In my last post, I told you one of the saddest stories that I have ever told.
Now, I'm going to tell you one of the scariest.
"I SHOOT EVERY SECOND PROWLER, THE FIRST ONE JUST LEFT."
That was handwritten on a note thumb-tacked to the door of this overgrown red brick building along a lonely stretch of road west of Singhampton, Ontario. Above the note was a sign reading "HUNTING PERMITTED BEYOND THIS POINT."
Cob webs stretched, snapped and fell away as my sweaty hand trepidatiously turned the knob and the door creaked slowly open.
"Hello?" I attempted to yell but faltered and merely whispered.
I tried again, yelling but sounding more scared than anything...
"HELLO?!!"
From the road, the building appeared at one time to have been a schoolhouse or church. But inside, with those death threats on the door behind me, I instantly realized that it had been converted to a private residence of a Yugoslavian family of Slovenian descent. It became obvious very quickly that hunting was an obsession to the primary occupant and decorator of this abode. As were alcohol consumption and aviation.
Hunting gear was everywhere, and I mean everywhere.
My hands brushed through and separated what I thought was a beaded curtain. I poked my head through and shouted my greeting once more, this time with confidence. A voice broke the silence. It was Ninja behind me proclaiming that the beaded curtain was actually made of beer caps and bullets.
Sweaty palms got sweatier. Nervousness intensified. That threat on the door behind us got very real and we were on edge. Our fear was almost palpable.
But once again, curiosity won out over fear and we ventured deeper into the house...
jermalism: Abandonment Issues: Yugoslavian Hunting House
Now, I'm going to tell you one of the scariest.
"I SHOOT EVERY SECOND PROWLER, THE FIRST ONE JUST LEFT."
That was handwritten on a note thumb-tacked to the door of this overgrown red brick building along a lonely stretch of road west of Singhampton, Ontario. Above the note was a sign reading "HUNTING PERMITTED BEYOND THIS POINT."
Cob webs stretched, snapped and fell away as my sweaty hand trepidatiously turned the knob and the door creaked slowly open.
"Hello?" I attempted to yell but faltered and merely whispered.
I tried again, yelling but sounding more scared than anything...
"HELLO?!!"
From the road, the building appeared at one time to have been a schoolhouse or church. But inside, with those death threats on the door behind me, I instantly realized that it had been converted to a private residence of a Yugoslavian family of Slovenian descent. It became obvious very quickly that hunting was an obsession to the primary occupant and decorator of this abode. As were alcohol consumption and aviation.
Hunting gear was everywhere, and I mean everywhere.
My hands brushed through and separated what I thought was a beaded curtain. I poked my head through and shouted my greeting once more, this time with confidence. A voice broke the silence. It was Ninja behind me proclaiming that the beaded curtain was actually made of beer caps and bullets.
Sweaty palms got sweatier. Nervousness intensified. That threat on the door behind us got very real and we were on edge. Our fear was almost palpable.
But once again, curiosity won out over fear and we ventured deeper into the house...
jermalism: Abandonment Issues: Yugoslavian Hunting House
