Chapter 16: A Touch of Evil

Google Search: (tap, tap, tap, ) “Milverton Times Herald” (click).

Top result: www.milvertontimesherald.com (click).

Website: “Welcome to The Milverton Times Herald – Milverton and Surrounding Communities’ Most Trustworthy News Source since 1921”.

Key-word Search News Archives on this site: (tap, tap, tap) “Gray+Floyd” (click).

Gray Floyd: 29 results found. Archives sorted by oldest first. Key-words underlined.

May 17, 1941 - Headline: Local Farmer Murders Family

In a most horrifying discovery last Wednesday by neighbor Beatrice Rowley, the entire Ward family at 367 Cobb Road were found dead in their home. A clearly shaken Beatrice explains, “It had been too quiet around the (Ward) house for days, no kids out in the yard, no usual activity in the garden, so I went to say ‘Hello’ and to see if everything was okay.

“Normally the Ward’s would ask me to look after their house when they were away, which wasn’t often. Approaching the house, I found the back door wide open and went inside. What I saw, I will never forget, it was a bloody massacre of the likes we see on the Newsreels from the war raging in Europe, it was just horrible!”

Not much is known at this time, but a message written in coal was left on the wall of the family home. “Forgive me, my dear wife and children, for my actions are not of my own – Gray Floyd made me do this.”

Sheriff Buck Carlson is currently investigating every possible motive. Any knowledge of the whereabouts of a Mr. Gray Floyd would be greatly appreciated by the Whitaker County Sheriff’s Department.

There are 4 more articles in the following weeks, but no solid resolve was found for the untimely deaths. Mr. Franklin Ward was ultimately deemed to have gone insane, murdered his family then took his own life.

November 8, 1966 – Headline: Gruesome Discovery on Cobb Road

They came from Germany following the war looking to start a new life, but sadly, the legacy of the Erhard family is death. It is believed the patriarch of the household, Mr. Hans Erhard shot his entire family in their home at 367 Cobb Road. The deceased include, three sons, one daughter, and Mrs. Erhard, all shot point-blank range with a hunting rifle. It appears that Hans Erhard then turned the rifle on himself, ending his life.

Questions have been raised if drug use could have been a motive, but acquaintances of the family say different. According to members of their church, the Erhard’s were highly regarded in this community. Described as, “Gentle, God-fearing people,” and, “Good neighbors and hard workers.”

A family friend, who asked his name to be kept confidential, spoke fondly of Mr. Erhard. “Although he [Hans Erhard] spoke little English, he was always willing to help a neighbor in need. I truly cannot believe this fine man would ever do such a thing to his family, he loved them dearly as he loved life.”

A hastily hand-scrawled note, written in German, was found near the body of Mr. Erhard, it read, “Kein gesunder Verstand, Gray Floyd beherrscht mich jetzt!” which translates to, “No sound mind, Gray Floyd controls me now!”

The Milverton Township Police, in conjunction with the Whitaker County Sheriff’s Department, are currently investigating and not commenting on the crime or the scene. An All-Points Bulletin (APB) has been issued for anyone with the name of Gray Floyd.

10 more articles appeared over the following 2-months, but as in 1941, no resolution or proven involvement of any other person(s) was reached for the homicides. Mr. Hans Erhard was commonly regarded to have gone crazy before committing this grisly murder/suicide.

May 24, 1985 – Headline: House of Horror Discovered on Cobb Road

In the early morning hours of Wednesday, the 22nd, it is believed that Bradford Sprotberry slashed the throats of his wife, and his biological twin children, a son and a daughter, while they slept in their home. The slain family was discovered on Wednesday evening by a classmate of the Sprotberry siblings who had been invited to the household with the intention of, “Listening to the brand new Dire Straits album.”

Whitaker County Sheriff Harold Curtis Sr. is baffled. He told reporters, “The scene is horrifying, I don’t think even Hollywood could create a scene this surreal in one of their current hacker/slasher movies that are so popular these days. I can tell you this, it will haunt me for all my days.”

A cryptic note was left and is believed to be the suicide/confession of Mr. Sprotberry before turning a shotgun on himself. The note states, “I’m sorry for what I have done. Gray Floyd made me do this.” Sheriff Curtis is advising that “No-one should jump to conclusions as anyone could have planted a message like this.”

