will admit they are scared, nor tell me anything about it.

I found an old diary in the floor of the attic of my house. It was an old house too, 1800s, restored. That’s what my Dad did; restore old houses. I had found treasures before, but this diary was different. Reading the tiny scrawling words across the yellowed pages was like going back in time.

“I am apt to notice Frank’s wary glances at my flat stomach, which to this day has not borne him a child. I pray every night, but as time goes by he seems more disinterested in me. I catch him looking at women with baby carriages, and my desire to please him grows. Annabelle Wainscott.”

I walked along row after row of unkempt graves. Annabelle 1846-1867. Beside hers is Sylvia 1843-1863 and Mary Anne 1850-1871. But as hard as I’d looked finding several wives, Frank was not there.