The first tale came just after night. Clara Morris stirred in her sleep, allowing it was the wind percolating through the cracks of the century-old grange. But when she opened her eyes, the room was still, the curtains unmoving, and the air so heavy she could nearly taste it. The tale came again — faint, breathy, like someone speaking from a mouth pressed against wood. She sat up. Her hubby Luke was gone, working his late shift at the sanitarium, leaving her alone except for the old walls and the steady ticking of the forefather timepiece in the hallway.