History weighs heavily on Salem, Massachusetts. It is a genuinely creepy place, even outside of the touristy witch trial stuff; it's a town where the police tell somebody to board up the windows of their haunted house because there are too many wrecks outside on the street, where the wall of a restaraunt caves in and coffins come through from an old graveyard, where they dig the foundation for a new apartment building and unearth a bunch of unmarked graves and the mayor tells them to put them all back, thank you, we're haunted enough. It's a place where our Inn showcases a letter from a paranormal TV show discussing their findings, where the door to our room creaks open on its own and our 18-year-old daughter has to sleep at the foot of the bed. It's a place that, when I describe it to the Polonia Brothers later--two b-movie horror-meisters whose movies feature guys pooping out knives and whipping Jon McBride with hooked chains--they both decide they don't need to visit there in case something follows them back. A shame, as these guys could make two or three movies out of just driving up and down the narrow cobbled streets and shooting out the car window.
My wife was only scared after eating some dicey potato salad at a local deli. But my imagination was fueled like no other.
More later; until then, give me a shout at johnoakdalton@hotmail.com.
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