I decided the other day I was tired of sunshiny, waxing nostalgic posts about the South. My beloved, mosquito-infested, sun-tea South. I wanted death and mayhem. It was a Stephen King kind of day. But instead of reading one of his tomes, I thought I’d try my hand at my own.

There’s a little hotel in Seymour, my hometown, that’s been around since before me. Seymour isn’t a destination; it’s a place you pass through to get somewhere better. We have no attractions, unless you count McMahan’s Nursery. Generally, if you come to Seymour, you’re visiting relatives, and if they’re not crazy, you’re staying with them. If space is tight, or they don’t have a pool, you’ll stay in Sevierville. Preferably close to the Cracker Barrel.

I digress. The name of aforementioned hotel is The Wayoma Hotel. I don’t know what it means, I’ve never really thought much about it. It used to have a teeny tiny pool out front, surrounded by a utilitarian chain link fence, but when I started doing my Google-based research I saw that it has been filled in and now serves as a “playground”. Read: patch of browning fescue where you might walk your dog.

I’ve had it fixed in my head forever that this was a no-tell ho-tell, you know what I mean? *drops a suggestive wink* I also thought it was always a little dirty in general, perhaps a place a man might stay while he’s working out divorce proceedings. I mean, why else would the place exist? It’s not a big hotel. Oh no. It’s maybe ten rooms at the most, all ground level, laid out in an L-shape. It’s dull crème and brown exterior encourages no one to look twice. Situated next to a body repair shop quite close to the highway, there’s no view to speak of, and I can imagine the smell was greatly improved while Parton’s was in business across the road smoking butts. Pun intended. (But that really was the name of the barbeque joint). I could never actually see the pool, as it is positioned on a bit of a knoll, but I had envisioned a permanently stagnant breeding ground for tadpoles and the like. That part may be true, but since it’s filled in now, I will never know. And it never has a vacancy. I figured the neon sign was stuck, because who would be staying there? Of the divorcing men in Seymour, the majority of our population in this day and age could certainly afford something better. This is not the Seymour of 1985.

And here was going to be the location of my story. I figured on murder. I figured on suicide. I figured on a rotary-dial phone and dirty carpet and cigarette butts discarded on every surface. I wanted the grease, the grime, the stagnant stench of stale air and body odor.

Like I say, I went to Google. Turns out, there is only one Wayoma. I have to wonder if it was a woman’s name, like Winona. Or maybe the original owner was fixated on Winona but didn’t want to be found out and have to pay royalties and changed it to Wayoma to avoid legal fees. *shrug* We’ll never know, because I couldn’t find a thing about the history of the place. Granted, I didn’t look long, because what I found discouraged me from writing anything.

Oh, you think it’s really sordid now, don’t you? Have you already googled it yourself? Well, spare me a few more words.

The first thing it pulled up was four images. Of course I clicked. Hmmm. Pretty standard. And certainly cleaner than some places I’ve stayed in (looking at you, Shelbyville hotels the week of the Celebration). And it had four stars, which was laughable. Have these people ever stayed anywhere besides a teepee? Perhaps an Embassy Suites? Or even a Holiday Inn? But as I read the reviews, my giggles stopped short.

This hotel seems to owned by my cherished third grade teacher. It does not keep an updated presence online, but the customers she has are repeat business. They are simply hard working people who tend to come in for family reunions or funerals. Sometimes holidays, like Thanksgiving and Christmas. Well, that explains why it seems to be permanently booked. There’s always somebody dying. And you don’t want to make a vacation out of the visit, that seems vulgar. Even the people on the viper pit group of Seymour Speaks Out wrote positive things about the hotel. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I’ve had it all wrong. I can’t even blame it on “looks can be deceiving” because I’m now seeing it in a new light. It’s simply dated, architecture from the industrial era. The paint is new, it’s just dull. I suppose unobtrusive would be a better adjective. Don’t get me wrong, I’m tickled there is no darkness in that little building. It’s a relief it’s still owned by a local family that takes pride in their business. I’m thrilled that not everything has to be updated and brand-spanking new to be successful.

There is no link to share, as there is no website devoted to this little gem.

So there will be no suspense thriller from me. At least not one set there. I should have known. I don’t remember ever taking any frantic 911 calls from the business, ever. Maybe I need to replay some of those in my head for a locale. Or maybe I need to stick to the moonlight and magnolias.