Hello everyone. My name is Jamie, and I’m 50 years old. When I was a child, I lived on Maple Avenue in a small town in Oregon. Our home was an old Victorian house, once owned by a famous artist known for his whimsical paintings.
One summer evening, my two cousins and I decided to walk back from a local ice cream shop while our parents were still at their meeting. This was a time when children could explore their neighborhood freely.
Upon reaching our house, my cousin Alex realized we had left the house keys behind. He suggested we try the back door, and he helped lift me through a small window in the kitchen so I could unlock the front. As I passed through the dim hallway, I noticed the staircase leading to the attic.
Curiosity got the better of me, and I glanced up the stairs. At the top stood a peculiar figure, resembling a character from one of the artist’s paintings. The figure was bouncing slightly and making a cheerful sound that echoed in the quiet house. Surprisingly, I didn’t feel frightened; I had always been intrigued by unusual things.
I hurried to the front door to let my cousins in and shared what I had seen. They both listened with wide eyes, and we agreed that the house must be filled with stories waiting to be uncovered.