Wednesday, September 8

1950, suburban mid-western america.

An old, old man in plaid pants ran screaming from a restuarant where he had been sitting quietly over a plate of pancakes. "My violin!" he screamed. "My wonderful violin! Why?" He was then run over by some gangsters being chased by the FBI.

In searching his house, everything seemed normal, except for one room was mysteriously locked. It had a series of deadbolts and combination locks, which isn't ordinary for a bedroom door. Inside was found a pile of jewels and tiaras. The windows in the room were all painted black. Scribbled drawings of strange creatures and trains covered every inch of the walls.

The man's only surviving family member, a niece, was unable to be located.

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