#regionalcryptids

You moved to the city around four years ago after you girlfriend passed in an attempt to distract yourself. After some hunting you find what you deem to be a fairly decent apartment. The one you found has been your apartment for over a year now, all yours, all alone. The floor creaks and the oven isn’t great, but at least the heat stays on in winter and the rent isn’t too bad. Things are normal, just as they’ve always been, that is until you get around to cleaning the bathroom again. The tub drain has been clogged for about a week, and you aren’t really sure as to why. Your red hair is always kept short. That’s why it comes as a shock when the snake pulls up nearly a foot of thick, black hair that is all too familiar.

You feel it in the cyprus trees. You smell it in the thick sludge at the bottom of the swamp. You can hear it in the silence, taste it on the wind. The ground isn't as solid as it used to be, as if it ever was, but the moss sways just the same. Salt water laps at the slick river bank that was bone dry two days ago. The sea has risen. Every animal in the swamp wore an absent title card bearing the name you gave them, only to take it with them now that they've gone. Your mind is as battered as the camps you float past. Too many words, too many thoughts, too many hopes. This is where you belong, though, you can't leave. It doesn't matter whose path you are in.

Living on the top floor of an apartment building isn't as nice as it may seem. You like the view and the elevator works well enough that it doesn't bump or make weird noises, but something feels... Off. Most nights are good and quiet, but recently the lights have been flickering. Sometimes there are thuds from the bathroom. Every now and then you'll find a door open that you were sure you closed. Continuity is key you think to yourself. Continuity is what will keep you hidden from the new rentors.

Your college isn't haunted, not at all. No dead nuns, no suicides, no severely disgruntled students, nothing in its 100 year history. This must mean that ghosts can't account for the strange goingons. You've seen the shadow at the top of the stairwell late at night on the third floor. The student center is always cold, even in the last week of August. You could have sworn there was a third wing of the administration building. Then there is the boy in your 9 am class. He shows up for each class, but his name is never called for attendance, and the professor doesn't collect his papers. When you ask the girl who sits next to him about the strange boy, she gives you a head-tilted look, eyebrows knitted together in concern. "I'm sorry? What boy?"

For the most part, your town is normal. Small, quiet, neighborly. That is, until the creek starts to rise in the summer. Mosquitoes are a given, as are flies and June bugs and fireflies, but every night something buzzes a little too loud to be normal. The noise always comes from the east and moves north within an hour. Everyone and their mother has notified the police, but they can’t find anything wrong, and not even the local historians have any answers as to what it could be. In fact, they aren’t saying much of anything lately. Where are they?

You and your friends throw stones and walnuts into the trees as you wait for the bus. Eventually, something throws them back.

A hush falls over the city during the first true snowfall. The blanket of white dulls the noise, and things seem to move a little slower now, just as they do every winter. There is, though, a slight murmur as you make your way downtown. Information travels fast when there's not much to talk about. It only takes you a few moments before you overhear a conversation on the street, giving you all the information you need. "...Huge. The tracks were massive, I swear, I saw them myself by the creek." Your interest is peaked, but you can't be sure yet. "What did they look like? Were they the same as the ones three years ago?" "Well, yes, but they were bigger! Same shape and everything." And that is all the confirmation you need before you turn around and get home as fast as you can. The dog must have gotten out again.

When people around your city talk about going on vacation, they have to specify. "We're heading up north this weekend", or "The south is so beautiful this time of year", and even "Out east is where our cabin is". North, south, east. Never west. You thought maybe heading west was too difficult, that it took too long to get anywhere. It wasn't long, though, before you began to hear rumors spread about why no one ever heads toward the sunset. "Out there, over the horizon... That's where they live," your father admits one night after enough begging and enough beers. "We don't go west, no one does, not since..." He is silent for longer than you think is comfortable. "We don't go west."