At three years old, our caller and his baby brother shared a crumbling Ohio duplex where front doors locked themselves, a steam-spewing toy robot cackled after midnight, and moods spiraled into sudden rage. Yet the night Dad ordered them to stand in the bedroom corner still slices through sleep: invisible hands dragged the boys waist-deep into the wooden floor while their father, only rooms away, yelled that they were imagining it. He finally yanked them free, but today insists it never happened. Was the house devouring children, or did something darker demand a sacrifice?

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