The Farnsworth House in the middle of town stands as a bullet-strewn monument of the carnage that took place decades past. Standing right up against the red brick wall you can see the chips and cracks where the bullets left their mark. The tiny window way up close to the roof was a sniper's nest. Nowadays, the structure hosts visitors and diners. The cellar is decorated as a portrayal of a funeral, wherein a session of ghost storytelling is conducted by an able host. We attended the 11PM "adult" session. The age restriction allows nothing more than cuss words to fly out freely from the storytellers mouth as he recounted incidents of the supposedly supernatural, which mostly happened during previous sessions. They were probably just that, stories. Entertaining and not too far-fetched to be scoffed at, and well delivered by our storyteller that night.
The second half involved a walk through the woods, with a different storyteller. This second storyteller is garbed in a civil-war era messenger looking costume. Like the first storyteller, most of his stories were about incidents in previous sessions. The question in our minds the whole time was, before they accumulated all this stories about previous sessions, what stories did they tell? We kept this question to ourselves, out of courtesy. I got the impression that he was new to the job, not yet as comfortable or adept in his delivery as the first storyteller.
Still the other attendees seemed all too willing to believe. One young woman showed the storyteller a picture that she took with her digital camera. It showed some white globs that to us looked like reflections from the wet grass. The storyteller was all too willing to make a story out of it, claiming that it must be some ethereal energy. He is a storyteller after all.
I am so infinitesimal
4 days ago