Eyrie Eyrie House Hotel Is Recieving Guests Again
At the top of a mountain, at the highest point, lives a goblin, the sole survivor of the The Eyrie House fire of 1901. The following is the brief experience of a reporter and a guide to find said goblin.
One must drive up the waist of Mt. Nonotuck as far as the machine will roll; here the parking is conveniently hidden under a sight that says: ‘No parking at all times. Violators will be towed.’ A tow truck has not seen this dirt path in over a decade. Then one walks up a road destroyed by a landslide; the asphalt has turned into mud, the roots of vengeful trees have been broken the ground.
One will have reached a rendezvous point that contains an invisible tower, a park where a man announces— Saturdays at noon— that he will extend his e-mail list to his marvelous childish events to anyone interested. The list is growing, but no one is quite sure if there are ulterior motives. To find said goblin, ignore all this.
Up and up one must walk. Past Goat Peak (named after a great blue billy goat), one will reach a precipice with a lovely view. Here, the trees sound like tambourines when hit by stones. Stay for the view for it has never hurt anybody, but not for too long. Keep walking up through a hidden path located behind the map and the arrow pointing upwards.
Here once the great Eyrie House Hotel once stood. It burned when a funeral pyre hosted for two dead horses, went wrong. The Springfield Sunday Republican, reported “The progress of the fire was watched by hundreds of people at Northampton, Easthampton and Holyoke, and it made a brilliant sight way up against the clouds,” published April 14 1901, a day after the event.
The fire burned everything but the stone and the cellar holes. In said cellar holes, there are polychromatic hands of children who have rightfully vandalized the place.
Keep climbing for the goblin is close. At the summit there is a small electric house protected by a fence and old school barbed wire, yet there is a hole big enough for a donkey to crawl through. Alongside the home, a red radio tower stands. Up and up one must climb, past carved quotes that read “Woke,” and “Martyrdom bombs,” is a pedestal a the summit. Here sits William Street, the goblin, the owner of the ruins, he has lived here in solitude since the fatal accident.
Despite his terrifying appearance, Mr. Street is polite and likes to tell stories of his deceased hotel. “Memories do not burn,” he said. Guests would enjoy mountain side picnics, tours, and the wide array of animals this amateur zoologist kept in the basement. “The most beautiful? The bear. Mann, the bear,” he said. He sits and enjoys the view with his polychromatic telescope, the only surviving object of the fire. He enjoys visitors, yet has the bad habit of devouring the ones that stay too long.
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