A Venture on the Seawall

We walk south along the ruins of the seawall, our slim path an old trail cut halfway up the wall's thirty or so feet. Below us, the seawater scatters against the sharp moss-ridden boulders of the inlet, sometimes reaching as far as the lowest masonry of this laboriously crafted stone jetty. As we walk, our eyes are set on the high wall blocking any movement inland, waiting for the rare moments where our angle will change just enough to bring our destination into view - the imposing cathedral spire on a far-off mystery building, somewhere on the property of the nearby college but beyond the reach of its roads.

"Tonight, we finally find out what's inside..." I boast prematurely. "Maybe, if we're lucky, find an explanation for those strange lights..."

"Shhh..." one of my companions urges. "I think we're going to have to pass through this house - I guess the stairs up must be a little further south."

Down the path, I can see the house as it juts out from the wall into the sea itself - a dark, wooden giant, its pre-Victorian architecture a remnant only slightly less ancient than its surroundings. We follow the path as it slices through the center of the building, through an unlit tunnel lined with windows and glass doors, through which we can see the moonlit interiors of several ornate rooms apparently subdivided into small apartments. One room, stockpiled with a collection of grandfather clocks, also shows a sleeping figure on a bed, probably a resident but possibly a watchman. Straining to remain quiet, we tiptoe through the passage quickly.

The path leads out into a small courtyard, its west end open to the sea. There are no stairs up, but after the path winds around the steep and narrow pit in the yard's center, it straightens into an eroded stairwell, which leads down to the rocky shore and around a blind corner. The bottom of the pit is home to an unkept garden, the plants long dead thanks to the wall's several holes, half-submerging them in a bed of stale seawater.

Hurrying to escape the sight of the silent house behind us, one of our number pauses to examine his shoe. "God damn it... I stepped in shit!" The rest of us pause, and looking more closely at the path find it to be a maze of excrement, a fecal minefield to slow our progress. We move cautiously, eventually making our way to the stairway, where avoiding the barely visible traps becomes even trickier. 

Halfway down, a figure suddenly slinks out of the garden and onto the stairway, standing up to become visible under the moon above.

"It's some kind of a... llama or something," I observe. "Probably where all this shit came from."

One of the others points, as the creature moves towards us. "That's not a llama... it's like, a huge white monkey!"

Panting heavily, the llama-monkey starts pounding on its chest, a familiar show of aggression. As my cohorts try and navigate the stairs in reverse, I move closer, willing to risk a fight with the beast to see the world around the corner. Suddenly, the creature reaches to the ground, taking a healthy handful of its own stool, which it brandishes at me aggressively.

"Shit!" I exclaim appropriately, and duck against the wall, barely avoiding the muddy cannonball as it whizzes past. I look back to see the creature reloading, ready to fire again at a range too close to miss. Thinking quickly, or not at all, I dive off of the stairway, leaping over the garden below and luckily finding a grip on the missing stones of the wall opposite. Above, my companions reach down to grab my hands, their faces wide with confusion.

Across the pit the llama-monkey is cackling, throwing any lump it can find in our direction. Fortunately, its aim is poor, and the slimy bullets splatter against the wall instead of my back. 

Several tense seconds later, I am pulled back onto the path, where our group breaks into a run before we are even entirely back on our feet. Behind us, the llama-monkey now climbs the wall himself, an outraged look on its grotesque face as it leers at us over the ledge.

We race through the tunnel, past the room of clocks where the sleeping man is now awake and bewildered, and past the other rooms where a unknown number of unseen residents can be heard shuffling about, woken by the noise. By the time we reach a safe distance, the house's windows have filled with candlelight, the technophobic residents no doubt outraged at these new transgressions by the modern world.

Residents of the Cardboard City

The Swamp of the Sea Gibbons

First Contact

A Psychedelic River

White Fence

At the south end of the clearing, the giant evergreens climb up, masking the mountain which the hillside inevitably slopes up to form. To the north, the gold rush remnants of the town center can be seen past the mostly dry riverbed and the railway, which for safety reasons is encased in a skeletal frame of steel girders. Both rail and river run east past the restaurant whose ornate tables and brick walls adorn the clearing's ridges, and west along a dark hiking trail, which appears to gradually wind upwards into the hills.

