When I was about six years old,  I had the chore of taking the laundry down to the cellar to be washed. When I walked down the steps, I would see a man staring at me. He wore a black-and-white striped jumpsuit with a large smile and hair that stood in every direction, as if he was badly electrocuted. I would always see him and he would never do anything, but it scared me all the same

His gaze would always follow me, but still nothing. He wouldn't blink or move, as if he was a statue. I didn't know if it was my imagination or if it was something else. Something that shouldn't have been there. Eventually, I got used to him. I never told the rest of my family what I saw, maybe I should have, but I don't think it would have helped. Just as I started to think that I was imagining things, something happened.

I woke up late one night and had to go to the bathroom. There was one right across the hall, but, drawn there, I went to the one downstairs, the one next to the root cellar. After I finished going to the bathroom I descended the cellar stairs. I noticed that the man wasn't there. I was confused but I felt relieved. As I headed back upstairs, I realized the door was closed. I knew that I had left it open. I had made sure it was open. When I tried to open it, I realized with a rising panic that it was locked.

"What is going on?" I yelled. I heard the soft whispers of many voices. I couldn't make out what they were saying, but it sounded like they were arguing. There was a scream. One of rage and burning fury. The voices stopped, I still didn't see anything but I heard something, this time very clearly.

"Come to the boiler."

I never went to the boiler. There was always this presence that I couldn't explain, but it always filled me with dread. I wouldn't go. I banged on the door with the force of a full grown ape. My only goal was to get out.

The voices were ear piercing. I turned around only to see the man climbing the stairs. I found myself unable to move. As he reached the top step I was trembling my mind was telling me to get out but, my body wouldn't allow it. He lunged past me. behind me there was another man; Just from seeing him i recognized him as the presence beckoning for me to enter the darkness. the prisoner was a bulwark against the evil within the house. He was my guardian angel.

Realizing this eased my stiff muscles and i sighed in relief. It wasn't over yet though. The angel seized the vile man but, the angel fell to the ground. The man subdued the angel. He was helpless and i felt the same. the terror returned. the man was fast approaching. With the terror there were voices and they were louder than the man could ever have been.


The voices were now accompanied by pale ashen bodies. They soon surrounded the man. Not a limb could be seen. The angel continued towards the crowd of lost souls and opened the door, the others followed. As i rounded the corner they were gone.

I didn't see the man again until, in a habit of reading I found a book at my local library. the title of the book was Valley of Violence. After beginning to read this book I found it listed the worst prisoners in Connecticut and their crimes followed by their photograph. At the end of reading the book a mere 2 hours later i found a handwritten page stapled in with a picture of the benevolent man. His name was Michael Ginsburg. What was written on the page goes like this.

On the 10th of December , 1936, Michael Ginsburg was wrongfully accused of the murder of his two children, James and Marie Ginsburg. He was sent to the electric chair without fair trial and was only survived by his wife and brother, Anne and Robert Ginsburg. Only half a year later was it found that Robert had actually been the murderer of the children and promptly fled from the town where he was well known. He was never seen again. The wife of the wrongfully accused Michael had been sleeping with his brother Robert after his death and was so devastated she took her own life that night.

I never saw the angel again, but i took his story to heart and have begun writing about it and stories like it. My hope is that i can spread the stories of men like this and prevent it from happening again. The title of my book will be The Death of An Angel.