You know that house you pass when you get lost on a back road?
Every back road in Pennsylvania has one.
The house the forest has been lazily trying to reclaim since the day it was built, tucked neatly between somewhere and nowhere?
Itās just a house, of course. You tell yourself that itās just a house, anyhow. Youāre a rational person, and itās just a regular house. Thereās a suburb like a mile back, for Christās sake. Youāre not exactly stranded. Just lost. Itās late, and you need to turn around.
The porch is a heap of deer skulls and axes and water-logged indoor furniture, and you try to slow your breathing. Plenty of people hunt. Plenty of people chop firewood. Plenty of people survive turning around in someoneās driveway, so why are you being such a baby? What are you afraid of?
And surely itās a safer place to reset your GPS than theā¦ Well, what must have been a farm, onceā¦ up the road. With its single, emaciated horse and its howling, feral cats and its tetanus-trap of vine-choked, scrap-ravaged cars.
Surely this is safer, you think.
And youād be right, most nights.
I mean, thereās an even chance youāll be pulling chunks of deer out of the grille of your car if you panic and drive away too fast, but thatās not the houseās fault. Thatās just Pennsylvania for yaā.
Most nights, everything is perfectly fine, and youāll laugh it off as sleep-deprived paranoia and arrive at your destination unscathed and unchanged.
But every so oftenā¦ If the sky is clear and the air is crisp, and you listen very carefully, youāll hear meā¦
Perched on the roof, just outside of your view, just fuckinā shreddinā on this toy accordion I got on Craigslist for ten bucks. Just, like, reallllly goinā at it like you would not believe, whispering, āHell yeah,ā every few measures.
Iām getting pretty good, actually.
