A Solitary Refuge
I was 21, trying to find my way in life, and the bungalow was my sanctuary. Living alone for the first time, I established boundaries, and the unwanted visitors disappeared. My friends stopped dropping by unannounced, and I finally had the peace I craved. The bungalow, with its simplicity and seclusion, became my haven.
The Doctor’s Former Abode
I understood why the reclusive doctor had lived there for so long. The bungalow’s isolation, combined with the proximity to the Massapoag Trail Trailhead, made it an ideal retreat. Herb, the doctor’s friend, would often host swing music sessions with his brass instrument-playing friends, taking advantage of the bungalow’s remote location.
Winter’s Wrath
January brought an unexpected snowstorm, dumping 21 inches of snow. The bungalow’s propane heaters struggled to keep up, and I wore thermal underwear to bed. Two nights later, I woke up to the sound of running water. The bedroom was flooded, and I stepped into ice-cold water, feeling the carpet floating beneath my feet. The snowmelt had overflowed the nearby stream, inundating the bungalow.
The Aftermath
I waited to see how quickly the water would recede, but days later, dozens of mushrooms sprouted from the bathroom carpet. I pulled them out, but they kept coming back. My girlfriend was horrified when she saw one still floating in the toilet bowl. I had to seek help from the Silks, the owners, but they seemed uninterested in resolving the issue.
A New Beginning
Marie, a kind-hearted woman, offered to find me a new place. She discovered that the bungalow had been condemned due to flooding and mold issues, and the doctor had been forced to move out. The Silks had rented it to me without disclosing this information. Marie found me a new apartment on Pond Street, just in time for the Great Blizzard of ’78. As I settled into my new home, I couldn’t help but wonder about the secrets the bungalow still held.
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