Considering The Veil

Inspired by the Legend of Lundy's Road

“Stories make us more alive, more human, more courageous, more loving.” ~ Madeleine L’Engle

Author's Note: The center of all storytelling is a purpose, right? Sometimes, the source of the story comes from joy. Others, it comes from a fundamental need to understand something. Sometimes, stories are told to make sense of a tragedy that would otherwise break the community it comes from. Ghost stories that linger the longest are haunting in ways other than the lost spirits and whispers through the empty walls. New York state is a giant, massive, aching ulcer that tragedy clings to, particularly upstate. Where I no longer live in New York, the area that I lived in and went to high school has a colored history and lots of local legends.

One of the most prevalent legends is the Legend of Lundy's Road, or Pottersville. Pottersville was an unincorporated town that grew up around a mill. The mill burned down, and the people began to leave (which was accelerated by a flood), but the legends of the area say differently. Some people say that the town was abandoned all at once after a man murdered his wife. Some say that a murderer was caught in the act and hung in the main square by an angry mob. Some people say that there were demons in the town.

The area was also historically heavy with mafia activity and said to be an old mafia dump sight. Teenagers whisper about Pottersville in the halls of the local high school, and regularly hike out there to drink or to ghost hunt, often reporting terrifying experiences back. No matter what you believe, the core of the stories all boil down to people saying, "Stay away from Lundy Road."

I have personal haunting experiences from the end of Lundy's. My mom lives on the other side of the road that used to connect to Pottersville. So, this story connects the story of Pottersville to some of my own experiences, exaggerated and dramatized for the sake of telling a good story. It takes the elements in the local folklore and retells them, adding to the tradition of warnings steeped in mystery or fantastical tale with a core warning within. You can take this as fully fiction, as personal conjecture leaning on the storytelling aspects of the legends, or you can take it as another voice adding to the chorus across time — stay away from Lundy's Road.

Kerhonkson was a charming little town nestled between Minnewaska State Park and Ellenville. The town was comprised of and old dude ranch that was converted into a Hasidic Jew encampment when the ranch went under and the other encampment grew too crowded, two cattle farms, and a funeral home. The town's main draw was a gas station that also served ice cream. There was a general sleepiness; a lack of excitement that only comes when the main commerce is a single family-owned restaurant and a Chinese food place. There was nothing in Kerhonkson. The closest grocery store was twenty five minutes away, and the houses were separated by horse pastures and pockets of trees.

My new house was further away from the town on a thin dirt road off of a larger dirt road, near a maple sap farm and an old hunting trail. I was pleased at the thought of being a stone's throw away from several beautiful hiking spots in one of the best places to view autumn colors. Hell, there was even hiking on and around my property. The houses were at least a quarter mile apart on the left side of the main road, and the right was all woods. These properties were massive swatches of land along one of the mountains in the Catskills. My house in particular had fifty acres of untouched woods and a few loosely maintained paths, just begging to be explored.

Most of the land parcels were owned by people who inherited their land through generations — poor, but they were used to having their land and their privacy. It was more than I could say; I had no land from my family, but I was fairly well off for my age, and the culture shock from city to rural was a heavy one. The other residents largely kept to themselves. I assumed they just didn't trust the city-slicker. Of course, I hadn't been city-city; I was a transplant from Poughkeepsie, tired of the huge uptick in crime and gentrification raising the cost of living to too-damn-high levels.

Three thousand dollars a month— for an apartment that was half that when I moved in— just was not cutting it, anymore. I worked my ass off to afford the upstate New York prices. Nearly seven hundred thousand dollars and an hour northwest bought me peace in the mountain. Peace in the form of a new home with a chicken coop and a plethora of raised garden beds. Or, so I hoped. It at least sounded like heaven.

I'd been in the ranch for about three weeks. I didn't much care for the style of house, but the location was perfect, and the inside was beautiful. I could deal with a shabby exterior if it meant having an interior that left me feeling cozy and safe. Perhaps my new house matched me — isolated, frumpy, but flourishing inside. My gray hair matched the gray of the house. I was happier than I'd been in years in this cozy sanctuary.

Now that I'd been at the house for a few weeks, most of my belongings were out of their boxes and into their respective places. There was way too much space for a singular person, but that was alright with me. It gave me the option to spread out.

