It’s late November in this Atlantic costal town in New England,
with it’s jagged coastlines cold misty dread! I think enough said.
My mother’s family had moved long ago some said forever more
then in her will said a letter, a country inn now come and get her.

Now I’m on this narrow dirt road jetting out the south end of town
no street lights, no signs, the crickets chirp and they rhyme. It’s heavily
wooded with fluttering leaves from a howling wind that’s making jittery
knees. It’s funny on the trip coming I was humming a country inn oh! how
swell now on this road while crunching toads I’m thinking Bates Motel.

My mind was frozen still while this patch of road climbed this wicked hill
making this gray dusty cloud damn! even the fog is loud. That makes this
all complete now with shaky hands and my reluctant stance I think I’ve
just crossed a creek. At the top of the hill were the road flattens out I am
passed the thrills this cold numbing chill I’m now starting to feel ill.

There’s my Country Inn just to it’s right there’s a flicking light, I’m ready
to rescind faded wood the peeling paint luxury this ain’t. Hey! there is a large
porch I could use a good torch, I’m looking around but scared to go in it’s
creepy at night I could use a good friend. I made it to the porch but then lost
my spine then ran to my car before losing my mind.

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