It took me a second to process what I was seeing, and when I did I staggered backwards. It looked like a bunch of furniture storage at first, a jumble...of irregular shapes, some draped with tarps. But as my eyes adjusted I realized that one of the things I was looking at was a torture rack, complete with crank wheels at either end. Off to the side was a St. Andrews cross, built of a thick, heavy looking wood. I felt a flash of embarrassment at how quickly that name had come to mind. I walked. For many years the house sat empty but eventually passed to a bachelor farmer who never reported anything unusual about the place. He lived there peacefully and prosperously for years. He was a friendly sort of fellow and welcomed his neighbors warmly. People visited regularly and gradually the locals lost their fear of the old place. Within two generations, the stories were completely forgotten and the old legends died.Kelly woke that morning to pleasant relief. In the early morning hours a. More

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