The Lizzie Borden Bed and Breakfast Is a Real Boner Killer

John V. Morse room, aka, “THE DEATH ROOM”

Coming up with ideas for romantic occasions is retarded and hard, so a few weeks ago when I was hemming and hawing over where to take my girlfriend for Valentine’s Day, I decided to go big and book a room at the Lizzie Borden Bed and Breakfast in Fall River, Massachusetts. And I didn’t just pick any ‘ol random room in the house, I picked the only bedroom where one of the murders actually took place, the John V. Morse room.

Picture of dead Mrs. Borden hanging on the wall of our room, right above the spot where it actually happened.

I was under the assumption that reservations at the Lizzie Borden B&B were hard to come by, but when I called to make one I got the room I wanted (“the death room”) on the day I wanted (VD), no problem. I think the lady who answered the phone could tell I was a perverted lesbian just by my voice somehow. When I gave her the date I wanted to check in she was like “VALENTINE’S DAY?” And I was like, “that’s right, bitch.”

If you didn’t go to high school and aren’t familiar with the story of Lizzie Borden, she was a 32-year-old possible lesbian spinster who got pissed at her dad and stepmom for being cheap assholes and killed them by hacking into their heads with a small axe. Her dad got it on the couch while he was taking a nap after work, and her stepmom got it while making the bed upstairs, and then died in a pool of blood and brains next to the bed where I fully planned to bone down with my lady friend. Except no boners were had because I guess normal girls have a hard time getting wet at crime scenes. Go figure.

Lizzie the lesbo

The time leading up to our stay at the B&B was spent with excited exchanges like, “Oh my God, what if I’m going down on you and a ghost tries to high five me?” And, “Holy crap, what if we get molested by ghosts in our sleep?” The 2.5 hour drive from Brooklyn to Fall River got a little more serious when the realization sunk in that there’s a big difference between TALKING about sleeping in a room where a lady got brutally killed with an axe, and actually sleeping in one. Shit got even more grim when we were given a tour of the place after checking in. We were told by our host in his heavy Boston accent that the house is said to be one of the most haunted places in America; our room has “heavy activity;” the ghost of Mrs. Borden likes to rip the covers off of people as they sleep; and that although he had been a paramedic and a fireman for most of his professional life, and had seen all sorts of horrific shit, he’d rather sleep in a burning room than in that house.  At around 11 PM he left for home and my girlfriend and I, along with another creepy couple who were there struggling with their own haunted boners, were left alone.

Probably the scariest picture ever.

Our room was nice, quiet, and furnished in a lovely way, but pretty much the second we walked into it my gf and I both got headaches, became crabby, and then eventually felt like we were going to literally barf and have nervous breakdowns. We brought all kinds of dildos, lubes, and sexy lingerie to do up Valentine’s Day right, but none of those items made it out of our suitcases. For two of the most pervy people on the face of the planet to snap shut in the vaginal region in such a way only confirms some serious evil activity. We decided to take a nap for an hour, thinking maybe we were just sleepy and out of it from the drive, but during the nap my gf had a dream that hands came out from under the bed and tried to pull her legs under.  Her dream screams sounded like chirping squeaks, which woke me up and made me think something sensitive like “this sucks. We’re for sure not having sex tonight.”

There was no TV in the room and we were scared to leave the bed or really move around much at all, so we dicked around on the internet and that seemed to help. Things started out like this:

But ended up like this:

As we held on to each other for dear life in bed—above the covers to make sure ghost bitch didn’t try to yank them off—I stared at a decorative lamp off to the side of the room, feeling more and more mental and physically ill, and my gf just kept making this face like she was gonna cry at any minute.  Knowing that things weren’t going to get any better, and that if we stayed there long enough we’d for sure see some freaky shit that we’d never be able to erase from our brains, we texted some friends who lived nearby and asked if we could spend the night at their house. Then we ran like hell with our suitcases, lying to the lady who popped out of the office shack outside that we were just “going out for a bit.” Oh, and WHY does the office lady live in an office shack outside, you ask? Because she’s too afraid to sleep in that fucked up house, too.

The next morning we returned to the Lizzie Borden B&B figuring that since we already pissed away the $255 cost of the room by not even sleeping in it, we sure as shit weren’t gonna miss out on the breakfast they provided.  Breakfast consisted of Johnny Cakes, which are little corn turds that taste like actual turds, sausage, eggs, juice, and coffee. While we ate we both got all up in the business of the couple who actually managed to make it through the night there and asked them if anything weird happened. They apparently hadn’t known that we left in the night, leaving them ALONE in a haunted ass house, so they were freaked about that, especially since they said they heard someone walk up the stairs and open doors and stuff on the third floor in the middle of the night and figured it was just us roaming around. Jokes on you, straight couple! Those were ghosts trying to get into your room and eat your brains! I really wanted to ask them if they managed to have sex that night, but I’m glad I didn’t because my gf said that would have been creepy.

In conclusion: don’t take dates to haunted houses because it will only make them nauseous and cry and then they won’t sleep with you.

@WolfieVibes