Let Him Be Wise, Or Let Me

My Name Is Mary Katherine Blackwood. I Am Eighteen Years Old, And I Live With My Sister Constance. I Have Often Thought That With Any Luck At All, I Could Have Been Born A Werewolf, Because The Two Middle Fingers On Both My Hands Are The Same Length, But I Have Had To Be Content With What I Had. I Dislike Washing Myself, And Dogs, And Noise. I Like My Sister Constance, And Richard Plantagenet, And Amanita Phalloides, The Death-cup Mushroom. Everyone Else In Our Family Is Dead.

Certainly There Are Spots Which Inevitably Attach To Themselves An Atmosphere Of Holiness And Goodness; It Might Not Then Be Too Fanciful To Say That Some Houses Are Born Bad.

I Was Already Doing A Lot Of Splendid Research Reading All The Books About Ghosts I Could Get Hold Of, And Particularly True Ghost Stories - So Much So That It Became Necessary For Me To Read A Chapter Of _little Women_ Every Night Before I Turned Out The Light - And At The Same Time I Was Collecting Pictures Of Houses, Particularly Odd Houses, To See What I Could Find To Make Into A Suitable Haunted House.

I Really Think I Shall Commence Chapter Forty-four," He Said, Patting His Hands Together. "i Shall Commence, I Think, With A Slight Exaggeration And Go On From There Into An Outright Lie. Constance, My Dear?" "yes, Uncle Julian?" "i Am Going To Say That My Wife Was A Beautiful Woman.

Oh Constance, We Are So Happy.