Milverton and Whitaker County law enforcement has secured the crime scene and is requesting for people to stay away. A full investigation is currently underway to determine all the facts.

The Sprotberry family was active in the community. They attended Holy Redeemer Church in nearby Whitebridge Township, they were good-standing members of the Whitaker Regional Farmers Association (WRFA) and they helped spearhead the return of the Milverton Days Summer Festival.

Surviving relatives have asked for due privacy during this difficult time while they mourn. The family has kindly asked that any donations community members wish to make please be made to a worthy charity.

Anyone with helpful information is asked to contact the Milverton Township Police or Sheriff Curtis at the Whitaker County Sheriff’s Department.

18 more articles followed pertaining to this event, but as before, nothing conclusive was learned from the ensuing investigations. Bradford Sprotberry sadly joined the ranks of Franklin Ward and Hans Erhard, another, seemingly good man, who mysteriously lost his mind and killed his family. Latter articles discuss a few connections of the Gray Floyd name found in all the cases, but not much else. Over time, the Sprotberry tragedy faded into history as the investigation moved off the front page.

I can’t say chills didn’t run down my spine finding these published articles. It’s one thing to hear these kinds of tales amongst my peers and usually they’re exaggerated for the benefit of a good story, but here it is, these events really happened.

With Abby at her Magic Club meeting with the guys, I’m spending the evening in the dorm. Even though the building is full of people, I feel a creepy, I’m being watched, sensation all alone in my room. I’m letting the heebie-jeebies get the best of me, maybe I’ll go for a walk and see who’s hanging out in the Common Room or over at the cafeteria.

Putting my shoes on, I’m thinking about this and a couple of things stick out. In the last case, the article mentions a Whitaker County Sheriff named Harold Curtis Sr., could this man be related to the Harold Curtis I work for at the Marketplace? Maybe his father?

Another question I have is, why is this house on Cobb Road still standing? One would think with the history it has that it would have been bulldozed decades ago. My laptop is still on the Milverton Times Herald site, before I leave, let’s see what I can find:

Key-word Search News Archives on this site: (tap, tap, tap) “House+Cobb+Road” (click).

House Cobb Road: 539 results found. Archives sorted by oldest first. Key-words underlined.

Okay, too vague and too many hits, let’s narrow it down: (tap, tap, tap) “Cursed+House Cobb+Road” (click).

Cursed House Cobb Road: 1 result found. Archives sorted by oldest first. Key-words underlined.

Okay, this is more like it, let’s see what we have.

July 8, 1990 – Headline: Texas Property Holding Company Acquires Large Land Tract

The Texas-based property holding company, LandMarc, Inc. purchased 370 acres located on the north side of Cobb Road and east of Route 4, which abuts the southern edge of South Hill Park. LandMarc is proposing a, 5-phase subdivision development beginning as early as next year. The initial Public Zoning Commission meeting is scheduled for...

Blah, blah, blah ... Scroll down further...

... Milverton Council Members and their constituents have mixed feelings about a residential expansion in this rural portion of town, but also feel relieved the notorious “cursed house on Cobb Road” may finally be removed.

Local business owner, Fanny Arnwyck had this to emphatically say, “It’s about [expletive] time something is done about that [expletive] devil-house. Too many [expletive] sick people think it’s some sort of [expletive, expletive, expletive] twisted [expletive] tourist attraction!”

Wow! This Ms. Fanny Arnwyck sounds like a colorful woman with quite a mouth on her.

Spending a little more time researching, I find out that LandMarc never moved forward with any development of the area. LandMarc, Inc. was eventually sold to Randworth Properties, LLC out of New York in late 2008. Randworth is still listed as the holding entity of the land to this day. I guess this explains why no one seems to care too much about the party activity that goes on out there. Also explains why that house is still there over three decades later. 370 acres in rural, northern Michigan is probably not a high development priority to a big conglomerate land holding company in New York City.

After working out with Rachel and Chad, I ride my bike through the misty rain of this dreary Saturday morning to the Milverton Marketplace. I need to stock up on canned ravioli, Raman Noodles, and other, probably not-so-healthy, college-meal essentials for our room. This could have waited till a less wet day, but after reading those articles last night, I’m curious about what Mr. Curtis might know about what happened at that house on Cobb Road.

