The map was straightforward enough. We know the town, a Lake Erie port more active during summertime. We drove across a bridge and passed a sign that marked our route as a Dead End. Atop the cliff stood a house built in 1867. The first room contained a large stone fireplace and a caged beast.
I suspect the house has served other purposes over the years. The washroom contains both a toilet and a urinal, suggesting it once may have been a retreat or a Bed and Breakfast. The floorboards might be originals, now weathered chic. The pool in the backyard which overlooks the ravine is clearly of recent vintage.
Several people gathered here, writers and artists, an actor and a singer, a man who writes absurd and hilarious poems, a woman who has lived multiple lives, and someone who claims to be a witch. Our host wanted us to discuss the creative process.
A perfect set up, clearly for an Agatha Christie murder mystery or a Shirley Jackson horror.
It proved no such thing.
A century ago, the house would have been remote. Now neighbours surround it. The space between the bottom of the hill and the town, meanwhile, has been stuffed with suburban snout houses, painted pastel and begging to blend with the beach. The beast in the cage was an overgrown, still not fully-grown puppy who needed to be secured while guests arrived. And Neopagan witches are not so uncommon.
The meeting proved pleasant and thoughtful. The sunny day suggested a walk afterwards.
My wife and I declined. We drove instead down comfortable country roads to a place midway between where we'd been and home to enjoy Italian food.
Good days do not necessarily make good stories.
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