The sickly sweet ocean air is heavy, waves crashing against banks of sand in a soundless buzz. It's early, too early for a body to wash up against the shore, the neon sun barely peaking above the choppy sea water. The man is dressed nicely, a suit around his shoulders. He looks as if he's sleeping, but investigators know all too well that the mystery man who appeared from nowhere has a story behind him.
As humans, we rely on warning signs. If you’re driving down the street and see a red octagon you know that you need to stop. If you see clouds forming against a clear blue sky, it’s probably time to pull your lawn chair in from the beach. And if you’re in Egypt and start to hear an incessant buzzing beyond proportions then you know there are nine more plagues to follow.
The fire crackled, sucking away the only coolness that the stone fireplace offered. It was unsure of itself, seeping through the logs and caving out the middle of the wood. It emitted a heated scent; one that reminded me of the one camp I went to as a child.
There is a fine line between truth and legend when it comes to the mysterious case of Lavinia Fisher and her infamous Six Mile Inn right outside of Charleston's city limits.
When you pile onto a ride after a long day of exhausting waits in lines that wrap around corners and down corridors, you expect to feel safe. The adrenaline is pumping and you can feel your heartbeat press against the inside of your wrist- but it's excitement. Never a fear for safety.
When it comes to hotels, most of them are name brand. You see the same old signs for Windgate and the Marriot, with their offers of free breakfast and complimentary hot tub hours. There aren't many privately owned hotels left in this world, singular industry slowly becoming dominated by larger chains.