In Chincoteague, I ended up having to sleep in a room by myself with two twin beds. Strike one.
The owner of the house, though she does not live there regularly, uses that room as a guestroom for her grandchildren. The room has a little wicker rocking chair and a collection of toys including a porcelain doll whose eyes can open and close. Strike two.
You see that door next to the bed? That is either a locked closet or a locked door to the attic. That is a big strike three, my friends.
I'm fairly superstitious and I scare easily. Imagine, if you will, trying to sleep at two in the morning with visions of ghost children and slowly-turning doorknobs, not to mention the fear of turning over and seeing someone in the bed next to mine (it's ok, I piled all of my luggage on the bed beforehand).
Add to that a friend whose comforts you by suggesting you sprinkle baby powder on the floor. Jerk!
As a cherry to this supernatural sundae, my bed was shaking as I fell asleep. I worried about this when I woke up until Liz reminded me that the bed lies directly over the ceiling fan to the living room. Ok.
It's pretty sad when you seriously consider going down the hall to sleep with your friend because you're scared of ghosts. I'm just saying.
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