Room Key Number 5
April 5th, 1950Thunder rolls over the hills of Maine, as rain blows like arrows in a bloody battle. In the distance a lighthouse gleams like a bright sun. Nearby the long shores are brushed with waves that pound madly against the sand. Next to the lighthouse, a white picket fence surrounds an old 1800s Victorian house standing through the rain. A beaming light streams through the windows of the house that seemed quite cozy and warm on a rainy night. This sight appealed pleasing to our guest Mr. Phillip; he is a pastor of a church up the street. As the rain pounds, he looks at his car on the side of the road. A tire had gone flat, and not a pay phone around to call for help. He looked around the premises: not a sight of a station for miles. He gazed back at the giant house in the distance. “ Looks like I have no choice but to stay here;” He said to himself. Gathering up his suitcase and a bag of sunflower seeds, which were his favorite, he started down for the house through the tall prairie grass. The rain grew harder and harder, making the grass slick. He tried to be careful but was not successful. He fell, bottom-first into a pile of mud. “ O’ this suit was a rental ugh now I owe the retail 40 bucks to clean it.” As the light in the windows grew bigger, a sign by the house said Ghost Light Inn. “That’s a strange name for a nice Inn.” In a instant lightning flashed with a loud crack of thunder. He approaches the long deck that wrapped around the house, and as he steps on the wooden stairs they moan and creaked sounding like a ghost. He shrugged it off and went up to the door; it was made of cherry wood with a gold crown molding it was the only well-tended thing on the outside of the house.