Music by Nightwish all rights
Previously on “Mystery of the Desert Giant”
Let those stars guide you, as you see them slipping by, faster now then you have ever traveled, so quick a spell throughout the night. If you die young Mr. Hardy’s, know that you die so very high, for in the end, there is a figure hiding, awaiting you so deep inside. For want of mystery Mr. Hardy’s, for want of spell, to know why. In this childhood, now Mr. Hardy’s know it now that we did fly. Know it now that we did fly!
Thursday October 11, 1973
Its picture day for the little league football teams of Kirtland, New Mexico. The sun is setting lower in the sky, considering its daily goodbye, while a gathering storm brews over the river bluffs to the south of the practice field that belongs to the LDS Church. Danny Swearingen, and Jason Waite, alias Frank and Joe Hardy, are playing football, howbeit, for different teams and weight divisions. Looking back on the situation, it’s a wonder I wasn’t maimed, playing in the heavy weight division for the Kirtland, Colts. I am barely ninety pounds sopping wet. Jason my younger detective brother in spirit, a skinny blonde haired lightweight, is grinning at me across the field. The Kirtland Cardinals are finished with their pictures, and well before the first drops of rain, are starting to fall. I wave at Jason, but he’s already taking off across the field toward the north, his football helmet under his left arm. He’s headed across the street to the Blankenship’s to wait on his Mom to pick him up. It’s their designated pick up spot. Sparky Spangler one of our coaches is yelling at me to get in line for pictures. It’s starting to rain, its cold, and I wish I was sitting on the Blankenship porch, where it’s dry, talking with Jason.
By the time, my Dad picks me up, the cold rain has stopped. A mist has moved in, unusual for New Mexico even with rain. Its eventide, almost dark, as my Dad turns west on the old Kirtland highway. I look out the pickup window, toward the northeast, seeing the Blankenship house sitting back from the highway.
Charles and Elda Blankenship were taking a long needed rest at their home in Orem, Utah. In February of 1972, the Blankenship’s had moved to Kirtland, to assist in the care of Charles’s father, who was suffering horribly from dementia. Their initial assessment that the old man would not last through the spring, had been in error, as he had hung on to precious moments of life through August of 1973. Exhausted, both physically and emotionally, the Blankenship’s had locked up, the old man’s home with the intention of returning another day to determine its destiny. Now it sits there, swimming in mist, between its two Oak guardians, it’s gloomy, and I wonder if Jason’s Mom has picked him up yet.
Friday October 12, 1973
My locker at Kirtland Central Junior High, is on the northwest corner of intersecting halls. I am accustomed to entering it gingerly as fast moving students late for class are always colliding with me when I have the door open. Even so, I am unprepared to have Jason swing around the corner knocking me into the open metal door frame. His deep blue eyes are shining, almost silver. His wire framed glasses are cocked back on his head, and he is talking, as he moves them down onto the bridge of his nose. “The Blankenship’s house is haunted, there’s something inside there”, Jason’s sputtering, so unlike him, so uncalculating, not Hardy Boy like at all. I have to be looking at him, like a lost marble, because he stops blathering for a moment. Uncharacteristically he gets in my face his lips puckered like he could place a smooch on me, “Look I saw a ghost inside the Blankenship’s last night, the lights, they just came on by themselves”. “WE HAVE TO FIND OUT WHAT”S GOING ON”! Jason’s voice reverberates above the din in the hallway. Kelly Van Camp an overgrown freshman who has a locker, three down from me, brushes by pushing Jason even further into me, “Queers” he mutters as he saunters by. Jason and I just look at each other for a moment, suddenly grinning. The five minute buzzer sounds, and at the same time we say “NOON”! We part ways, to make our morning classes our faces vibrant like dawn.
The long front lawn of the school by the line of pear trees to the east is a perfect meeting ground for young sleuths. The sunny setting seems a poor backdrop to Jason’s story, taking the edge off of the fear, and deflating the mystery somewhat. Young Joe Hardy is persistent however, and as he talks, the clouds roll in from the south, crossing the muddy San Juan, throwing wind and stirring dust, hovering, and casting strange lots. My eyes are easels my mind a canvas, and Jason’s story is indeed a hidden work of art. “It’s just like “Doc Grafton’s” house in “A Figure in Hiding“, Jason begins! It’s the Hardy Boy book he’s been reading as of late. He’s been thinking about it since last night. So it is faithful reader, to the best of my knowledge the story unfolds, something like this.
