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In the attic there lives a ghoul. His name is Frank. He is not loud. He does not take up much space. He does not eat food. If you didn’t look hard, you wouldn’t see him at all.

He likes the house best when it’s full of people. He gets lonely without noise. When left to his own devices, he creeps down from the attic and rifles through the drawers and closets. He particularly likes things under the couch. He’s got quite the penny collection now. In a million more, he’ll be able to buy a gift for his family.

Frank has quite the sense of humor, though no one understands it. There’s something hilarious about pineapples to him but we haven’t figured out why he puts them in the oven. In the summer, we find pool noodles in the hall closet. We don’t have a pool. That always gets a chuckle.

When the car rolls into the driveway, he scurries back upstairs. Without a noise, of course, because he is always so silent. Situated back into place, pleased, he is invisible again.


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