North Carolina Gothic
- Itβs senior day at Harris Teeter. All the elderly turn out to shop for soft foods at soft prices. A starling flies into the store and perches atop the bakery counter. Some folks regard it in fear, others with a look of relief and welcoming in their eyes. You eye the bird and continue shopping, certain it isnβt here for you. You leave the store. Where are all the seagulls? Crows cackle from the roof of your car. You may not make it over the bridge this trip.Β
-The tree frogs are singing. Swaths of forest are cut down in the name of progress. Asphalt lies where grass once stood. Little neighborhoods with cookie cutter houses spring up in the night. The tree frogs are screaming.
-Locals know to take the back roads if you want to get somewhere fast. They act like wormholes, spitting you out clear across the state in a matter of minutes. You could take a road to University, then take a back road and suddenly be at Concord Mills. But donβt take the back roads to get out of the state. You could be heading into South Carolina, take a back road, and suddenly find yourself at a sign proudly welcoming you to North Carolina. They wonβt let you leave. Come and stay a while they say. Come and stay forever.Β
-For the piedmont area, there are a lot of places named after mountains. Mount Holly, Kings Mountain, Mount Gilead, Mount Mourne, Mount Airy, Mount Pleasant, Mount Olive, Mount Ulla. All of these mountains where there are none. Locals donβt talk about it. They donβt want to anger the earth that swallowed those mountains, that cut them down to no more than speed bumps. Out of towners ask, βSo whereβs the mountain?β laughing when they say it. The locals look at one another nervously and change the subject. They donβt know any better.Β
-Thereβs always something warning you not to go outside at night. Every season. In spring itβs the tree frogs, in summer the fireflies, in fall the crickets, and in winter the cold. Donβt come out here, they say. YouΒ don'tΒ want to be out hereΒ when itβs dark. The tree frogs scream it. The fireflies yell in their own sort of morse code. The crickets will even come into your house to remind you. The winter blasts itβs coldest chills to keep you in and safe. Safe from what? What is out there? You look out the window into the darkness and see nothing. But you still do not dare go out there. Thereβs always something warning you not to go outside at night.Β
-People always tell you not to go too deep in the forest. Itβs not safe. There are trails, you think, how unsafe could it be? You do not heed their warning and go deeper, follow the trails until they become brambles and pine needles. Keep going until you no longer see the sun through the branches of the oaks and the pines. Keep going until all you hear is nature. The wind blows through the trees, and they whisper. Donβt leave, they say. Donβt go back out there, itβs not safe. You are inclined to believe them.Β
-Itβs summer and the cicadas are awake. The noise deafens. As you go out to your car, you see your neighbor. They signal to you to come closer. You do. They murmur something to you. You cannot hear them over the shrill calls of the cicada. You lean closer, head tilted to present your ear. All you hear is a mumble. You look at them and they crumble away, a pile of cicada husks. There is screaming. Is it you or the cicadas? You go back to your house and lock the door. It is summer and the cicadas are awake.
-You hear it in the first breath of dawn. The mooing. You know there must be cows out there. They always low at the first signs of the sun. Itβs so loud and desperate. But your neighbors donβt own cows. No one does around here.