Irma Waite is late to pick up her fourth child from football practice. Coordinating a family of five children, and a busy husband, is taxing work, and the occasion does present itself for certain appointments to be met at a tardy rate. Jason had found himself pacing the Blankenship porch, as the late afternoon rain storm moved in, and just as quickly as the rain had begun it dissipated. In its stead came a mist, in Jason’s words, “thicker than any the Hardy’s had ever encountered on Barmet Bay“. He watches as parents pick up their sons from football practice, wishing his mom would hurry along. He sees my dad’s long bedded olive green Ford turning, and he lifts a hand, his farewell, knowing I don’t see him. He turns, and sighs, and the lights flash on suddenly inside the Blankenship house, illuminating the front porch where he stands.
In “A Figure in Hiding“, the Hardy Boys, along with their chum Chet Morton come across a two story house in the woods outside of Bayport, where the gangster Doc Grafton and his Eye Syndicate Gang are in hiding. The young detectives face many harrowing events in their attempts to help a young kidnapped girl escape from the gangs two story hideout. Now you dear reader can understand a young lad’s mind full of figure’s in hiding, shadows and mysteries, investigations and clues. Indeed you might would want to place yourself upon that mist shrouded porch. Watching light suddenly seep out through heavy curtains from an abandoned home, and then you like young Jason those many years ago, might hear a door open from deep inside the house.
So softly the sound, but distinguishable, with the wind retreating, the fissure of air, as a door releases its latch and opens with a slight squeak. Jason told me he was intrigued, mystified, everyone in Kirtland knew the Blankenship’s were out of town. With his brother Frank Hardy not around to caution patience, and his Hardy Boys Detective Handbook not at hand, our young Joe Hardy pitched caution to the wind and mist. Racing around the west side of the house, seeking the first curtain less window or entryway he could find. Now we can all see it so clearly now, ah reader you know, a young sleuths passion to see, to know. The first window, it is, no more than six feet from the southwest corner of the house. The large oak nearby, swaying casting reaching arms in shades upon the greyish white siding. The neglected treehouse cast aside by neighborhood children some years earlier, capping the top of the shadows near the roof line, like a hat, a witches cap. You see him don’t you, our young Jason pulling himself up to the near, curtain less window, just a light shade between the glass and the interior, and from deep in the house, by the stairs, the hooded figure, the tall dark faceless figure. Staring at our Jason, as the lights go out.
It was a time to retreat, a time to run in haste, through the mist and shadows, off of the Blankenship property. Jason ran his football helmet, and shoulder pads left on the front porch, in the darkness, with the figure. Jason ran east down the old Kirtland highway until at some moment the headlights from the family station wagon picked him up. Irma Waite, admonishing, and late, turned the car around, telling her young scared son he would have to get his football equipment later, she had a late supper to fix. Our Joe Hardy had sat in silence, his heart racing, a mystery at hand, “A Figure in Hiding“, waiting.
Saturday October 13, 1973 (Morning)
It’s a chilly October morning, I can feel the frost, biting my lips, the suns up and bright, but still not warm enough to keep the shivers away. My bike is gathering speed, rolling southward down into the valley on 6th Street. I’m at that point where a bike and a twelve year old boy are legend. Between that, the cold air, and the mystery of a hidden figure, mortality treads softly, for it cannot quench a young sleuths flame. From a different direction on this reserved morn, my detective brother also rides, and our hearts meld together, our determination like song. It will be just minutes from now. Come away with me my reader, now seconds, pedals moving. Excitement building into the LDS Church parking lot. Lift your right hand with me, and strike it high against my detective brother’s sweaty palm. Know what it feels like to turn your bike, in broad daylight, and stare across the empty pavement, the long lawn. See the Oak sentinels, those dark praetorians in color on this beautiful morning, and then look downward to the house, and wonder what or who resides there.
We park our bikes up against the side of the church, the light tan bricks feeling safe against the unknown, lying in wait across the street. The plan made on the previous day, is to approach the Blankenship house in daylight, and gather Jason’s football equipment. Once it is safely in our possession we will do a brief inspection to gather clues. “What if he comes out in the daylight”, my voice has a little tremor to it, perhaps more from the cold, or maybe I’m just scared. We’re crossing the street now, already on the Blankenship’s lawn, the sun hitting the east side of the house throwing a minor shadow against the oak on the west side. Jason looks over his left shoulder, he’s grinning, “There’s two of us”. We’re almost running now, and I can see Jason’s football helmet turned over on its side, near the front door, and as mystery descends upon us, I find I am afraid no more.