With as isolated the property and surrounding land were, I was amazed that I had cell phone service at home. It was kind of nice to be able to unplug a little bit; the constant connectedness that came with the internet and always accessible technology left me burnt out and overwhelmed more often than not. Speaking of, the internet had been officially installed as the last needed utility. It took so long to get an installation tech out to me, I had nearly given up; but, I owned my own business, and I needed the internet. I'd spent most of the time without it unpacking and re-acquainting myself with books.

When I finished reading one, I placed it on the built-ins that stood on either side of the gas fireplace. The bookshelves were now full, and the room was housing two loveseats and four more bookshelves; a cozy library. Large bay windows let in natural light through the entire front of the house, and this room was the main entrance. It was a perfect spot; the bay windows even faced south, letting in the most consistent natural light.

The upstairs left room was my bedroom, the right a guest bedroom in case my brother ever had half a mind to visit. (Good luck finding a hotel within an hour's drive from Kerhonkson.) A bathroom separated the two rooms at the top of the stairs. The den was a cozy little room at the back of the house on the first floor. Another room was to the right of it, but I'd set it up with an easel and various crafting tables, converting it into my office. I took the doors off of the closet, setting up my computer in the closet. The same huge bay windows as the library looked out into the forest from along the front wall, and the closet space was the only area that wasn't lambasted with light. That room was a perfect place to paint.

I'd been a professional artist and designer for nearly ten years, and working from home often went easier when you had designated spaces to work. Being in an isolated spot only made things easier; no blaring horns or solicitors interrupting my workday flow here.

A large bathroom was on the main floor, and the dining room and the living room were separated only by the gas fireplace. I'd extended my library into both sides. The kitchen was past the big room, and had a breakfast bar, though the half of the room that the kitchen melted off of was clearly meant to be a dining room. I didn't need something that could house ten people; a small table in the den would be more than enough for a hermit that lived alone.

Though I'd taken the time to paint the post of the deck — Juniper Martin, 275 — no one would likely be appreciating my handiwork any time soon. I was at least half an hour away from any of my nearby friends. There was no one to guilt me into a coffee run, or dropping everything to go out for drinks. Maybe it made me a hermit to avoid small moments of socialization, but I was looking forward to the loss of distractions.

My ranch was the last inhabited house on the road. I say inhabited because a quarter mile past my property line — a few hundred feet past an old hunting stand at the edge of my property — was a turn-around at the end of the road, and an even thinner path surrounded by retaining walls on either side. Propped up against one of the walls was a white sign with big, angry, hand-painted red letters that said NO TRESPASSING.

I hadn't wandered past the ominous sign yet, opting only to explore the public property of the road — which was really only a road if you squinted. In reality, it was a packed-down dirt path just wide enough for one car, regularly marred with divots and gouges from rain runoff and the gigantic trucks the residents owned. My little Toyota Yaris struggled every time I took the mile and a half towards my gravel driveway, which was so steep that it nearly pushed the poor vehicle to its limit. I should get a car that was better for off-roading, but my little Yaris had served me well in the twelve years I owned it. One of my first to-do list items once I got settled was to re-grade the driveway.

But, that was future-Juniper's problem. Current Juniper didn't want to think about the problems of property renovations and where to get groceries. For now, I had my hiking shoes on, and I was braving that bastard slant on the driveway and walking down to the main road. One of the main things I missed about Poughkeepsie so far was, oddly enough, the loss of abandoned buildings. I liked to paint haunting, sorrowful landscapes, and old structures were perfect for that.

I wanted to see what was past the NO TRESPASSING sign. The internet told me that the property had been abandoned for a few years; someone went up there to mow from time to time and maintain the property, but that was about it. If there were any older buildings, especially ones in disrepair, they'd make for great painting subjects. If there was a nice spot that I could set up my easel and work, there was no harm in painting on an abandoned property, was there? It's not like the trees would call the cops.

The late spring air was light with a playful breeze. The mid-afternoon was sweet and warm, and the birds sang while the creatures scurried through the underbrush. The leaves whispered their secrets on the wind, and it all culminated into the peaceful song of the forest. I was at home. Well, I mean, I was literally at home, at the bottom of my driveway, but I was spiritually at home in the nature surrounding me. The only thing that could make it more perfect would be the soft burbling of a creek, but there was no running water by the road.

