Pounding Riffles

I had a couple from Alabama on my tour tonight. The lady had a great story form when she lived in Tallahassee, Florida. She and her first husband had bought a house brick house, the last to be built in a cul-de-sac. A new house, they were only the second owners. It had been built on an old Seminole burial ground. She knew about the burial ground, but not the full size of it, and not that her house was sitting on it. When the first owners had moved in they had a 'game room' and they painted the FSU Seminole Indian on the wall. While doing it the man had a lung collapse. He had never had lung problems.

Who knows.

But she didn't feel alone in the house. There was one bedroom she didn't like to go in, ever. An old friend came to the house to see her every so often, but would never cross the threshold. She would just stand at the doorway and talk.

Sometimes the woman would wake up in the night to what sounded like someone pounding on the outside of her house, her brick house. Her husband insisted that if anything was going to hurt them it would have by then.

Then one night when they were asleep her husband woke up partially and saw a pitch black figure walking down the hall. It came right into their bedroom. It walked past their bed and into their walk-in closet. Her husband kept a riffle in the closet and the figure reached up and took it down. As the figure left her husband saw the shadow of the riffle, as if the figure was carrying it. Her husband leapt out of bed and went to the closet.

The riffle was there.