New England Gothic

New England Gothic

You’re walking in the woods in late autumn. A crow caws, somewhere. You step on something, and hear a sharp crack. You look down. It’s a bone.

The clocktower in the town square has been broken for as long as anyone can remember. One day, it rings.

The leaves are turning. Last year, the brilliant oranges and reds lasted well after they fell. Now, the leaves are grey. They crumble into ash when touched.

The ocean is cold, and unrelenting. The waves crash against the cliffs. A captain yells out to his crew, but there is no ship.

You have been walking in a graveyard for hours. Someone is watching you. You turn, but no one is there. You read the gravestone at your feet. Your name is carved into it. A rabbit darts in front of you, and you shiver.

The mountains stretch on for miles. Endless, repeating mountains, stretching so far into the horizon that it seems that once the mountains end, so does the world. 

You drive down the backroads at midnight. The trees are impossibly dark. Something runs in front of your headlights. It was a deer. It has to be a deer.

There are four churches on the same street. At five p.m. on the dot, the bells ring. They are deafening. 

The sunflowers have died. They stand all winter, bleak omens of what’s to come.

You are looking for witching stones in the river. Something shiny catches your eye, and you fish it out. It’s an iron cross. It’s cold. You toss it back.

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