The chorus of frogs start up in the dead of January. One night, they are silent. The next, they are all screaming. There are some cold nights when something else screams with them.
You stumble across a crumbling shack in the woods. Moss layers the walls, and the roof is more pine needles than shingles. Faintly, you can hear scratching from the inside. The small windows are barred up for a reason.
No one questions the yips and howls of the coyote packs. Leave them alone. Don’t look them in the eye. Be in by sundown. You catch a glimpse of their eyes in the moonlight some nights. Nothing stares back at you.
One day, you hear a ghost story. Some old settler’s cabin haunted by a girl that died in the well. You’ve forgotten the tale by the next morning, but when you walk past that old house, you feel eyes on your back. This town has no ghost stories.
If you listen close enough to the winds, you can hear sobbing. Don’t worry, they tell you, They don’t remember why they’re crying anymore.
Some parts of the forest are dead quiet. The ground is soft and warm, and all you want to do is lay down and sleep. Lie down. Some day, you’ll wake up.
The mountains are always quiet, but they’re quietest during a storm. The ground hums, and every leaf and rock seems alive. The silence is deafening. Be sure not to listen too long.
You drive up the curving highway until your ears are in agony and the world is submerged. The road stretches on, crowded by tall trees on each side. Two hours later, you pass the mile marker. You are not sure where you are going. Only up.
In autumn, the empty back roads come alive, and people writhe out of the foothills like angry ants. They march up the hill and into the plots of craggy trees with a palpable determination. The apple houses stand silent and judging behind them. You cannot remember any of their faces.
A shot rings out. It sounds so close yet miles away. It echoes off the mountains, and the noise is all you can hear. You don’t know where the gunshot came from. You just hope they don’t see you. Deer aren’t the only thing they are hunting.
On the highway, you pass roadkill after roadkill. Some stretch on for miles in red streaks. Others are indistinguishable shapes. There are some that still twitch. They watch you with desperate hope as you fly past.
Everyone knows you by name and greets you with a smile. You’ve never been to this town before.
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