We finish our breakfast, and I start for the tunnel which leads under the train tracks and into the town. But Carl calls me back.

"Hey! What are you going that way for?"

I look back confused. "I thought we were here for the rides... that new mine car one is supposed to be pretty good."

"No way, those rides are just... too tacky. Not worth the trip."

I'm a little annoyed, as I've never seen the rides myself. This is my first time in this popular ghost-town-turned-theme park, and tacky or not, I'd like to at least experience it. "Then... why did we drive out here so early?"

"We're here to see White Fence."

"Well, look - can we check out the town for an hour, and then see White Fence?"

Carl rolls his eyes, and hurries me along. "Dude! It's only showing until ten. That only gives us a half hour to get out there..."

"Okay, okay..." I turn back and follow the others, as they hop across the stones which pepper the riverbed's shallow stream. "But... well, what is White Fence, anyway?"

Carl sighs. "You haven't heard? It's like, this big fence. And it's painted ALL white."

I stop on a large boulder, and look at him cockeyed. "You're kidding, right?"

"Dude, it's supposed to be really cool." Carl follows the others up the small ridge on the opposite bank, and walks between two of the girders onto the train tracks.

"Christ. All right, I'm coming." I run up the hill after him, and through the same passage. But as I land on the tracks, I find myself alone in the train's strange open tunnel.

I look around for Carl, but neither him nor the others are anywhere in sight, not inside of the tunnel, in the woods just to the south, or the backsides of the buildings to the north. I run down the tunnel, searching - but as I pass the next girder, the scene outside changes, to a vast, painted desert. One eyebrow raised, I pass the next girder, to see a bustling iron city, belching smog into the air.

Before long I realize why this town has become such a tourist destination - thanks to the genius engineering of this tunnel, it's accessible from just about any point in the country. I run down the hall, scanning each possible exit, looking for one worthy of exploration - and forgetting all about Carl and his stupid White Fence.

Summer Home

Through the windows I can see the outer walls of this mazelike building as they stretch onward, the twisted corners blocking any end to the structure from sight. My grandfather built this summer home by hand, and while it retains the same color scheme and general shape as the house he more or less built for my parents, it has none of the focus or structure of his usual work. Instead it's a chaotic mess, with fully furnished rooms leading into unfinished hallways, and dead ends or secret doors around every corner. 

No, this house doesn't seem like something he would build. It seems like something I would build. 

I have vague memories of coming here in my youth, so perhaps it was an inspiration to me. The walls seem to have been re-ordered, though, so any memories I have are clouded in unfamiliarity.

I climb the stairs into a wing I certainly never came to as a child, probably because it had yet to be built. Opening the door, I find that the main chamber is a replica of my parent's room, only twice the size, and with a floor made entirely out of bedding. I navigate the floor carefully, climbing over the giant quilts and blankets which pile up and form virtual mountain ranges throughout the room. 

Walking down one of the many valleys, I can see a pair of feet sticking out from under a sheet, and realize that my grandfather is in fact asleep in the bed. Not wanting to disturb him, I tiptoe back to the door, my footsteps carefully aware that even the slightest touch might cause the whole bed to shake.

The door gives way to a different room entirely, one of the darkly lit, attic-like rooms which seem to be exist in between the walls of the other rooms. At one corner, I find a pile of strange electronic equipment, which upon closer inspection is musical in nature. 

Never aware that my grandfather had any musical interest, I am surprised, even moreso when I examine the devices themselves. Against one wall sits an electric pipe organ, with input plugs for guitar or microphone. Plugged in devices have their sound bent to the correct pitch and channelled through the pipes, which creates an otherworldly choral sound when I use it for my voice. Hung on the room's central pillar is an electronic box which uses a similar process to create less organic sounds - by combining the effects of both, I can create sounds even more alien.

The true find, though, is a custom guitar-like instrument, built with a thick single string which zig-zags as it goes down the fretboard. Each line segment on the jagged pattern forms a certain note when pressed near the center, and by moving the finger slightly to either side can slide up or down a half-note. At first this seems a rather difficult and impractical way to create tones which a normal guitar could have just as easily - but as I experiment with the device, I find that its unconventional style is the perfect fit for the other two instruments. 

As I explore this universe of new sounds, I can't help but hope for my grandfather to wake up soon - the two of us have more to talk about than I ever dreamed.