I live in New England, and I am well familiar with small towns and their residents.
I’ve driven through the towns, and I’ve stopped in them as well.
There’s something frightening about each one.
A terrifying undercurrent reminiscent of old and foul crimes, and perhaps some that are a little too fresh for anyone to speak of.
Within the last year, I stopped in such a town. It was nestled between the border of Connecticut and Massachusetts. Small and quaint, old trees lining the tight streets. Distrustful glances from the residences and an air of, Go back to where you came from.
It was this atmosphere that infected me.
The disease of this town, the invasive distrust, and fear of the other has remained with me, and it lurks in the back of my mind with every single keystroke as I write the stories of the Village.
You see, I know what hides in some of the houses and the buildings. Not only the ghosts of actions and deeds of the past but the ghosts of those who committed the crimes for which they are damned.
I imagine what it would be like to be trapped in such a town. A place where fear is ever-present.
And it chills me to the bone.
As I write, I imagine the houses I have passed, the abandoned buildings and sheds and barns falling into ruin. I can see myself trapped in such places, and I wonder, could I be as strong as Alex?
For the best reading experience, enjoy the Haunted Village series in the following order:
See you in the shadows,