A short, brisk ten minute walk was all it took before I stood in front of the angry red letters. The sign was fresh; wear and tear non-existent as it screamed its message to the chipmunks and toads. I suppose I was here to read it as well, but all it did was fill me with more questions. Who was maintaining the property if it was abandoned? Why put out a sign? Kerhonkson doesn't exactly have a local library, so it wasn't like I could check their archives for information on the property, and Google already told me all I could find.

Noting how fresh the sign was left me restless. Maybe someone related to the original owners kept up with the place? I should turn around; explore my own property before I started bending the law to find ambiguous deserted houses to paint.

Fuck it, I thought, I already walked here. Turning back felt like I was giving into a senseless fear. Taking a long, slow breath, I stepped past the sign and on to the narrow path. Don't tell on me, trees, I thought.

My body was tense, expecting someone to shout at me, or a trap to whisk me up into the trees. My skin crawled like I was being watched, and I paused a few steps past the sign. "Hello?"

My gut squirmed uncomfortably. When nothing happened, my body sagged, and I laughed at myself. "Come on, Juniper, don't be ridiculous," I scolded myself as I continued down the road.

Still, I wouldn't be able to paint out here if I was this nervous just walking down the driveway. When my voice faded, my restlessness grew. Something was off, and it wasn't that I was technically breaking the law. The narrow path curved in front of me. I took my time, the dread growing from a small pit to a large, cavernous hole. It spread from my core down to my fingers, my hair standing on end. Goosebumps erupted over my neck and back. It wasn't until I was rounding the bend that I realized —

It was silent.

It wasn't just tranquil forest silence. There was just nothing.

The birdsong had faded away, leaving behind a hollow emptiness. There was no rustling of critters in the detritus. Even the early crickets and the leaves in the breeze had quieted, leaving a soundless vacuum behind. There was a weight to the air that followed, and I shuddered at the sudden shift in mood. My mind is just playing tricks on me, I thought. Maybe a predator scared the prey away. But it's creepy up here. Painting might be off the table, trespassing or not.

My feet slowed to a stop just before the end of the dirt drive, stalling just before I reached where the dirt ended and the grass began. This feeling overtook everything else — I couldn't ignore how heavy it was.

Places hold painful memories just as much as people do. The scars left behind on a place vibrate within a person's senses before they ever hear a single word breathed about its history. The air gets heavy, weighed down with the whispers of the past. Silence seeps in like a noxious gas, overtaking the buzz and energy that permeates a vibrant environment. The fear, the sadness, and the tragedy of a place buries its roots in a traveler's soul, digging in deep and refusing to let it go.

The silence was thick, swallowing me whole as I stepped over the end of the dirt path. The wind still played with the leaves, but the whispering of the trees was diminished somehow. It was like I was watching the forest through a dome or a pane of glass. It was a curious effect, and oddly calming despite the tension that arrested me on the dirt road. Maybe I could paint up here. Taking a few steps further onto the property, the trees gave way to a clearing, a giant pond dug into the earth. The water sparkled in the sunlight and my heart lifted, the tension finally breaking. "Oh, this is so beautiful."

I walked towards the water, stopping at the very edge. The pond was clear and evenly-graded, clearly man-made with a fountain pump in the center. The fountain was off, but the fish stocked in the pond looked healthy and happy. And there were dozens — hundreds— of goldfish. It was a really big one, about twice the size of one of those fancy pop-up swimming pools, and I could picture myself laying on a blanket, reading the summer away by this pond. The tranquility of the place soothed an ache in my shoulders. What had I been so scared of?

I looked up from the pond to scan the expanse of the clearing. A few hundred yards past the pond was a retaining wall. It wasn't holding anything up; just a fence created with rough-hewn chunks of blue and red stone. A small mobile home sat just beyond the wall; past that, a squat single-level white house with a red roof and an old wooden barn. I paused by the pond, unsure. That sign was freshly painted; maybe the caretaker lived up here after all? Most of the buildings were obscured by more trees, and the house was barely visible above the crest of the slight hill. I couldn't see any lights or signs of life.

