Edgewater
Quaint little town
A small, isolated town. A common enough sight in the rural United States. On the surface, Edgewater does not seem too dissimilar from any dilapidated town found in the Rust Belt. Surrounded by mountainous woodland, its houses appear to be in various states of decay and disrepair. The streets are filled with potholes, in those places where the asphalt hasn't utterly crumbled away. The old lumber mill stands silent, its roof collapsed. The few cars parked here and there are covered in rust, wheels to roof. Strangely, there is no gas station here at all. Strange it is too, that it is not found on any map. Stranger still, that no one ever leaves, that no one ever travels here. If this weird place could be found anywhere, perhaps the folded recesses of the Rocky Mountains is where you could look. Certainly there are people who live here, only they're not really people at all. They don't remember having a name. They don't have jobs, or loved ones. They have none of these things. They don't have much of anything at all. Oh, they really don't like it when you ask them things, anything at all. If the townsfolk had a care to wonder (they do not) they might be curious indeed, how did you come to be here? There could be no reason for such as you at all, surely not. There are no signs that point this way, no tourist traps. How strange then, if indeed you've wandered to our town. And if anyone here had a care for you, any care at all? Well, they might express regret. For this is not a town of in or out, we don't do left or right. As such, the way out can be hard to find, for some. But rest assured, traveller. As they say, ''the only way is up.''Seeing the sights
Oh, how these strange and scattered people that live here are frightened of outsiders. They watch intently behind grime-covered windows, drawing their torn curtains shut when their attention is reciprocated. If you were to corner one of the townsfolk in the street, all you'll receive are downcast eyes and hoarse whispers. They cannot seem to hear you at all, nor do they see eachother. ''Just gotta wait it out.'' whispers one. ''Barbershop is closed. Snip. Chop.'' mumbles another, the funny fellow mimicking a pair of scissors with the two fingers he has left on that hand. What businesses there are, appear to do no business at all. Clerks watch over dusty isles and empty shelves. Half or more of the houses stand vacant, seemingly exposed to the elements for long years. And as night falls; one by one, the doors of those few houses that are still lived in fall open. Their inhabitants walk out, waiting by the curb. For what, they cannot say. Some words do come back to them, if you were inclined to really ask. ''I did not do it,'' stammers one. ''Need to say my prayers,'' rasps another. Otherwise, they stand in place, slack-jawed. For all the world as vacant as the rotting lumber mill, or the long abandoned bowling alley. They stand there and wait, shivering, as the fog begins to rise. Is that a stalking shadow moving, there in the damp and clinging mist? It could not be a trick of the light, the streetlights have long given up the ghost. Is that the sound of a judge's gavel, a soldier's barked command? The clinging vapors create strange echoes, until all seems dim and distant. Have hours passed? Or days? Blearily, a pale dawn arrives. It brings no warmth. Those who remain shuffle back inside their houses. Was their number reduced by one, or more? If any have concern left at all for friend, or neighbor, or spouse, or child, they do not show as such. The doors are locked and barred, the windows shut.Round and round
The winding streets will seem to circle ever inwards. They go on for longer than they should. Does that house seem identical to one you saw hours before? Did you not leave marks in chalk? Do not worry. No matter how big the sink, you will find the drain in due time. For there, the center of the village square. The courthouse lies broken and empty, even the bronze doors have been knocked down. The fountains are cracked and dry as bone. The mayor's residence is long abandoned. Dead leaves lie on the ground, and there is no birdsong. You suppose that would make sense, as there are no birds. Just as there are no rats, nor cats, nor insects. Strange shadows loom from high above, casting a quivering lattice upon the broken cobblestones. But that is surely of no concern. Only two things here, that do draw your bloodshot eyes. One a crumbling statue honoring a soldier, whose name has long since eroded from the plaque beneath his feet. A single quote remains; ''Was a pleasure doing it.''In his weathered and worn stone fist, he holds a hangman's knotted rope. It appears new, gleaming bright with oil. And as the sun descends lower and lower in the sky, the smile grows ever wider on that pocked and eroded face.Here to stay
And the other thing? If you might still think to ask, as you stumble from that nameless killer's grin? A pit. A hole in the ground, simple as can be. Featureless, a ragged yawn. Not very wide at all, the circumference barely wider than a sewer's manhole. It doesn't appear to have an end however, not that you can see. If you were to drop a coin in there - if indeed you were curious still - you'd never hear it hit the bottom. You could stare down it for hours, even days. Never will you get the sense that it is looking back at you. It does not, in fact, appear to care about you very much at all. You might have taken a few steps and fallen in, had you but remembered how. Towering high above it all; a grotesque colossus. Made of timber, wire, rope. Made of blood, bone, sinew, hope. The gallows stretches miles high. The angles of the monstrous beams defy all reason, weaving as they do. Are they alive still, those swinging wretches in their countless numbers, swaying in an unfelt breeze? How fortunate then, it is utterly out of sight and out of mind. As an ant can not conceive the sun, there is no way for you to perceive that sprawling, reaching thing. And so you do not. ''I want to go home,'' you might insist, if you had any thought left at all. But you do not and so you do not. But five other words do remain, and so spill from your lips; ''The only way is up.''
Type
Village