We gather Jason’s helmet and shoulder pads, examining them, as if the mysterious hooded figure might have donned them for a night time scrimmage with other villains in the Blankenship’s front yard. The front windows still curtained stare quietly back at us, and with a wave of his hand, Jason jumps off the porch leading me around the left side of the house. The window is there quietly waiting and in our excitement to look into it, we bump into each other. The light shade pulled makes it hard to see anything in the darkened interior of the house, and the room beyond to the staircase shows no dark figures or swarthy characters lurking about. The slump in our young shoulders is only matched by the collapse in our excitement. “You believe me don’t you”, Jason’s blue eyes are watery, his pupils large, he’s never been unsure before, not like this. I don’t like him like that, it puts holes in my security blanket. “Come on”, I say, let’s see what else we can find. This time I’m leading as we head on down the west side of the house.
“Nothing, there’s nothing”, Jason’s angry voice carries out, reverberating off the east side of the house. We have circled the entire house and found nothing. The silence on this cold Saturday morning seems to be mocking us. There has been no figure in hiding, no Doc Grafton, and no Eye Syndicate Gang. We are walking dejectedly across the front lawn of the Blankenship house, our shoes crunching down on the frosty grass. Almost to the street dear reader, when a slight noise catches my ear. A whisper if you will. The sound that silk makes when it catches a rough wood, and I turn so slowly, and then I’m turning Joe Hardy, my sleuthing brother, and we stand in awe. The east front upper window above the porch awning is open, and curtains blacker than night are whipping the outer edges of the window ledge. The street behind us stands empty and still.
Saturday October 13, 1973 (Evening)
I have played my last game as a Kirtland Colt. The late afternoon sun is casting long rays across the western edge of the Kirtland High School football field. The Aztec Stars run by us, victorious, goading, their coaches silent and smirking. Jason is standing with my parents, the Cardinals game played, and won earlier in the afternoon. His eyes meet mine, they are alive, I start to laugh, football, with its wins and losses is forgotten. Jason has begged his parents to stay and watch me play. They have consented, when my parents agree to drive him home. It gives us a few minutes longer to talk about the Blankenship house.
We had felt it best to leave well enough alone earlier in the day. Jason had to be home. We figured if anyone caught us climbing on top of the porch in broad daylight, with an open window in front of us, it would complicate us being able to solve the case. We were sure we had a real mystery on our hands, and we wanted to crack it ourselves. We had stared for some time at the open window watching the dark curtains flutter around, hoping to see but just a trace of “The Figure in Hiding”. You know of course my reader that we didn’t see him, I’m certain you also know what we were thinking.
As my dad drives slowly by the Blankenship house, the family car grows silent. My mom who has been discussing late dinner plans just stops talking. Jason and I instinctively sink lower into the backseat of the car, our eyes wide, peeled northward staring at the darkened house. It’s as if we left our scent there, and the figure knows we are near. The trees, the guardians of the house, they’re moving, catching the wind which has picked up, throwing shadows. “I can’t see the window, it’s too dark”, I whisper, even so my words carry. “What window”, my mom calls from the front seat. “Nothing mom”, doing my best to sound not interested, I look over at Jason, he’s still staring out the back window, his eyes moving back and forth, and I know he has a plan.
Jason, doesn’t say much when we drop him off, he gives me his A OK signal, extending his right index finger, and then pointing toward the roof of his house. I give him a thumbs up, and then a high five. I watch him as he heads for the sliding glass door nearest the families outside pantry. He bends down and looks at something on the ground studying it intently. “Is that boy ever going to make it inside”, my dad sounds impatient, ready to get home. Jason straightens up suddenly, holding what looks like a coil of wire, it’s hard to see exactly what he is holding, he looks back at the car, and waves and then he’s inside, with his plan. The ride home is quieter still. Usually not one for music in the car, my dad turns on the radio, skipping from one long distant crackling AM station to another, until my mom takes over and turns it off. We are passing the Blankenship house faster this time. I look out the back window to see if I can see anything or anyone, and the I see the lights come on, and then blink off again as we drive out of sight.
