This cosy cottage would have been the perfect place to relax with my beautiful partner, after a day of the wine tastings and delicacies offered by the picturesque east coast of Tasmania.
After dawdling down the coast from cellar door to cellar door we realised that time had gotten away from us, and against the clear instruction of the host were now cautiously steering our very untrusted hire car in the dark through the winding dirt roads, of what at the time could only described as a green version of the hills have eyes.
We turned up the property driveway, plants scratching at the side of the car, as if they stalked us as we approached. The hauntingly solitude cabin stood proud and fearless atop of the drive way. However we did not.
We skulked over to the front of the house where we found a padlock on the door, that we could only assume was there to keep at bay whatever lunatic was residing inside.
Nevertheless we opened the lock and sheepishly entered. It was quiet it seemed cosy, but something wasn’t right. Laid throughout the decor seemed small hints of our soon to be fate. Books on Jack the Ripper or court appeals, titles like “blind faith” mocked us as we started the fire to pretend everything was ok.
As we crept upstairs to see where we would be sleeping for the evening, we were certain there was someone or something that was waiting for us. Instead we were met by cold oddly designed rooms with hidey holes in all of the walls. I assumed these must have been where the mentally unstable orphan children would have played throughout the night.
After careful consideration and deliberation we booked a property on White Beach that was lovely and we got out of that mother fucker asap cause it’s creepy as all shit and if it’s not haunted then people live in the walls and that’s facts man. ✌️