Mayhap, Vortexers grow weary of New England tales. Too bad for thee. We have far more oysters to fry.
The Hawthorne Hotel was not my first choice for accommodations when planning a trip to Salem, even though it had been on my radar since the Ghost Hunters episode that featured it, but the planned B&B did not work out. Sure, my bathroom rug at home was larger than the entire room and the shower was half the size of an airplane lavatory, but I would not have traded the experience for the world.
Around three am, I stumbled to the restroom (far, far too much beer) which was simply a hop from the bed's foot. Upon settling back under the covers, as tucked as Kate Gosslin after free surgery, I felt pressure on my feet. Like Gary Coleman had sat on them. Not a tremendous weight, but enough that it drug me out of my quasi-alert state. Gary didn't stay for long, just a quick pause. After a scientific assessment of the room that Jason and Grant would have been proud of (and no, the air wasn't blowing on my feet as they'd determined in the eppy), I settled back under the covers and waited. To be honest, I'm not the most skeptical person you've ever met regarding the paranormal, and I do fully understand the power of suggestion, but damned if Gary Coleman returned and brought his cat and an aluminum baseball bat with him.
And this cat would not do a donut and settle. For almost ten minutes, little pressure points disregarded my feet's willingness to drift back to sleep. Then Gary joined us and laid a heavy aluminum bat alongside my leg. This was no air current, Mr. Ghost Hunter. This was an entirely different kind of stroke.
Sorry. Couldn't resist.
Lest you think I'm nuts and there is no self-respecting ghost who would want to rub the putrid feet of weary travelers, I invite you to visit the Hawthorne yourself. Room 323. Just don't drop the soap. Really. You won't be able to bend over and pick it up.
Tomorrow: Romancing Plymouth: How the Mayflower Compact Left No Room for Negotiating Restrooms in the Promised Land