“Hey, Hun,” Meredith waves from her cash register as I enter the store, “Haven’t you seen enough of this place?”

“I just need to pick up a few things. Is Mr. Curtis here by any chance?”

“Go on back, he’s in his office.”

I knock on the door frame, “Mr. Curtis? Do you have a minute?”

“Sure, Kyle, come in. Can you make it quick though? I need to get this deposit to the bank.”

“I will.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“Was your father a police officer by any chance?”

“Why yes, he was. Dad served with the Whitaker Country Sheriff Department until he retired in 1997. What makes you ask?”

“I was looking at some old Times Herald articles last night and his name appeared.”

“Let me guess...” he looks over the top of his glasses, “You were looking up that old, rotten house on Cobb Road?”

“Yeah ... I was.”

“I guess everyone does at some point or another...” Mr. Curtis puts his pencil down, “Son, you best stay away from the place. What my father seen in that house haunted him till the day he died. As a matter of fact, what happened there is the reason why I run this store; indirectly, of course.”

“It is?” I ask.

“I was about your age the summer that family was found dead. You see, I had finally figured out what I wanted to do with my life, and was I ever hell-bent on becoming a deputy, and eventually, sheriff; just like Dad. That Spring, I signed up for the academy and was just itching to go that fall.”

Mr. Curtis pauses and continues, “That Cobb Road case changed Dad, he wasn’t the same after. You must understand, being in small-town law enforcement is different than the big cities. Sure, there’s the town drunks getting out of hand, a few domestic disputes occasionally some minor drug activity, but rarely is there outright ... vicious ... cold-blooded ... murder like what happened in that house. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes, I think I do...”

“Dad sat me down to talk to me about becoming an officer. He looked me in the eye and asked if I could handle witnessing things that could change my whole outlook on life ... like the Sprotberry murders changed his.”

“I take it that you weren’t?”

“Nope,” Mr. Curtis shakes his head. “Dad was a strong man, both physically and mentally. Seeing the effects it had on him really made me think ... made me think long and hard. So, it was back to square one and figuring out a direction for my life. I had spent the rest of the summer working here, doing the exact same jobs you’re doing. When Fall came, I found I grew to like this place, so I canceled going to the academy. Over time, I worked my way up, became head manager, and eventually bought out the place from the Arnwycks in 2003.”

“From Fanny Arnwyck?”

“Why yes!” Mr. Curtis is astonished, “Now, how do you know of her?”

“Just a lucky guess...” I shrug, “I saw her name in another article.”

“Oh, that Fanny, she was quite a woman, had a heart of gold. I think working for her and her husband is what I loved most about this store.” He stops and chuckles, “But, if you ever got on her bad side, look out! People think I have a temper; it’s nothing compared to the Wrath of Fanny Arnwyck. That woman would not hesitate to give it to you with both barrels, along with every foul word in the book, if you crossed her!”

I was going to say that I guessed that about her too by the heavily censored snippet in the newspaper, but let it go. Instead, I say, “From what I read, they seem to think that Mr. Sprotberry was possibly possessed or something? Something called Gray Floyd, did your father ever talk about that?”

“Listen, Kyle, I’m not a superstitious man, or into the ‘the devil made me do it’ scenarios, but my father got to a point that he forbade that name/term being spoken in his presence. After 40-some years behind the badge, seeing all he had, you would think he would be more skeptical than I am about such things. Like I said earlier, that Sprotberry case shook his very being. I don’t know what to tell you about the Gray Floyd part, but I knew enough to stay clear of that house and I advise you do the same.”

I nod, taking this in as Mr. Curtis gets up, looking at his watch, “I’d love to chat more, but you’ll have to excuse me. Being it’s Saturday, I need to get this deposit to the bank before 10:00.”

The cold, misty, rain continued through the day, but the weather app on my phone says it should let up this evening. Around 7:00 pm, Alex, Zach, and I are walking over to Abby’s house, we plan to order pizza and get a head start on downing a few beers before we make our way to the bonfire.

Jack and Cassie from the dorm told me to find them when we’re ready to explore the old house and Connor said he’ll catch up later. He made sure to let us know that Leona texted, saying she wanted, “A good, long and healthy suck,” on him. I’m surprised that dude has any cum left in him.

“So,” I ask Zach, “How’d it go when you ripped into him the other day?”

