#5 The Phantom Pompadour
The witching hour, a night bird cries in the distance. A chill creeps into air, like the skeletal hand of death itself. You feel a clammy sweat covering your forehead. Â Is that faint surf guitar you hear-perhaps the revving of a distant hot rod? The ghostly image of rockabilly hair is seen, floating down the hall…
Hahaha. Love this.
Thanks! It’s very much my sense of humor. Expect more like this as we go!