Oh, and this is where my friend Elliot and I once found A MYSTERIOUS DOOR WITH A NUMBER ON IT BEHIND A FAKE WALL... inside? ... a prohibition era booze hideaway. We kept some of the bottles!pic.twitter.com/6pngaoG7bA
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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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