Lakeside Apartments were already drowning. Hurricane Irene just held it under a minute to finish the job.
The drama played out in muffled sounds across the smooth black parking lot of the motel. Knocking first. Insistent. Hollow. Without echo.
We got more than we bargained for with our rented cottage, and a little less than we expected in the ghost town
I was following Jilly to the second storey when she said, in her way, “I like the stairs in this haunted house, Mum.” I stopped dead.
“There’s a walking stick in there. … Or it could be just a stick stick. Look at it.”
Some stories must be told vertically. The story of Flume Gorge is one of those.