“Well, I didn’t exactly ‘rip into him’, but I told him ‘enough is enough’ already. He apologized, but having a willing mouth to plug that pecker of his into can be a powerful deterrent to rational thought.”

“Hang in there, Buddy,” I tell him, “The month will be up soon.”

“Nicole and Maria might show up,” Alex tells us, delicately changing the subject, knowing Connor’s sessions with the Super-Sucker can be a source of ongoing aggravation for Zach.

“Oh yeah? You gonna ask Nicole out?” I ask.

“I’m thinking about it...”

“Well, maybe a beer or two will help get your courage up?” Zach says.

“Yeah...” he laughs, “Probably more like a good five or six...”

“Easy there, don’t be getting too crazy,” I warn. “The last thing you want is to make an ass of yourself.”

“I hear ya...”

Two large empty pizza boxes and dozen-plus spent beer cans later, the four of us, plus Belinda and Tanya, are starting to feel pretty good.

“My phone is all charged-up,” Abby tells us, “I want to video the entire time we’re in that house. We may not see or hear anything, but one thing I learned from watching all those ghost hunting shows is that video and audio can sometimes pick up what our senses can’t detect.”

“Are you going to that old house to find Purple Fred or whatever?” Tanya asks.

“Yes! Gray Floyd ... he ... or it’s, called,” Abby answers.

Tanya rolls her eyes, “More fairy tales to go along with your Flasher.”

I tell everyone about the newspaper articles I found and what Mr. Curtis told me earlier. Abby is even more intrigued being that this extends beyond word-of-mouth and local legend folklore.

There is never a shortage of parties to be found in college towns, but certain weekends tend to be more active. Especially ones like Labor Day, Homecoming, weekends before extended breaks at holidays, and, most certainly, Halloween. Finding any excuse to party is one thing college students very good at.

The drizzling rain finally let up just in time for our trek across town to South Hill Park. As we near, it appears there’s quite a few people already here. Even from this distance, we can hear the thumping bass beats of loud music and see the orangey glow from the bonfire lighting up the nighttime sky.

The party area is hidden from the town’s view by a buffer of trees at the south end of the park. With flames from the huge bonfire reaching up 15 to 20 feet high, the tree buffer isn’t quite thick enough to hide the fact of what’s going on out here. Some ambitious souls spent the wet, rainy day dragging out a pile of old furniture, mattresses, and plenty of wooden pallets to burn.

If you were to continue in a southerly direction past the party spot, you would encounter several acres of dormant farm fields. These are the fields we must cross to find the Cobb Road house. Not treacherous travel by foot in the day, but in the dark, it could be a different story.

It looks like some of the Fraternities and Sororities are here as well. People everywhere are getting loud, getting drunk, and I’m pretty sure some kind of drama will happen before the night is over. There’s simply no way a couple of hundred drunks in one place are that well-behaved to not have such incidents.

Helping myself from one of the many kegs, I feel a hand land on my shoulder. “Hey! It’s Kyle, right? Abby’s friend?”

“Yup, that’s me.” I turn and see Patrick.

“How’ve you been?” he asks.

“Not bad. And you?”

“Ahh ... I’ve been better. Belinda and I aren’t talking, we had a fight a couple of weeks ago.”

“I know ... I was there.”

“You were?” he tilts his head.

“Whole lotta shouting, cussing, throwing beer cans...”

“Okay, yeah...” he slowly remembers, “What a messed-up night ... sorry you had to see that. Hey, how is she? Belinda, I mean? She never answers my texts.”

“Doing fine, as far as I can tell.” I didn’t feel it was my place to disclose that she and Tanya have been spending plenty of time dining on each other’s girl-tacos.

“Can you tell her I miss her, and ... I hope we can make things right again?”

“Sure will,” We fist-bump as I leave to return to my friends. I also didn’t tell him that Belinda was here, at this bonfire. This is something they need to work out and I really don’t feel like playing the role of sex counselor and/or relationship psychologist tonight.

When I find Abby, Alex, and Zach, I see that Jack and Cassie from the dorm have joined the group along with two giggling girls passing out printed flyers to all of us.

“What’s this?” I ask, taking the paper.

“Read it, Silly,” one of the girls, a blonde, tells me, “It’s for our upcoming ‘Annual N.R.C. Party’ at the Sigma Zeta Kappa house in a couple of weeks.”

