My story takes place in the autumn of 1978. As I look back, I believe it was in October of that year. We had been restoring a 1920's era oil mansion just down the street from the famous William G. Skelly Mansion and around the corner from J. Paul Getty's first mansion. This ornate old mansion, built during Tulsa's golden oil boom days, still had all the trappings of success. The entire family estate had passed away. Fortunately it fell into the hands of a local architect who specialized in historical restoration.

We had completed the outside of the home and were just about finished with the interior so the crew was down to just me and Delbert, my foreman. At a little before 10 o'clock one morning, Deb decided to go get us a soda and snack for break time. Meanwhile, I busied myself with the painting of the downstairs fireplace. It was no longer functional so we were just dusting it out and painting it to look good. So I wouldn't get dust in my paint, I placed my bucket and brush and a couple of hand tools on the bottom of a grand staircase that went upstairs. This is where it gets other worldly. When I finished dusting out the fireplace I went to get my paint and tools and they were gone.

I thought Delbert was trying to pull a fast one on me so I yelled out for him and asked him where my tools were. There was no answer. I kept calling his name all the way out the front door and on to this beautiful front porch you just don't see anymore and lo and behold his truck was gone. No Delbert, no truck, just me feeling stupid. I went back into the mansion and began retracing my steps, thinking I had misplaced them. I was 27 years old at the time so I know my memory wasn't going. I looked everywhere for those tools. I searched the basement, the kitchen, the dining room, formal living, sun room, closets, cabinets......well you get the picture.

Finally out of desperation I went upstairs and began looking around. I looked in all the bedrooms and to my shock, in the top of each bedroom closet was one of my hand tools. When I looked in the upstairs bathroom, there positioned in the middle of the original claw-toed tub sat my bucket of paint and my paint brush just like I left it. The paint hadn't even moved around in the bucket. It was like it had never been touched. A very urgent sense of 'Oh dear Lord, please get me the hell out of here yesterday' came over me. The end of my story may be boring but believe me, it's my favorite part of the story. That was our last day on the job. On some weekend drives with my wife, especially near Halloween, I still drive by that beautiful old home and remember the day of the "tools that moved by themselves". Never could get'em to do that again.
--Bob in Tulsa, Oklahoma