You are never without the feeling that someone is standing very close to you. You search, but there is nothing there. Yet you know there is. You can feel it. Someone, or something has just breathed down the back your neck. To the south of town the land becomes rocky, revealing a brutal birth, a time before the chanting of man.
Following the valley south the tall white elm begin to thin, giving way to crab apple trees, their short tubby roots tightly clinging the rocky soil. It is here the deer fatten up in the fall for the coming winter when the weak will die, and the sound of the wolf is heard.
Further south at Prates, Pond frogs burrow deep into the soft slimy bottom. The wind follows deep trails worn by animal, and human. Here among the low hills the wind gains power, rustling the golden brown leaves of the valley into ghostly forms.
Stonewalls, and parts of stonewalls surround the graveyard, separating the living from the dead. It is here strange things are whispered about, never spoken aloud. Stories of ghost, and strange sounds at night. Many have claimed to have seen a headless horseman racing through the darkness, sparks flying from the hoofs of his powerful black steed, a misty heat snorting from its pulsating nostrils.
New England, once home to the, Wampanoag, and Pocumtuck peoples, rooted in legends of the past, where a small town could be forgotten by civilization; a place where the bark of a dog, or the sound of an owl at night meant death. A land of tall tales and lost treasure, where humans and those of the past live side by side. Hidden valleys where fiction is born, and spreads from mouth to ear…to become reality. One has but to choose, which side of the reality is real?
Can you name this author?
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