Folks... there’s no more bags in there. Just this creepy ass bookcase pressed RIGHT NEAR THE DOORpic.twitter.com/YlAt9jt4Vg
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I just investigated with my mom. Her, immediately: "Oh I thought I put that bookcase in the corner." NOPE. FUCK THAT. OUT. DONE. END THREAD. MOVES OUT. BURNS HOUSE. SALTS EARTH.
I've been thinking about this spooky fun thread and the problem is that I've never been someone who can leave well enough alone.
For I could talk about all the usual conclusions people make when it comes to "Haunted New England Stories" and I think it's unsurprising that this beautiful, old, odd wooded land with their little cute colonial houses are full of old puritanical ghosts.
The kinds leftover for archaic witch burnings and silent vows. And so I could talk about how the weird noise in my side attack ties into some deeper external lore that fits the area to a T...
But the problem is that it's all just an achingly clear metaphor. The houses are just like human beings, projecting normalcy and quaintness, but actually filled demons of regret, pain, secrets, fear, and the barren parts of stone that hide within.
Most of the time, they're all gathering cobwebs with a dusty forgotten bookshelf that's been left behind. No, these aren't external fears, these are the parts within ourselves. And the simple truth is that New England isn't haunted... New Englanders are.
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