hanging by a thread: the review i didn’t post
there’s a very good chance she still lives there. quite possibly in the walls.
Your first instinct might be to conclude that the title of this piece refers to our nerves as we tried to find a clean space amidst the clutter to rest our travel-weary bodies. You would be close—and I’ll allow it—but that’s not entirely correct. The thread in question is quite literal, I’m afraid. It was the means by which the bathroom mirror hung precariously over the sink. Its presence dashed any last hope I had of impressing my companion with my Airbnb aplomb.
“This place is weird” were the kindest words she could muster from her otherwise colorful vocabulary. But after the second “weird,” I knew if my credibility had a pair of nuts, they would have been cracked by her knee.
In my defense, the house was in a wonderful neighborhood “just steps from the East Promenade.” Its listing also featured a collection of wonderful reviews, which I now assume were written at gunpoint. And the caretaker was nothing short of delightful to work with. But then, I guess you could say that about any caretaker in any horror film ever made. They lure you in with their kindness and then you get sucked into a hell dimension or overcome by your darkest fear. Unless your fear is ants. Our caretaker had that covered with traps at every door, window, and crease in the floor. No, the ants didn’t have a chance!
The living room furniture looked to be as old as the home itself, checking in at a spry 175 years old, give or take. My guess is that it had been there so long, the owners were afraid it would crumble if they tried to move it. So there it sat, for decades, collecting an ever-thickening blanket of dust.
The place certainly had its elements of charm. The knotted hardwood floor. The bookshelves, well-stocked with selections for any genre, from travel books to classics. A few random board games for the guests, but, surprisingly no Jumanji. And the wood-burning stove attached to what looked to be the original red brick fireplace. We didn’t look in the stove for fear we might find the remains of previous guests—the ones who refused to write positive reviews.
After a long walk and a very pleasant dinner experience, we made our way back to the dungeon. I spent the moments of silence trying to figure out how to endure a week in this dark, “weird” place, imagining my companion desperately resisting the urge to murder me and add to the lore. Thankfully, sleep arrived to rescue her.
Sadly, there was only enough sleep that night for one of us. I quietly slid from the bed and dodged a handful of ant traps on my way to the kitchen. Fueled by equal parts terror and terrific Maine craft beer, I searched for an available room at a nearby hotel. Any nearby hotel. I practiced for the moment only a few hours away (but not soon enough) when I would beg forgiveness and confess that I couldn’t stay in this place any longer.
The moment came early, as the east coast daylight broke through plastic blinds that had seen better days. I sat in bed and made my proclamation, fully expecting her to tell me to suck it up. But instead, what I saw was pure joy. Unbeknownst to me, she wasn’t plotting my death at all! She was also looking for another place to stay and, in full disclosure, was prepared to leave me to my peril had I chosen to stay.
We hurried to book a “delightfully mediocre” hotel near the bay and made our escape before the walls started to bleed.
