Nicholas Holloway

They

CONROY New Houston is a ruin, and They are the reason. I stand alone on a long stretch of road. A road that hasn’t heard the soft hum of tire tread in twenty-seven years. The road is straight as an arrow and cleaves a marshy forest of chalk maple and ironwood in half. Deep, stagnant bogs line the shoulders of the old road and flood the forest floor on either side. The trees are thick, dark, and dense. The trunks and branches are ancient, ensnared in murderous, thorny vines. The forest hides horrible dangers... and even more horrible secrets.