It was a small town. Small in that way that vacationers love—quaint, quiet and lulled damn near to sleep with its old town charm. People walked to work every day. Neighbors had been neighbors for generations. There were people that could name every resident on their street—along with who they’d married, divorced and who they’d run off with after the fact. The kind of antiquated feel that Nicolas Sparks fans ate up.
But that’s not what drew me. I couldn’t give a single shit about their charm. It was their ghosts, their malevolent spirits, restless energies that mattered to me. The more unhappy the spirit, the more violent. The more violent, the bigger the paycheck.
And there was a spirit in this creaking town that screamed KA-CHING every time it rattled its death chains.
I could barely wait to strangle every last dollar out of it with its own rusted restraints.
Cont. on the #DailyPicspiration blog.