Something about the barn immediately arrested my attention. I wasn't sure what; it was like any other barn. Maybe it was that it wasn't painted — the thick, stained boards were knobbed with age. There were no tools that I could see, but the abandoned building held a rustic beauty that my fingers ached to paint. Sturdy, despite the obvious signs of neglect. Sagging on its foundations. I was compelled to walk towards it. Rounding the pond, I headed towards the break in the retaining wall and stopped just short of moving past the entrance. That dread suddenly rolled over me, and I stumbled back a few steps with a gasp. It was like I had hit a wall in a car careening at seventy.

"Holy shit," barely able to hear my own voice over my heart pounding. "What the fuck is that? Holy shit…"

I reached in front of me, carefully inching towards the entrance again and — nothing happened. My fingers trembled in the air, heart thundering in my ears. The silence convinced me that the steady th-thump was reverberating off of the trees. I turned and ran all the way down past the NO TRESPASSING sign, where the powers that be turned the volume back up on the birds and the critters. I pressed my hands on my knees, panting. "Fuck that," I muttered between heaving breaths. "Fuck that."

I avoided the end of the road like the plague for weeks. May melted into June, and I fell into my standard routine — up at five thirty to care for the four chickens, coffee, work through the morning, a two hour break from eleven to one for lunch and reading, work through the afternoon, dinner at six, exploring the property until dusk, read or write until bedtime at ten. It was a simple, easy life.

Sometimes, I would change it up and tend to the gardens — I'd bought plants from a nursery in Accord — but I stuck to my schedule. I'd finished three paintings in the time from the road exploration to June 12th, with a fourth sitting on my easel in the playful sunlight. All various landscapes painted in a muted color palette. I had an exhibition coming up in July, and I needed to finish the series I'd been working on before then. It would have twelve pieces total — I'd painted ten, most being bleak city scenes including graffiti and overgrowth in the urban cityscape.

The strangest thing about the new pieces is that they all centered around that barn. I couldn't make sense of it; I'd seen it once, and not even up close. Why did I keep painting it? What drew me to that place? I glanced towards the unfinished easel, frowning slightly. The strange force on both the dirt path and at the retaining wall lingered like a rock weighing down my psyche. My curiosity grew larger than my dread with each passing day.

It was a Friday. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I clicked the wake button on the side to check the time. Nearly six. By the time I ate dinner, I wouldn't be comfortable walking to the end of the road. I wasn't superstitious and I didn't put much stock into ghosts, but I didn't want to head to the abandoned property now. By the time I ate dinner, it'd be nearly seven; something told me that I'd have a horrible time if I was over there past sundown. "Saturday morning, it is," I announced to the empty room.

The easel didn't respond, but the barn beckoned to me from the canvas. I followed my standard routine through the night, but my mind was at the end of the road. That night, I had a dream that reinforced the thought. I was standing on the dirt path right before it gave way to the sweet-smelling grasses. I knew walking forward meant that I could not step back; suddenly, a key was heavy and hot in my hands. It was glowing red, as if someone had held it underneath the concentrated flame of a blowtorch. It didn't burn me though. A reedy voice sang through the leaves — do you really want to open this door? — I opened my mouth to reply, but instead of words, ash poured from my throat.

I woke up coughing and heaving, rolling into a tight curl on my side. My mouth was a desert. God, why am I so thirsty? Probably the ash imagery.

After several minutes that felt like hours whittled by, my lungs expanded and my mind fog cleared. I rubbed my chest as I slid out of bed, glancing towards the digital clock on my bedside table. 3:33 AM. I snorted, shaking my head. "Good job, Juniper," I muttered. "Making yourself choke to death at the Witching hour like you're in a horror movie."

I rolled my eyes before I walked downstairs without bothering to turn on the lights. The stairs were steep, but they were easy enough to navigate, especially with the large bay windows in the living room letting in the moonlight. I'd grown comfortable enough in the house to memorize the walking paths, and I turned the corner from the bottom of the stairs into the library, making my way past the built-in and turning towards the kitchen.

It took three glasses of water to parch my aching, scratchy throat. By the time I was sated, it was past four; I was wide awake. I sighed, leaning against the counter and closing my eyes. As I did, I pictured the dark brown barn again. "Once the sun is up, I'm heading down there," I said aloud. The kitchen didn't respond. "I'm going to get to the bottom of why I keep thinking about that barn."

