The Home of: Elizabeth Elanour Walsh

"In the morning, only the claw marks through the antique paintings evidenced the occurrences of that prior night. Yet, over and over again, the door remained bolted and shut. No human nor creature entered. Destroyed paintings became a simple decoration of the house. As she aged, it was the same series every night. The record player would stop spinning, the rooms would grow cold, you'd hear them-in the ceiling. As Eliza finally lulled to rest, for one final time."