In Otisfield Maine there is a stretch of road that leads to an old trailer you must drive down to get to it, if you drive down far enough you will see that long, white, trailer. I have been there before back when I was a little kid. I cannot remember the roads name; I cannot even recall that there was a marker for the road that turned from tar to dirt. It is where we rode three wheelers back in the day. A place where you could go blueberry picking way out back of the trailer nothing but blueberries as far as the eye could see. I never went past the power lines though, that huge, thick, rock that you could stand on and still see nothing but field always afraid of seeing a bear or a snake I suppose. Back then I was little my imagination ran wild and I suppose that it could have been my imagination when I thought I heard screaming. That was the last time that I had gone to the blueberry fields, the last time that I had gone up there to the white trailer that looked like it should have had a makeover. I am sure that its rundown even more now. Now at 34 years old my friends want to go check this place out. I feel as if I am that little kid again. The fear of that scream, my imagination going wild I should face my fear of that day