After taking care of the chickens and making a hearty breakfast with that morning's eggs, I took a quick shower before donning some yoga pants, a t-shirt, and workout shoes. Determination settled deeply in my gut. I jogged down the steep grade of the driveway, down the quarter mile past the NO TRESPASSING sign, and to the very end of the dirt road. This time, there was no strange silence permeating everything. The birdsong was loud and raucous, lifting my spirits in the early morning sun. By the time I hit the end of the dirt road, I paused, thinking about my strange dream. The birds and the critters were unbothered, and so I bravely stepped over the end of the dirt and into the grass.

I was sweating from the jog, panting softly as the endorphins ran through me. The bright sun promised the most delicious heat that only the cusp of summer could bring, and the activity high was thrumming in my veins. I walked fearlessly up the hill, skirting around the bend of the pond on the right and heading straight towards the retaining wall. I paused in front of the gap in the wall, waiting for… Something. I didn't know what. My hand went to my hip, and I patted at my pocket, half-convinced that I'd find that smoldering key in my pocket. I was nearly disappointed when nothing was there. Frustrated, I shook my head. "It was just a dream," I muttered, but now I wasn't so sure.

I reached towards the entrance, and the strange thick dread was non-existent. So, I took a breath, and stepped through the entrance. As I did, the birdsong died. The dread punched the air out of my lungs, and I wheezed, swaying where I stood.

The air was oppressive.

The sheer weight of the place made my eyes spring with tears.

I couldn't turn my head towards the charming little house with the red roof. Every time I tried, fear hooked its icy claws into my gut and tugged. I stuck my arms out, as if I could steady myself against how the world spun. My heart thundered in my ears, and I reached for the retainer wall, steadying myself. Stepping back out of the entrance, the dread faded and the birdsong returned as soon as I was past the retaining wall. The lingering nausea sent pulses of electricity down my frayed nerves, and I swallowed past the sick feeling as anger began to overtake the fear. "What in the fuck is that?"

I never took kindly towards authority. Things telling me where I could and could not go, what I could or could not do. This strange feeling at the retaining wall was no different. Putting my hands on my hips, I stomped my foot. "Get a hold of yourself, Juniper," I scolded myself, and walked past the wall again. This time, I held my breath, as if that could stop me from being overwhelmed by the things that I could not see. It was like that childish notion of holding your breath as you pass a cemetery, in order to keep your soul.

This time, the nausea didn't overtake, but it certainly remained, tense and coiled like a viper in my gut and threatening to rise up my throat. The barn was in between the house and the mobile home. I didn't think I could convince myself to move past the mobile home, and so I stood in front of it, turning my whole body to look at the thing.

It was small. The end I was in front of was all windows, and I could see directly through the living room and kitchen of the small room. Light streamed into the dark cave of a structure, bleaching small spots on the black carpet gray. The back of the mobile home seemed bright, as if more light was coming from a different set of windows in the back of the structure. I almost would have found it inviting, if it weren't for the pit of dread making my knees shake and body quiver.

I turned away to look at the barn, tilting my head and squinting at it. It was strange; focusing on the barn loosened the knot in my gut and slowed my heartbeat. It was a beacon in a sea of miasma. Movement in the mobile home caught my periphery and I gasped, jerking my head to look fully towards the windows. "Whoa," I whispered aloud, my body frozen to the spot.

The hallway, which had been so bright and inviting literally moments ago, was pitch black. It was blocked by a silhouette — mostly — I could still see some hints of the bright light around the edges, highlighting the sheer height of the thing. Whatever blocked the light of the hallway was massive, and it was watching me. Not advancing, not predatory, but there. It seemed not to absorb the light, but to completely eat it away in the aura that it gave off. What the fuck is watching me?!

I swallowed, dropping my gaze. Maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me, or I was hallucinating. When I looked back up, the silhouette was still there, and so I quietly backed away, holding my hands up to distance myself from the figure. I blinked, and it disappeared. "Fuck," I whispered, stumbling back from the mobile home and falling in the grass. I scrambled to my feet and jogged past the mobile home, keeping my head carefully turned away from the main house. My skin crawled; that strange feeling of being watched causing my hair to stand up on end.

