EVERY NIGHT AT precisely 10:38, the clock in Mr. Amory Backbay’s parlor strikes fifteen.

Visitors who stand at the entrance to the Cave of the Breezes outside Elkins, West Virginia, report hearing mysterious voices emanating from the interior that seem to repeat the word “onomatopoeia” over and over in a whispered monotone.

A single mauve woolen stocking has been left at the tomb of Aubrey Beardsley in Menton, France, every St. Barnabas’ day since 1898.

To this day, no one understands Finnish.

If you stand and look across the Chartiers Creek at a point exactly halfway between Carnegie and Crafton, you will see yourself on the opposite bank looking back.

On a stretch of rural highway known as Magnetic Hill outside Blairsville, Penna., automobiles left in neutral will roll downward toward the bottom, as if impelled by some mysterious external force.