There’s an old man singing in the woods above the road I’m walking on. I hear it from above the abandoned lot where a house once sat. All that remains is a cement foundation.

I know no stories nor any names.

I know there’s a tori gate above. A path leading to a shrine on the mountain they call “Turtle Rock.” A scroll from the 1500’s names it. The name itself is supposed to be older.

The man that sings in the first chill autumn night. I wonder if he’s older still.

I wonder if he stands at the edge of the gate. Waiting for the faithful to journey to the forgotten shrine above an olden way post between one world and the next.

I keep my headphones in. Not pausing to listen. I don’t let my feet stop either.

There’s no one else on this road.

The curling mess of asphalt between the eastern edge of the island and the beginning of the bay.

I try not to think of the creaks above my apartment at night.

How I live on the top floor and above there’s nothing but roof.

How it sounds like someone walking from time to time.

I play music most nights. I run the AC or heat even when it’s not needed.

When I could sit in the silence.

But that’s the problem. There’s no silence. Not here.

Not on this island— with its lost graves and hidden portal. Not with the edge of reality tucking inward as the outward pressure of something beyond comprehension looms.

A viper waiting to strike—-

Except there’s no venom to what comes next.

No horrible death or agony.

What comes next is—