The barn loomed over the path ahead of me, and I held onto the safety that it promised. I was once again reminded of a beacon in the dark; which was ridiculous because it couldn't have been past ten in the morning. Still, my feet began to push me forward, faster and faster — I was running. The surrounding forest blurred in my periphery. I knew if I looked back, something would be just behind me. I couldn't explain it, or figure out what it was. It felt like the threat of sharp claws and gnashing teeth; a void just waiting for me to slip so it could devour me whole.

The boards of the door to the barn were rough and eroded by the elements. My fingers scraped across the splintered surface, and I whimpered. It's coming— What was coming? Why couldn't I look? I couldn't tell if the thought was mine, or if someone was talking to me, but the voice was high and small, like a little girl's. Hurry up, Juniper.

"I'm trying, fuck, I'm trying —"

My scrambling fingers caught on a latch, and I pulled it hard, the door creaking open and stuttering on the build-up of dirt and debris in front of it. I slipped inside, the door slamming shut behind me, and I leaned against it as my chest heaved. Something smacked against the wood, followed by a disjointed, multi-leveled scream that echoed off of the trees outside. "Fuck!"

I screwed my eyes shut, shaking and sobbing as I pressed all of my weight against the barn. "Please hold, please hold!"

The deep, chaotic sound of nails gouging wood cut through the air, and I shook my head. "No, no, no!"

Why did I decide to come down here? What was I trying to prove to myself by pushing past the retaining wall? I had been so determined. That raged, dischordant roar echoed through the air outside again, and I collapsed. My legs gave way underneath me, and I curled up against the barn floor, pressing my back as heavily against the door as I could.

I don't know how long I sat there, trembling with my back against the door. The thing outside — whatever it was — cried and beat at the door for what felt like an eternity before the silence overtook. The sound of its scratching and screaming was gone, but with it, so were all of the other sounds of the forest. The aching emptiness of the late spring morning felt more like the dead night of winter. I shivered, slowly moving away to the door.

Maybe there was a part of me that knew the barn would be safe, where the rest of this area was not. Maybe it wasn't anything; a sick black bear, or a coyote or wolf. A deer with chronic wasting disease, maybe? But nothing natural sounded anything like that. At least, nothing that I'd ever heard. And, sick or not, deer didn't have claws.

I slowly moved away from the door of the barn, somehow forcing my stiff body to its feet. A part of me felt disconnected from the movements. Everything was too jerky; too orchestrated. I walked past the abandoned tools and rotten hay, closing my eyes and counting when I stalled in the center. One. My feet were planted hips-width apart, standing stock still as I tried to calm my anxiousm overstimulated mind. Two…

You do not have to do that.

My eyes flew open at the words. It was once again a small, childish voice. In front of me, standing with her legs crossed at the ankles and back playfully against the door I had been cowered against, was a little girl. She couldn't have been more than eight or nine; barefoot in the hay, wearing a simple purple and blue gingham dress with puffed sleeves. I would've taken her sky blue eyes and sandy blonde hair as real, if she wasn't hovering six inches off of the ground and faintly glowing.

My mouth went dry. "D-Do what?"

Don't talk out loud. It will hear you and come back. I blinked, swallowing past the thick lump in my throat. My back hit the rough boards of a ramshackle ladder, and I realized I'd been backing away from her. She smiled, but her eyes were pleading with me. Don't be frightened.

That's easier said than done, I admitted, feeling foolish for the response. Did I fall asleep after breakfast or something? Maybe this whole situation was just an incredibly bad dream. What was that thing?

Tilting her head towards one of the windows, she sighed. It was the protector of the veil. She said it matter-of-factly, like I should know what she meant. You shouldn't have come here.

I don't understand, I said, frowning at her as I crossed my arms.

The veil, she repeated. At the edge of the wall. It's the end of the road where the portal sleeps. The people who make it there lose a piece of themselves. My heart turned to ice as she spoke. When I didn't reply, the girl continued. My parents built their house here, and they lost themselves. Dad killed Mom, then came for me. The thing at the portal, it feeds until all that's left is anger and hate. Sadness. Grief. It forces your hand to do terrible things. You shouldn't be here. You need to go back through the veil before the sun goes away.