“N.R.C.? What’s that mean?”

“No Real Clothes!” the second girl matter-of-factly states like this is common knowledge everyone should know.

“So ... again, what’s that mean? Everyone wears ... fake clothes?”

“Yeah, kinda. Get creative with things like toilet paper, or towels, or duct tape, bed sheets, whatever, just ‘no real clothes’. Get it?”

Abby grabs my arm, “Let’s do it, Kyle! This sounds fun!”

I look at her, “Are you sure?”

“Yeah! This is totally a college party thing, let’s do it!” I think Abby is already feeling the inhibition-lowering effects of just the few beers she’s had.

“Alright, count us in,” I tell the sorority girls.

“Awesome! See you there.” Like I said, finding any excuse to party is something college students are very good at. I want to add that they’re also very good at finding creative themes for these parties too.

Jack speaks up, “So, we gonna go check out that house before we get too wasted?”

“Sure. I looked it up on the satellite map and we should head that way,” I say, pointing due-south.

“Let’s do this!” Jack raises his fist and howls.

“You guys coming with us?” I ask Alex and Zach.

“Nah, not my thing,” Zach shrugs, “That kind of shit creeps me out.”

“How about you, Alex?”

“I’m gonna hang out here too, I wanna wait for Nicole and Maria to show up,” he grins.

Belinda and Tanya wave us on our way when we ask them, they aren’t interested either and chose to stay at the bonfire.

Utilizing the small, but super-bright, tiny flashlight features on our phones to light up the ground in front of us, Jack, Cassie, Abby and I begin our hike southward across the overgrown abandoned fields to find the famed Cursed House on Cobb Road. The walking isn’t too bad, but there’s lots of weeds to get our feet tangled up in on occasion. We traverse a couple of slight hills and find ourselves out of sight of the raging party we left behind. Only the distant glow from the fire in the night sky is still visible.

“How much further is it?” Cassie asks, with a slight whine in her tone.

“Don’t know, never been this far past the park before,” Jack answers.

Up ahead, we can see the silhouettes of several large trees, it must be the southern limits of this field. As we get closer, we can make out the solid black shapes of a few structures. The one on the right definitely looks like a house, a two-story house. “I think that could be it,” Abby points.

Sure enough, the out-buildings appear to be a barn, a shed, past them is the house. There’s no light coming from any of the windows but we need to get closer to make sure we have the right place. “I remember the address is 367 from the newspaper articles I read, if we can find the house number, then we will know for sure.”

The closer we get, the more sinister and imposing this place appears. Built of red brick, it’s a huge old house with vines growing up one wall. The original owners who built this place must have been fairly successful to afford what was surely a grand residence.

“Man ... I don’t know about this,” Jack quietly mumbles, “Maybe we should skip this and come back in daylight?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Cassie sighs, “We came this far, might as well check it out. Plus, I don’t want to go through that field of weeds any more than we need to, my legs are all fucking itchy now.”

We approach from the backside of the house and can see the back entrance, but I want to go around to the front before we look inside. Abby has been quiet, but I can tell she’s giddy with excitement. In the front, there’s a partially collapsed wrap-around porch with steps leading to the front door. My nostrils are greeted with the putrid smell the decay and rot as I walk up to examine the tarnished brass address numbers fastened to the wall. “Three, [blank], seven, this must be it, the six is missing.”

“N-No shit, Sherlock,” a nervous Jack tells me. It’s clear the closer we get, the more the creep-factor is setting in with him. For a guy who was once bold enough to announce to a room full of people how much he likes to jack-off in the showers, he’s not so bold in the presence of this dank, musty house. No lie on my part, I feel it too, this place does emanate its own special aura of dark evil. I’m thinking I shouldn’t have looked up all those articles or talked to Mr. Curtis earlier.

Turning to the group, it’s my turn to stutter, “Are-are you sure we should go in?”

“Oh, for god’s sake, not you too!” Cassie rolls her eyes, “Wouldn’t you know it, the two big manly dudes on this expedition are the first to pussy out.” Abby puts her hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle as Cassie uses her foot to push on the front door. It scrapes on the bottom edge but opens. “Let’s go boys,” she waves the way in.

