Avatar

Dreams Or Visions

@ellewritesherreality

i debated giving my thoughts lest someone come and tell me rudely that i'm overreacting. beyond that, i don't hope to call anyone out or anything. i'm just disappointed to see this user adding fuel to the fire of the point of my blog.

there are so many other things one could notice or ask themselves upon seeing the image, aren't there?

the most obvious: what makes this holler in particular so dangerous? what about it lures in the unsuspecting? what is its siren's song?

that is to wonder: does the same thing that makes it lethal also serve as the reason people are seduced by it, and with such persistent frequency that it feels necessary to post a sign to ward them off?

is the danger something easy to explain, like steep cliff drops along its borders or unstable mountain passes? does loose rock or bad weather claim the curious?

or could it be something supernatural, something a superstitious someone posted up? maybe the wives tales and urban legends hold some truth, and you really shouldn't go investigating the strange and terrifying in appalachia at night.

"be carried out?" is that because mother nature had her say, or is it because the cryptids did? is this a threat or a frustrated warning?

or maybe there is no danger at all. perhaps the property's owner just wants to be left alone, keep their fertile expanse of land to themselves.

maybe it's something handed down through generations. maybe strangers have stomped all over its history in the name of sightseeing.

but instead... it's the incorrect spelling that gave this user pause.

the intrigue and mystery and magic of this ageless region just doesn't matter to most, not when so many people who come from it grow up in generationally impoverished communities, inhibited by poor public education--people who aren't likely to make it to the last rounds of a spelling bee, you see.

appalachia is shadowed by its stereotypes.

if you can't see how this contributes to, and is in fact directly related to, the issues appalachia is stifled by, i'm not sure what else to say

The original sign sparked nightmares for me. When I saw it, my brain started hopping between “you can’t tell me what to do” and “dear god what happened here” and “I already HAD to go in, now I double have to.” And then that night, I dreamt about the large holler near my grandfather’s farm and the stories of people disappearing there. We’re so bad about hollers and holes, we see them and HAVE to go explore. I didn’t even notice the misspelling, too busy reliving my cosmic horror Kentucky childhood.

“That city feller, you know the one that came by train?”

The old man paused to shift his chewing tobacco to his other cheek.

“I reckon we told him half a dozen times: that there mountain ain’t no mountain.”

He jerked his head towards the ridge, one peak rising above the rest.

“He was dead set on findin’ gold and gems. ‘Savage backwaters’ he called us! ‘Mountain folk beliefs’ or some fancy college term. Different ways to call us ‘idjits’.

Anyways, he made off to the foothills with his dynamite and all. Don’t expect we’ll hear from him again, and bless his heart but we’re happy dynamite won’t make a scratch. Last thing we need is the beast angry. Or worse, dead! So that its kin come to avenge it!”

He spit angrily, then resumed leaning and chewing.

“Just in case, we’re all packed up and ready to hightail it. The beast lets us be and we let it be, but these gold diggers don’t know no better. They ain’t grown up with the tales.”

He shrugged and settled back.

“He’ll learn or he’ll die. Ain’t no skin off my back.”

A crowded countryside fills my vision. Fields stacked with apartments and fences. Down the river we ride.

Words are pain are freedom are a threat.

I am a threat because of my words.

I watch the drones target the speakers before me. Not enough to kill, only to bleed. They want us to die slowly, regretfully.

I can’t help but flinch. Somehow, they missed me. So many screams. Everyone flees.

I can’t get away. I am too dangerous to let live.

The hunt begins.

Over the edge of the woods, the land rises. This hill, cleared of forest, displays meandering roads punctuated by buildings. Bricks pave most of the roads. They seem more like wide walkways, fit for sneakers instead of tires.

Moving closer is never an issue. A thought, then I’m on the kiln-fired path. Chatter fills the streets. I think they can see me, so I mime steps as I glide.

Most ignore me, their features blurred blankness. The ones able to see me are in danger. Or misery. Sometimes sheer rage. The clearest faces direct this energy towards me. Their imagined grievances link into chains intended to imprison me.

I’m not sure why I come here. I’m not sure I have a choice anymore.

My thumb leaks.

I was outside the university when I realized another person was wearing my purse with me. He froze, embarrassed at being caught. My disapproval carved slivers off his soul.

I marched him to security, a dance of fetch and retrieval between us. His fingers so nimble, never pausing.

He caught my hand and stared. I stared. Blue goop oozed from my thumbnail.

He got away with my phone.