Wednesday October 17, 1973
It’s a clear day, with low wind, the skies above Kirtland spartanly clear, honest, and if one were to look from north to south or east to west, they would see goodness, to a fault, almost everywhere. Two boys, there by the pear trees, on the east side of the Kirtland Central Junior High campus, one dark hair, one blonde. Danny Swearingen and Jason Waite, alias Frank and Joe Hardy. You see them don’t you reader, crouched there in the dormant grass, talking, earnestly. Papers before them, held down by once grass stained knees, planning, a compass there, you see it don’t you reader, angles, and judgments of weight, speed, dexterity, fulcrums, balances and pulleys. Measurements and gravity, what does it take to make a boy fly? What about two? Yes, it’s a clear day, an honest clear day, blemished by only one spot, a hidden figure, a mystery that plays with a young boys mind until discovered. Criminals and “Eye Syndicates” that must be brought into the light of day. What about falling from skies, what about falling at night? The older one, the dark haired one, the one who ask, the impetuous one. He’s the younger one, the blonde haired one. He’s scribbling now, making notations around angles and percentages, and gauges of wire and height, and he writes an answer. Look closer dear reader, you might see what young Jason wrote. It’s there close to the bottom of the paper. “If we die, we die high”.
We will string the 1/4 galvanized cable from fifteen feet above the porch level on the western Oak, the one we are now referring to as Charlie’s Oak. It will serve as our launch pad. The other end of the wire will be stretched and tied approximately five feet above the Blankenship’s porch roof on the eastern Oak knotted and anchored on the split, in the mammoth Y of the tree. We will build two chain anchors each with a turnbuckle and two metal thimbles to hold and tighten the wire once in place. We will be flying at night, holding onto homemade wooden spindles with holes drilled by our careful hands. We will have rope knotted and slipped up through a chain link connected to a pulley that will slide on the wire. Jason’s father has contributed without his knowledge, at least as of yet. U.S Army surplus zip line, turnbuckles, thimbles and pulleys, used in ordinary days to pull a jeep stuck in spring river mud. Now its purpose to propel the Hardy Boys through the night air.
“How do we stop”, the questions out of my mouth, it has to be asked. We will be sliding at breakneck speed from west to east, at a 30% angle, and we have no way of braking. Jason figures if we lift our legs high enough, we will slow our own momentum, and as we enter the target zone above the porch top we will jump. The estimated distance from our height to landing is twenty-six inches. The porch roof is at an incline, and we will have our football pants on, our knees will be padded. We still have a week to turn them in. The thinking is we will come in from, the air. Not something that “A Figure in Hiding” will be expecting. Our greatest concern is how to get the zip line in place between the two trees without the gang inside the house seeing us. All great plans come with a risk, and it is the one peril that we have failed to mitigate. The chance of surprise will depend heavily on deftness and size.
Friday October 19, 1973
We wait, he waits, the entire world shutters and refuses to go to sleep. The bikes sit outside the Waite home. It is a time when bikes can be left outside, unlocked, alone. It is a time when dark figures reach without hands, with mystery, across time and space and grab the thoughts of young minds who pretend to read, and wait for the human world to go to sleep. My mind takes an inventory filled with rolls of wire, and spindles, football pants, and flashlights, and friendship. I look up from “The Secret Panel” which I have been pretending to read. Jason is studying the diagram of our path into the Blankenship home, he has adjusted the incoming angle up, five more degrees. Our dithering is brought to a quick close with the entrance into the shared bedroom of Jason’s older brother Bert. “Time for night, night, buttheads, he smirks, throwing a dislodged hot wheel track at us. For once we don’t argue with him. I will never forget the look of mistrust on his face, or the smiles on ours, as Jason turns off the light, and we say goodnight.
Saturday October 20, 1973 1:48 AM
We change into our football pants, hidden deep in the Waite pantry behind barrels of Irma Waite’s homemade root beer. The wind has picked up, coming from the south, down the river bluffs whipping the muddy San Juan, disturbing the alkaline soil, breaking cattails causing strange shadows upon the land. We are headed away from the river, pedaling fast down road 6317, with the sound of Bert Waite’s snores echoing in our ears. It is cold, and I am thankful that the wind is at our backs. The stars are shaking overhead, perhaps in concern for our adventure, no doubt trying to remind us, that there are some adventures that even the heavens cannot quench. My bike sits lower toward the back. Tied to it, is a small spool, of two hundred feet of ¼ inch cable, weighing but five pounds, with strength enough to hold well over half a ton. I can feel the links of cold chain wrapped about me, securing me, as it will soon be securing our flight line. I am breathing heavy in the cold air, and I can hear my lighter weight friend next to me laboring to catch his breath. I look over at him one quick time, I can see him still in the darkness, the stars upon his face, the wind pushing his thin blonde hair forward so that it tips and whips at his forehead. His glasses tied to his face. The spindles with their adjoining hardware making clinking noises bound to his back looking like small smokestacks reaching into the air. His blue backpack carries the metal hardware and a pipe wrench for tightening and anchoring the wire between the Oaks. For a moment, it’s a snapshot of immortality, and then we ride on.
