As the stream began to climb, it had formed a natural setting for a mill. Dilapidated, the remains of one crouched alongside the stream. This was far from where anybody now lived, like the Deserted Village in Watchung Reservation. Danielle had taken him there. Technically Feltville, it had been a place where a community had thrived, but had eventually been abandoned. Houses still stood, falling apart, but the area was now being preserved. Of course, in New Jersey nothing was really far from anything else, but here? From the mill Terah saw scattered, clearly forsaken houses, up on the hill.
Some towns, like New Amsterdam, caught on and became New York City. Others, like Pithole City near where he had entered the world, were left to rot. It was like when you had an idea and began to follow it, but others dropped out when it wasn’t an instant success. Terah recalled that Weird New Jersey had designated the area around Feltville “the Enchanted Forest.” Young people had imagination. Here he saw very little in the ways of urban vandalism—graffiti was extremely sparse. This village had to be too far from anything to attract local youth, bored and looking for stimulation. He couldn’t believe his luck. This could become his base of operations.
Caution had, of course, become a way of life. The mill, he discovered, had been at the terminus of a road gone to seed. It was covered in snow and it wasn’t evident if there were hidden cavities, so Terah took slow steps. A quick, unscientific survey revealed about a dozen houses standing. All were in disrepair, but relatively intact. They were scattered among the trees of the hillside. Everything was eerily quiet. January could be like that.
Past the mill he noticed that feeling. The feeling of being stared at. Whipping about, he saw no one. Abandoned buildings, he reasoned, often projected the sensation of being watched. He was deep in the Poconos by now, but not terribly far from the still thriving Stroudsburg. It was like this was a place out of joint with time. Growing up in western Pennsylvania he’d heard about the Poconos. The guys in his high school locker room bragged of bringing girls here—back in the days when the state speed limit was 55, it was an eight-hour drive. But worth it, they crowed. He couldn’t even remember their names. Ghosts all.
Having any road at all made progress comparatively easy. A central street had run up the hill, along which the houses had been strung, beads on a real estate necklace. Coming to the domicile furtherest down the hill, the feeling of eyes grew overwhelming. Then he looked down. Footprints in the snow. Someone else was here. His pulse cantered at the thought of Lindsey. Had he found her? Then, following the tracks it seemed there was more than one set. The houses were clearly not active by regulated standards. No utilities. Roofs caving in. A whiff of smoke in the air. Others had found this refuge.
Thoughts of calling out were suppressed by the tactic of simple submission. He wasn’t threatening. His very state of being suggested vagrancy. His face was bearded, his clothes unwashed. The obvious pack on his back. He was no lost hiker, out for a January stroll.
A house somewhere about the middle had no fresh tracks leading to it. The porch was still covered and Terah could sit without planting his ass in snow. He was weary, yet full of wonder. Approaching the property he encountered the psychological block of coming onto somebody else’s property. The house wasn’t his, but he was tired and nobody had come out to him. If both sides remained cautious, there’d be no progress at all.
Lindsey was a loner, he reflected as he leaned against the creaking cladding. She wouldn’t stay in a place with so many people. How many? Terah really couldn’t guess, but it was a village occupied in an unorthodox way. Light was beginning to fail like it does among hills, starting dusk early to the east of a mountain. Still nobody approached him. What was the protocol here? In a normal town there would be a mayor. Someone in charge. Dominant personalities. Bullies. They rose to the top. What about a place like this? Would he be attacked if he tried to enter this house? The wind had begun to pick up, and although no furnace cheered the inside with central heat, protection from the wind would help.
Heavily he got to his feet. The feeling of being watched was intense now, but he couldn’t guess how many people it might involve. Clearly other luckless guys had made this their home. Thoughts of settling here were appealing. Just a year ago he’d have considered such an idea absurd and disgusting, but once you’ve conceded to defeat, nothing has a way of becoming affluence. He stood, waiting to see if anyone might come out with the twilight.
When he was in middle school Terah worked his summers in a CETA program. The government would help the poor by giving their kids demeaning jobs. His was to paint bus shelters. A crew of five boys—girls were never taken to remote locations, at least not to be left with the guys—driven to bus shelters where no houses were in sight. Weeds high around them. Wasp nests growing malignantly in their corners. Mr. Cranford would drive them there in a repurposed VW van from the telephone company. Terah always had to sit in the middle on the engine cover, what the boys called the nut roaster. Your butt would get hot and of course there were no seat belts.
At some crossroads where the devil might show up at night he’d drop the boys off with painting supplies and manual weed cutting tools. When his taillights pulled around the bend, it was Lord of the Flies. Terah always did what he was told, and painting was like covering sins. Chuck, more aggressive, always helped. The other boys went for the weeds. Battle lines were drawn. One of the weed-whackers—what was his name?—knew Terah feared snakes. As he used a roller on the neglected exterior, that nameless kid came up to him, the head of a garter snake balanced on his grass shear. He raised it at Terah, threatening to fling the lifeless head with unblinking eyes in his face. A chirping whir announce Mr. Cranford. The snake head flung to the trees. “One word,” the bully whispered, “and next time it’ll be your neck.” He wasn’t joking.
Shaking his head back to the present, Terah turned around and reached for the door.
“What do you think you’re doing?” an unknown voice said.
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