There is a town on the Mississippi River that is the boyhood home of Mark Twain.  A place of fishing holes, steamboats, whitewashed fences, and boys running wild along the riverbank. That's one version of Hannibal, Missouri. The other version has a dead girl hanging in a cave, a lumber baron who never stopped coming home, and a figure in a long dark coat who stands at the cemetery fence after dark and watches you among the graves. Twain knew all of it. He just hid it in the stories everyone read to their children.

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