The old Kirtland Highway is dark and empty as we turn to the west, the wind now blowing against our left side. In truth it is under a mile from Jason’s house to the Blankenship property, but the minutes seem to drag out and our pace seems to slow, the bikes moving in protest, as if wishing not to be a part of this nightly venture. The highway remains empty for indeed it is small town America in 1973, and even those late night dates, have been expected home for over an hour. As if sensing the jeopardy of our mission the wind has begun to pick up strength, and what images that are created in my mind on that dark night, from the occasional blowing leaves, I leave now in haste, for it could be another boyhood story, yet to be told.
Saturday October 20, 1973 2:13 AM
We are there dear reader. The boys, you see them don’t you. I know it’s dark, and very windy, but your concern and watchfulness throughout this night is truly appreciated. You see, I’m afraid one or both of these young sleuths, might face harm tonight, if not careful. There is the risk of the wind, and the trees, the house itself, and the dark figure. The question has to be asked, what if the “Eye Syndicate” exists, what if Doc Grafton holds a kidnapped victim in that house. What better place than this small hamlet, this decent rural community. My reader, you watch them, the stars moving overhead, the slight sliver of a moon already disappeared into the molten sky. You watch them, those two young boys, one dark haired, and one blonde, parking their bicycles so carefully against the LDS church, behind those shrubs there to the east side. The feel of the cold brick resting against the metal of two bikes. Go with them as they move now, bent over at a run to the street, one holding a bundle, as if it’s a treasure, the other two spindles and a blue backpack that jingles as he runs. And for a moment they stop my reader, and they look to where they go. There in the waving shadows dark, the limbs swinging as if summoning someone or something. “A Figure in Hiding” perhaps. It is here you must stop also my reader, for in order for the veil to be lifted, and the mystery summoned, we must send the two boys forward alone.
Saturday October 20, 1973 2:30 AM
It does not take long, faster than my young mind would have imagined. Up the east Oak, I take the lead, my mittens tearing on the rough winter bark. Up we climb, eighteen feet from the ground, Joe Hardy pushing me, to climb higher to the Y of the tree. The Blankenship house dark. That figure that would be waiting is asleep, as we planned. The chain comes off of me, my pale chest gleaming under the cold stars but for a moment, and then we are pulling it around the Oak, relieved that it fits. Jason has the pipe wrench out, and we are twisting the wire into the thimbles, then the turnbuckle, securing it with our virgin fingers, tightening it with our lives. The wind is increasing, the branches of the east praetorian at war, with the early morning rites, and we are descending, the small spool of wire unraveling, as we slide, our football pants ripping in such rough plight. I look up at the open window as we cross the latent grass, dead against the season. It looks hollow, the dark curtains blowing deep inside it, and we are shadows, moving in tandem within the night. Still no light, no dark figure, and we move as investigators, our minds set on flight.
The west Oak provides the adversity. The wind has changed direction, coming out of the north, the full branches of the tree whipping backwards. We climb, guarding our pure faces, and our lives. I am carrying the spool of wire, Jason in the lead, pulling branches aside, allowing me safe passage up the darkened bark. The decaying treehouse, so far above us is our destination, it shadows us now, attempting to fall, a victim of the wind. The cold wire running through my torn mittens keeps snagging on errant branches, as if telling us, our mission is naught, and our glory is doomed. “Do you think he is watching us”, Jason’s whisper downwards, a bit of doubt perhaps, but it sounds more like curiosity. I look up at him above me, almost to the treehouse, its rotting floor sagging, noticeable in the dim light. “Doesn’t matter, I hiss, we know he’s there”!
Saturday October 20, 1973 3:05 AM
The wire is anchored above the rooftop of the treehouse where the Oak pauses and separates heading in one direction toward the Blankenship rooftop, and the other toward the sky. Jason has emptied his upper body of his bearing of chain, the thimbles and anchors tightened, the wire cold and taunt. We have mounted the pulleys and handles, the wind has come, and we are ready to fly.
