{inspired by Salems’ lot by Stephen King}

You had a stable job as an author. all that really mattered was that you sat down for a few hours a week and wrote ideas or a mini manuscript and sent it to your editor for opinions, then you were fine.

You had spent the first nine years in Cave Spring; a tiny town in Georgia with a population of barely over a thousand, you grew up there until your parents had moved to Maine.

So after all these years you had decided to pack your bags and move back there to write your third novel. The first two were somewhat successful, like a book that you’ve read a hundred times and love but no one’s else has ever even heard of or remotely care about.

You didn’t have much money so you were only able to afford a (shitty) trailer in a trailer park. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. The drive was excruciating, having to stay in multiple (even more shitty) motels where you could smell the smoke of weed through the walls. You, eventually arrived though. Somehow.

You drove your old rusty truck down a dirt and dust road (it was a truck that used to be a beautiful red, but now stood as a rusted brownish red colour), and into the trailer park, it was like something you’d see in a movie or show, specifically schitt’s creek… but, this was home now.

You parked outside and got out of the truck and unlocked the door, you began moving your boxes in, you had moved about half the things there when a voice startled you and made you turn around quickly.

“Well… what’ve we got ‘er? Purty little thing..”

You looked at the trailer next to yours, in the shade was a man with a cigarette hanging loosely from his mouth. He was wearing a wife-beater that had what looked like motor oil stains on it, and a beige open shirt over it, and a greying stubble with icy blue eyes.

It looked like he was calculating why you were here, as if you were the last thing he’d expect to see here, but, a good first impression is important, and you’d make sure you’d have a good one.