I had forgotten how strange this northeastern land can get. I grew up here for the most part, used to the strangeness as one is used to air. But now, after long absence, the New England hoodoo buzzes over my skin, raising the tiny hairs.
For example, the inexplicable occurrence of a sink that spouts flowers.
An indoor swing and a wall of boxes each filled with a different mystery concealed as a book and obfuscated as a painting.
A street lamp that serves as a way-station for monsters and gods and a cross-roads for magics both ancient and fay.
There is a reason this land breeds such as Lovecraft and King.
We went down to the beach where many generations had left standing-stones. Some for protection; others as a lure. Standing-stones to tell the time and seasons or stones to predict when the ships would come home. Some made by the young and others by the old and all made to withstand wind and wave and waiting. Some for cursing and others for blessing--all for something. There I built my own standing stones, a gateway between the future and the past. The light shone through and we made the rest of the journey home.