I came here looking for inspiration. I was going to write a book about my stay at the murder house on Smuttynose Island. I wish I hadn’t come.

I pulled the cold sheets over my body and burrowed in the mattress, warming slowly and comfortably in the dark room. My only companion was a flickering lighthouse standing tall on the rocks in the distance.

Two women were axed in this room ten years ago. Their screams enveloped in the crashing waves of this sad, solitude place, and when their last breath mixed with the icy Atlantic mist they remained.

Something started to move downstairs. I wasn’t alone. The heavy head of an ax clunked up the staircase. I sat up. Two women appeared by my bed, slumped on the floor. They stirred to life becoming increasingly worried as the ax drew closer. They huddled together and waited. My heart barely beat as I watched them die. The pale faced murderer dragged their bodies to the shore like I wasn’t even there. I didn’t recognize him. The towns people had hung the wrong man.