There's something new in the air, something different about the town that nobody can quite place yet it raises the hairs on their necks whenever they catch a glimpse of this something else. It's the sort of something you only see from the corner of your eyes, that flicker of inherent wrongness, that speck of impossibility that you know you shouldn't be able to see.
Some attribute it to the newly cleaned war memorial, claiming that washing away the decades of grime has woken up the dead who are now running around the edges of the living searching for answers. It would certainly explain the whispers that follow you when you're walking by yourself, no matter the time of day.
Others have blamed the new betting shop that's been opened in what the shell of a Tudor-aged house. Once more, they say the dead can't rest but this time it's because their Puritan home is being desecrated by modern vices. It has potential but is only one small place and doesn't explain how or why the feeling of discomfort surrounds the entire town.
Thus far the only rumour that makes enough sens to apply to the town-wide oddities and lingering sickly-sweet scent of decay is the new motorway that cuts just past the outskirts. It brings in hundreds of new cars, new trade and old souls who'd been travelling for so long they no longer remembered their deaths, names or the reason for their unrest. They mean no harm, they're just more travellers than we're used to, just enough to break the boundaries between life and death, just enough to unsettle us all.
Still, for all the theories and maybe's there is still something new in the air, hard as it is to breathe now. For all our efforts to cleanse, to appease or otherwise put the dead back where they bloody belong we still find ourselves freezing in the summer heat from the intense gazes of the deceased who are demanding answers to questions we can't hear.
Some attribute it to the newly cleaned war memorial, claiming that washing away the decades of grime has woken up the dead who are now running around the edges of the living searching for answers. It would certainly explain the whispers that follow you when you're walking by yourself, no matter the time of day.
Others have blamed the new betting shop that's been opened in what the shell of a Tudor-aged house. Once more, they say the dead can't rest but this time it's because their Puritan home is being desecrated by modern vices. It has potential but is only one small place and doesn't explain how or why the feeling of discomfort surrounds the entire town.
Thus far the only rumour that makes enough sens to apply to the town-wide oddities and lingering sickly-sweet scent of decay is the new motorway that cuts just past the outskirts. It brings in hundreds of new cars, new trade and old souls who'd been travelling for so long they no longer remembered their deaths, names or the reason for their unrest. They mean no harm, they're just more travellers than we're used to, just enough to break the boundaries between life and death, just enough to unsettle us all.
Still, for all the theories and maybe's there is still something new in the air, hard as it is to breathe now. For all our efforts to cleanse, to appease or otherwise put the dead back where they bloody belong we still find ourselves freezing in the summer heat from the intense gazes of the deceased who are demanding answers to questions we can't hear.
No comments:
Post a Comment