My Weekend Trip to an Ultra Creepy Bed & Breakfast (As Told in Relatively Hackneyed Southern Gothic Prose)

Perched on the banks of the River Ohio, its sagging limestone foundations wrapped in a swaddling of nightshade; elevation punctuated by two towering columns supporting a crumbling eave, the colonial plantation house keeps vigil over the tiny Midwestern town, stately still even as it recedes into a bed of leafy horticulture.
Manipulating the escutcheon-ensconced lock cylinder allows passers-by to step back in time to a cornice-moulded antebellum retreat. Taking a generous handful of pages from Eastlake's movement, the foyer introduces visitors to a forgotten Confederate aesthetic. An ornate signatory book with gold foil pages on the marble-topped lowboy invites guests to memorialize their sojourn in perpetuity.
In the parlor, a silent lonely fortepiano consorts with the gut-strung antiquity harp in the corner. The highly-wrought porcelain swan's neck pediment supports an equally elaborate knife urn; perhaps housing the remains of some long-lost carpetbagger or anti-Northern rogue scalawag.
Stepping onto the bull nosed flight, the balustrade and Turkish stair runner escort adventurous souls to the upstairs landing where the second floor guest bedchambers segregate overnight visitors from one another.
Curiously locked doors-to-nowhere add intrigue and mystery to the lavish ensuite. Framed daguerreotypes of impish pixie children and neoclassical oil funeral portraits regard one another with eternally unspoken dialogue.
A double duvet warms the four-poster mattress, skirted by a delicate ruffle; all below the velvet-lined tester. At the end of the bed rests a mahogany canapé matching the similarly upholstered chaise longue under the window. The handsome mirrored chifferobe stands in solitude saluting the books of antiquity on the nearby shelf.
But it was hella spooky, y'alls.
Fo' realz.
As a Christmas present last year, my folks got my wife and I a one-night stay at a bed and breakfast in southern Indiana. I won't name the town specifically because that would narrow it down significantly and I don't want the creepy couple who own the place to place some kind of supernatural hex on me.
We redeemed our stay this past weekend.
Just in time for Halloween.
There's a last time for everything.
At first glance (in daylight, at least), the place appears innocuous enough. A great big mansion on the outskirts of town, the hotel is a throwback to a nineteenth century estate, complete with concrete cherubs on the lawn and an azalea-lined walkway.
Through the doorway, however, the interior is adored with all kinds of faux-Rococo accoutrement procured from somwhere in New Orleans or Mississippi.
Or Hell.
Each piece was intricately carved with some creepy design or sculptured face fashioned by demonically possessed ébénistes and fiendishly deranged artisans. Nothing says romantic getaway like the distinct feeling of being watched by an in-room waterspout gargoyle (fully functional).
But the decor wasn't necessarily the big creep-out. A bit unsettling maybe, but not a dealbreaker.
No, the most disconcerting nuance of the scene wasn't the mint julip bombé or the gilt-bronzed wall sconces, it was the couple who ran the joint. One-half eclectic Wiccan, one-half folksy proto-hippie and three-quarters craaaaaazzzzzy, these two had us sleeping with one eye open - on the watch for lurking shadows and hoping they wouldn't put the Gris-gris on us.
While at a tasting that evening, the sommelier at the local winery cellar door asked us where we were staying. When we told him, he made the sign of the cross and refused us any more pinot. Then he said three Hail Mary's and swatted a fruit fly.
Later on, wafting through the halls of the manor like phantasmal apparitions, the owners guided us through an inital tour, then stole our souls and fixed us steak and eggs in the morning.
They had this eerie je ne sais quoi that raised our hackles. That certain something being poop-your-pants-psycho-scary-voodoo-vibe.
As they commented on our aura and luminous energy, they showed us around their house of horrors. They took great pleasure in explaining to us that the grand estate was formerly used as a Civil War hospital where bedraggled soldiers would retreat there from the battlefield and die grisly deaths from any number of horrific, gory wounds.
But feel free, they suggested. To explore the place on your own. And then they retreated back to their living quarters presumably to sacrifice a goat to Mephistopheles.
But in the end, we escaped unscathed with - like all good vacation getaways - a story to tell. Our memories will be haunted by our visit to the spookiest bed and breakfast ever. Our troubled dreams will be disturbed by the witch and the warlock who own it. We will never forget that dark night of fright when evil itself manifested itself in the form of various macabre home furnishings. We will never be the same.
But I left without flushing the toilet. So the trick's on them.