The other foot and I once spent a terrifying night in a cabin at a tourist park. Thankfully we were kid free. We’d been invited to a friend’s 50th birthday party down the south coast, and the only place available—within stumbling distance of the party—was a cabin in a small tourist park.
It looked ok on the net. It was right on the ocean, and surrounded by a natural reserve. We booked a cabin that backed onto the parklands and thought it would be a great place to sleep off the festivities.
The skies were still clear when we arrived at the cabin… to see this…
The natural reserve was actually a massive cemetery.
It was a Kodak moment when we pulled up in front… A moment of silence… the dawning… and then… howling laughter for about fifteen minutes.
We weren’t laughing later that night.
A full on, gale force storm hit just as we arrived home from the party. We’d been drinking, so couldn’t escape to a more secure hotel. Instead, we spent hours huddled inside as the cabin shook, the winds howled, the roof rattled.
The other foot tried to make jokes to comfort me:
“Don’t say I never take you anywhere.”
“Last trip away was Italy, now here…”
“Actually honey, I’m shit scared myself.”
I drifted into a restless sleep where headstones came smashing down on us, and the cabin was ripped from its foundations and flung into an empty grave.
Finally dawn arrived, the storm passed, and we made our escape. The door seemed stuck. We pushed a bit harder and finally it opened, scattering a pile of plastic flowers that had blown over from the graves.
We tiptoed through the fake flowerbed, jumped in the car and drove off, stopping to hand in the key at the front desk.
“That was quite a storm last night,” I said to the woman in the office.
“It was like a hurricane… I thought the cabin was going to blow apart.”
“Really? Didn’t hear a thing.”
We won’t be returning, but it’s a great spot for family Halloween gatherings or teen Goth camps.