“And this is where it starts.”
Living in the county long enough, you begin to feel that you know every road, every creek, and even every cow; but there are still places hiding out there, waiting, scattered amid the leaves, in the lonely hollows.
But where are we? Where have we gone?
Somewhere Beyond the Corn.
Enter one-foot-in-front-of-the-other. Hold the compass outward like a fishing pole. These places should not be trusted.
I heard that she saw a man — a man grinning like a ‘possum. Things changed after that. Small things. She started to find bulbs of garlic — horrid little hardnecks, their skins spotted and too crimson — in the glove box of her car. She didn’t even grow garlic. Then the post-its began. Empty, naked papers covered either arm when she awoke in the morning. They’d be there like the frost, blanketing her skin, always void and blank. Fed up, she set up a video camera, confident she’d find the culprit. But in the morning she only found definitive proof that she snored — and more post-its.
Don’t look for the tunnel. If you find it, stay out of it. And don’t look for Redington. There isn’t any good in it.