From twenty-eight feet in the air, the stars receding, I plunge, like the morning star before daybreak, the wind from behind. The ground rushes to meet me, as the sound of my pulley moves gushing sparks overhead, and then it goes taunt as my body jerks upwards, I am flying. My brother he plunges behind me, his gasp audible with life, and as we fly twisting, our upper limbs stretched, our feet brought up before the sky. I look below, and the earth is moving, the side of the Blankenship home changing, and as we glide the lights are blinking on in the house below. The figure is waiting.
I am falling, quietly in a rush of icy air and by count, I am releasing and jumping, my moments close, the sloping roof closer, and my feet are touching, and then I go forward, toward the rough shingles, my hands scrapping and sliding, and then a weight is upon me. Joe Hardy has fallen on top of his older brother.
Saturday October 20, 1973 3:11 AM
We are through the window, moving fast, the cold air inside the house harboring days and nights, of apparition, and wind. The dark curtains are torn, ripped, from the constant elemental changes of the past two months. Glass glows luminescent, a thousand shards of a broken lamp, scattered across the braided quilt that tops the single bed. The childhood room of Charles Blankenship, has been torn asunder by wind. I move too fast and feel my foot breaking glass, the sound echoing throughout the room. Jason grabs me, his finger to his lips. I reach down and pull up the bent and shattered picture frame. Even in the darkness, I can recognize Dick Barwegan’s face, his shoulder pads expanding outwards to meet the twisted metal. The light from the open bedroom doorway opposite of where we stand, goes dark, and as a heavy gust of wind charts its way through the open window, from deep in the house a door opens. “A Figure in Hiding” is home!
We are tiptoeing around the bed in darkness, Jason leading, the slight sound of broken glass crushing under our tiptoed feet. I have Jason’s shoulder with my left hand, my right searching my pocket, for my small flashlight. From downstairs not a sound, save the continuing wind howling through the room, and to points further throughout the house. “I’m using my flashlight“, my hoarse whisper in Jason’s ear seems to echo throughout the house. “Point it down”, he hisses, the light on, appearing like a spotlight at the Academy awards. I signal with the light toward the open door, my light catching the picture on the north wall of the 1940’s Blankenship Family. It’s hanging askew, plaintive eyes in black and white staring at young intruders who have come to rid them of a villain. We are nearing the open bedroom door, the darkness, leaking through it as from a vault, when the lights flash on again from points below.
It is our time, from all the time that we have been given, to study, to laugh and to cry, to breathe and to fly, it is our time. It is our time, as brothers that seek, who have flown in darkness, a figure to beat, it is our time. We are brothers, we are Hardy’s, and together through the bedroom door we race, side by side, in our ripped and torn apparel, the light powerful now, down the small hallway, to the upper landing. It is there, the stairs, down, down to the open doorway, light pouring through, and we are moving, side by side. I can feel the iron cold bannister in my hand, Jason, holding tightly to my other, down and together we go, it is our time!
We jump, panting and snarling, hand in hand into the light, into the Blankenship’s, living room, our eyes wide, and our free arms ready for combat. The room dimly lit, neat and uncluttered, so different from the upstairs bedroom, stares blankly back at us, sterile, and unharmed. The couch cushions placed neatly, where they have been residing for now, these past two months, and there, over there, you can come forward now my reader, and you can see him over THERE!
The closet door, the one against the east wall, near the door, that leads to the stairs. You see that don’t you dear reader. The one that has come unlatched, the one that opens with the wind and catches the horizontal light switch. The bathrobe hanging on the hook. My dear reader, you see that don’t you, and the dark unzipped hood hanging on the hook above it, surely you see that too. It could be that if you stay awhile, you will see that the door is not level, and when the wind does not blow, that door will slowly edge its natural way, and that robe that has found its long flow caught upon that light switch will tug, oh but such a small bit, and the lights will go out.
Postscript – The Blankenship home burned to the ground, in the fall of 1980. According to the Kirtland Fire Department’s assessment, the cause of the fire was due to an electrical short. I would say perhaps in a light switch. This story is kindly dedicated to Sparky Spangler, my little league football coach. – 01/14/2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל
Hardy Boy Characters, and Title “A Figure in Hiding” All Rights – Grosset & Dunlap