New England is quite the place, if you’ve never been there. I’d highly recommend paying it a visit (or, better yet, a stay), sometime. Read plenty of Lovecraft, Poe, and anything else while you’re there. Drink tea. Drink mulled wine. Bundle up with a blanket in front of a fire while everything outside is subject to a blizzard. Stare out the window, knowing that small pane of glass is the only thing protecting you from being, yourself, covered in the snow, ice, and desolation.
Ahem. Anyway, yeah. Here’s this thing I wrote about New England.
The comparatively small settlements of that heritage-filled place called New England are eternally threatened by its much larger untamed wastes, fields of deep grass, forests of shadows and dark growth, and quiet brooks, murmuring softly the unintelligible secrets of the rocks, the waters, the deep muds that surround them.
The ages of these areas reach back much further than when they were inhabited, and hold many things which wish they still were uninhabited. These things may hide in the forsaken areas during the day, pining for the day when they will strike back against the forces of humankind that have infested the areas which once were theirs.
The gnarled trees speak of their hatred, the ever-growing reaches of moss and lichen groan out their vengeance. The Spring beckons back the regrowth of the plant matter which had previously receded, the Summer sees that growth into a full-fledged attack against the settlers, and the Fall, with its beginning of death and decay, prepares the way for those unspeakable things to come forth and take back their land.
But they do not. “One more year,” they say, “One more year.”
The winter comes. Layer after layer of the white frigidity covers everything. Ice creeps over everything, living and dead, and adds to the latter. The cold accepts, numbs, and takes. The season engulfs all things, taking those which were not originally part of it, and making them so; all things become one with it as it dominates the land, and all things submit to its power.
Only then will its grasp fade, though never fully, as reminded to everyone in the sudden chill breeze, even in the midst of the hellish summer, as the earth wakes, as do all those things which have lurked inside it for all this time. The cycle repeats, the way is prepared, yet never taken.
Never taken, until that time that it will be.
And after that time, when the entire area of New England is reduced to utter desolation, death in life growing over all those things which once were created by man, those things will reign sovereign.
I had originally started writing this a week or so ago, but that version didn’t quite pan out how I wanted. Here it is, uncompleted, nonetheless.
The area of New England is a darkly ironic place; while being one of the longest-settled areas in America, and having one of the largest heritages, there is a certain unexplored chaos that has settled in its roots.
Many people who have lived in this area have sensed this – writers, in particular, have expanded on the deep mystery surrounding the place.
Let us start at the forests. Whereas the “newer” places have cleared out the old forests and planted straight rows of trees and bushes, the gnarled trunks and infesting weeds still hold New England in their grasp. The shadowed places have stayed the same for centuries, allowing those things which live best in hiding prosper and spread to other areas, the wretched species of indescribable things extending to other dark areas previously unreachable.
The states themselves, while each having certain areas that were, admittedly, “tamed”, in a way, remain wild, sparsely inhabited, unkempt, and vengeful.