How many stories have been told about foolhardy people exploring abandoned, and supposedly haunted, houses? Easy answer, countless ones! Our situation here is almost comical because of this fact. Here we are on the threshold of what anyone would consider, by definition, a textbook haunted house. Even in daylight, any passerby would say, “Wow, look at that spooky-looking house.” Add in the history we know of this place, and yeah, we’re probably your typical, run-of-the-mill, stupid college kids about to trespass where we shouldn’t. Stupid is as stupid does...

“Fuck-it,” I mutter, I’m no pussy and push forward to be the first to enter. If one thought this house’s outward appearance was creepy, being inside is worse. The first thing I notice is a temperature drop. It’s about 45 degrees outside and two simple steps in and it feels about ten degrees colder, a damp, bone-chilling type of cold.

Using the light on my phone, I see we have entered the front parlor area with an ornate stairway leading up on the left. The stairway is surprisingly in pretty good condition after over 30 years of abandonment. The walls are cracked and crumbling; fallen plaster has left plenty of piles of dust and debris on the floor.

“Let’s check out the main floor first,” Abby says.

“Sure, we can do that.”

“Try not to make noise, or say very much,” Abby adds, “I want to video all of this and see if I can catch any unexplainable audio.”

To the left, and in front of the stairs, is an open doorway leading to what would have been a front sitting room with a bay window and fireplace. Above the fireplace is an old-style, thick glass mirror that’s been broken. There’s no furniture covered with dusty white sheets as one would expect so typical of a Hollywood haunted house; all that’s here are stray beer bottles, a few tattered nudie magazines, and other assorted garbage.

Who in the hell would want to hang out and drink beer in this god-awful place? Or, even worse, get off to those magazines we see strewn around? To quote Ms. Fanny Arnwyck from all those years ago, “Too many [expletive] sick people think it’s some sort of [expletive, expletive, expletive] twisted [expletive] tourist attraction!” She was definitely correct with her assessment...

The adjoining rooms are connected with open doorways that appear to lead in a circle around the first floor. We pass through the library judging by the empty bookshelves on the walls; then what was, most likely, a small informal dining area adjoined to the kitchen.

The darkness in this house has a weight to it, it’s an entity unto itself. My mind can’t help but to wonder, I’m thinking about the brutally slain families that lived, and died here ... in these very rooms; it’s so morbidly surreal. Every functioning sense I have is screaming, “Get the fuck out of here!”

I’m not the only one with these thoughts as Jack whispers, “Do you think the spirits of the dead could still be here? Angry spirits?”

“I don’t know, Jack, I don’t know...” I whisper back.

Past the kitchen, we enter a large room that must have been the formal dining room and, it too has a fireplace. Most houses I’ve been in have only one fireplace, we’ve seen three on this floor alone, all with mirrors above them and all broken. Didn’t the idiots who shattered these mirrors realize they get seven years of bad luck for breaking each one? So far, someone has tallied up 21 years of rotten luck; not something you want to take from this forsaken place. So many fireplaces tell me that this house was built in a time when wood was the primary source of heat, there are probably more upstairs in the bedrooms.

What we see on the hardwood floor makes my balls shrink and tuck up inside me, my testes must have a better sense than I about being somewhere I shouldn’t be. On the floor in the center of the room is a crudely painted five-pointed star inside a circle, also known as a pentagram. Sitting on the points of the star are the remains of burnt-out candles. Lying on the floor in the center of the pentagram is the missing number six from the address on the wall outside along with two painted sixes on each side of it. This forms six-hundred and sixty-six, biblically known as The Number of the Beast.

“Wow! Can we say ritual sacrifice?” Cassie mumbles, “Looks like someone was trying pretty hard to summon something evil here,”.

“Or Gray Floyd,” Abby quietly says.

“Didn’t one of the dudes who killed his family write a message on the wall with coal or something?” Jack whispers, “I wonder if we can find it?”

“Nah, it would have been scrubbed and painted over before the next family moved in,” I answer in a hushed tone.

Having seen what there is on the main floor, which really wasn’t much, other than this creepy pentagram (that what would look perfect on a Mötley Crüe or Slayer album cover), we arrive back at the front parlor and staircase leading up. Jack takes the lead this time, probably wanting his turn to prove he’s not “a pussy” to Cassie. The steps feel solid, which is a good thing, the last thing we need is to fall through rotted wood.