The Lizzie Borden House...

The house loomed from the corner of a common, quiet downtown street, a slight sense of menace surrounding it like a shroud. To see it, you wouldn't think it to be much special. We enter, and meet the innkeeper; a small old woman with a thick New England accent in a cheesy sweater. The other guests have already arrived: A stout middle aged woman with Target makeup and fake tan, accompanying her obviously goth-chic daughter on an adventure; a grey haired biker with a young tattooed vegan son; and another 20something couple. we made an eclectic and cliche bunch, as if from a bad 1980s horror movie. All we were missing was the token black guy.

After a snowy jaunt to the local graveyard to view the humble tombstone of the accused and her hatchted victims, we returned to the house to begin the late night tour. The stoic innkeeper faithfully carried out these duties with an air of showmanship typical of local theater troupes, but with a Golden Girls sense of humor. Of course I had been drinking since before noon, and even vomited in the graveyard when searching for the tomb. My girlfriend blamed the spirits, I was suspect of the local dinner fare. So the tour went on, showing a nicely restored house with a warm, B&B feel to it. But despite the makeover, the walls seemed to seep with the history of the graphic murders, and perhaps a faint souissant of the suspected incenst that occured as a possible motive.

Our room, the site of the murdered stepmother, was a drunk but hopeful blur by the time we trudged to bed. supposedly the other couple stayed up to contact the former specetral residents via ouijia board, but we lay in the dark room ,the snow falling outside tinted by the urban streetlamps. As the booze and sleeping pills began to sink in, I felt her hand on my cock through the sweatpants. we proceeded to quietly fuck, careful not to let the other guests mistake us for haunted activity through our stifled moans and creaking floor. The idea of fucking 2 feet from the site of a grisly murder was not without its charms.

We awoke, slightly let down that we witnessed no movie style shenanigans. But then we noticed our coats, laying folded on the floor in front of the inner-latched door. They had been hung up the night before on the claw foot coat rack, and yet there they lay, the coat rack still upright. strange activity for a poltergeist. The breakfast of johnnie cakes and eggs sat quite well while theories about the murders and supposed haunting flew through the air. We paid and left in a pleasent mood, the cold New England sun glaring from the fresh sonowfall on the concrete ground, and a minor hangover ringing in my skull.