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Sam's brother kept the skull in his basement rec-room bar, once a staple of middle America. When he would go down there he would often see the rocking chair rocking gently. Thinking it a breeze from an open window, he made sure all the basement windows were closed securely, but still the chair would rock. On one occasion his wife was in the kitchen, leaning on the counter watching a TV in the next room, when she felt a slap on her bum. “Stop that, Paul!” she yelled at her husband, assuming he was standing behind her and had administered that mildly painful smack. Her husband answered from the bedroom at the other end of the house, and she spun around to find nothing. No one was there. Odd. Odd things continued to happen, until one day Paul was taking a shower in a bathroom without a window, when a wind came up and wrapped the shower curtain around him. That was it. He pulled shower curtain and rod down, clamped them tightly to himself, strode directly to the basement, took the skull and dumped it in the trash. And there the story ends, only to begin again when someone finds a skull in the garbage and takes it home as décor. How many times has this story been repeated over the decades, or centuries perhaps? And how many more times will it be found, and discarded, and found and . . . ?
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