What happens when the sun goes down?

The barriers fade. It can roam.

I pushed off of the ladder, my breath catching in my throat. She walked further into the barn, and the light streaming in through the windows passed through her as she slowly stepped through it. Her sky blue eyes fixed on mine. It was then that I noticed just how purple and darkened her throat was. She whispered, her voice layering in a series of overlapping dischordant notes, "Run."

Something about her voice kicked me into action, and I flung myself to the barn door, pushing it open and running towards the retaining wall. The sky was a strange mix of blue and lilac. Oh holy shit, I thought, horror growing into a scream that stalled in my chest. It's almost dusk. How?!

That layered, enraged roar split the darkening sky from the direction of the white house, and I leaned into my sprint, forcing all of my energy into my legs and feet. "No, no, no!"

I made it to the length of the mobile home as the sky began to shift more towards navy and royal purples, a stitch stabbing my side as panting and growls started to echo through the woods. How had it gotten so dark so quickly? I pushed myself even faster, running at full speed towards the retaining wall. The air was thick, the nausea roiling in my gut, but I refused to let myself get thrown back into whatever was chasing me.

And then — I felt it. The fetid hot breath was right at my heels as the sun sank fully below the horizon. Something — some things — began to wake up in the surrounding area as I careened through the veil and down the hill.

Eyes landed on me.

Eyes upon eyes.

Eyes upon eyes upon eyes.

That layered, discordant, bellowing call echoed through the night again, calling those invisible things with eyes to attention. The sound began to reverberate as whatever it was calling responded. Hundreds of voices, wailing in tandem, as the sound of a thundering stampede echoed behind me.

I didn't scream, too focused on running as fast as I could. The darkness sank to pitch black. Where is the sun? How did it disappear like that?!

I ran down the grass to the dirt, following the bend with what limited memory I had. My ankle rolled, and I stumbled. "Fuck!"

Something snapped at my achilles' tendon, just out of reach. I was sobbing as I ran, pushing through the pain by the power of adrenaline alone. That bastard grade of my driveway was going to be the death of me, literally. I thought of the driveway with mounting dread, but I didn't dare slow or stop.

The air crushed in around me, and I leaned even further into my sprint, making it to the fork between my driveway and the main road. My thighs were burning, my lungs screaming for air as I pushed myself up that driveway and across the lawn to the back porch. Throwing the door open, I ran in and slammed the glass shut behind me, popping the lock as I heaved. They're going to burst through the door.

What was going to burst through the door, I didn't know, but the panic and fear immediately ceased as soon as the lock was popped. The feeling of eyes on me didn't fade, but it only came from distinctly outside of the house. I panted, trembling as I stared out into the blackness of the night. My back, shoulders, and arms were covered in goosebumps. My voice came in ragged bursts with each exhale, and those eyes lingered just outside of the windows.

Watching.

Waiting.

In the distance, that discordant howl echoed through the trees.

It's nearly September now, and I haven't gone back down to the abandoned property since that night. I never did find out what the pack of shadows were that chased me down the hill and up my driveway that night, but I did look into the legends and history of the town after that. That house was built at the edge of an unmarked road that went through the deep forest, on the opposite end of Lundy's road. If I had kept walking past the barn by about a half mile, I would have made it to the broken down foundations and graffiti-ed remains of walls.

The old beer cans.

The used condoms.

The discarded ghost hunting items, left behind when they heard the disjointed howls.

The pictures that circulate in local messenger boards are enough to fill me with that overwhelming dread that I'd felt when considering what the little girl called the veil. I refuse to go back down to that pond, let alone the retaining wall. But, the nights are growing longer. And every night when the sun sets, I can feel the eyes staring at me through the windows.

Patiently waiting for the door to open.

Snarling beneath the howling wind.

Biding their time.

I'm scared to leave. I'm scared to stay, too. Who knows if I will wander too close to the boundaries of Lundy's Road? Who knows if those gnashing teeth and vicious claws would find me? Who knows what they would take from me?

I wasn't about to tempt fate and find out. The only thing that I can do is share my story. And, if you're drawn to the mountains — if you're drawn to the solace of the forest, the promise of peace that small towns like Kerhonkson promise — do the research first.

Stay away from veils. Stay away from Lundy's Road.