Introductions

I'm Krysta.

As far as I can remember I never believed in anything before.  The only 'spirit' I ever believed in was music -- nothing religious or superstitious. Since I was little my parents called me their 'pet atheist.' But then afterwards they'd always warn, "never been is not never will." ... fucking parents.

Up until a few weeks ago, I had laughed at the dumb kids who still believed in TheBoanthropic. Up until a few weeks ago, I never thought I'd have anything to do with that stupid LA mountain sex-cult The Society. And I definitely never thought I'd be used in a plot by those anarcho-dumbdumbs, The Bobo.

Up until then, I didn't know anything about the way things really were. The only thing I did know was that I had a neighbor named Beverly. And there was something special about her.

By the time I got on this ride, it was already going. I guess it has been for decades. I've had to play catch up to understand what's happening. Who's who. What's what. Who's real, what's not, and where to go next.

If you're here, I imagine you're in a similar boat.

I'll help catch you up, and we'll find our way together.

I'll start with me:

I live in Montauk, New York which is at the NE tip of Long Island. For those looking at a map, look at the island as a forearm in profile. If Bay Ridge is the elbow wenis, Montauk is the middle finger giving The Atlantic the bird.

I live with my parents. I'm 17. I will not give out more personal details. My parents are... worriers.

But I will tell you about my neighbor. Bev.

We say we're neighbors, but I know she's more than that. Mom and Dad always said we have to be careful talking about Bev because if people knew she wasn't a landowner, or even a renter, then she'd lose any standing in the community, and she's been here forever. The deed of the lot next to ours where she lives, it may be in my dad's name, but it's hers, and for as long as she wants to be there. My parents never wavered on that. Family is family they'd say. She's not my aunt, she's not my grandma, but she's more than a neighbor. The words don't work to describe what she is to me, but that doesn't matter to Beverly. They're just words she can't hear anyway.

She doesn't go out much, but when she does, she's beloved, and people have considerately (and also a bit patronizingly) learned the basics of signing. Thank yous, hellos, and whatnot.

I run back and forth between my side of the fence and her side, always have and I've worn down a path through the opening between the two. They're both home to me. But, I always knew Bev's side was different. A different smell, a different energy, a different frequency. Like a weird fun-house mirror from the house where my parents and I slept. A little exciting. A little dangerous.                                                                                                                                                                            
I had no idea how important Bev was. To me she was just Bev.

Until that night. June 7th. Around midnight.

I was in my room, reading. I started daydreaming, looking out the window to the full moon hanging over Bev's place, listening to the breeze and the waves whipping up. Then under that sound there was this growing hum. It grew. It was coming from Bev's place. Looking over, I could see the lights were flickering. The hum grew. My eardrum was saturated. My head felt heavy with an adrenaline rush that made my mouth whimper and my jaw lock up. My body moved on its own. I ran.

I was afraid for Beverly. I busted through the screen door through Bev's back gate and into her kitchen. She was sitting there like a statue. She was staring at a spilled tea cup resting on her table. Tears were running down her smiling face.

As I took her by her shoulders, this rush of faint memories washed over me. I had seen those flickering lights before, hadn't I? I had known that smile. That dark cold rush that cracks me open with a shiver. But quickly warms. I'm vulnerable now and exposed my gut gets pulled in taught, my diaphragm suspended, locking my jaw open, sending me to my knees. Awestruck.

This is still the only time I can remember. But I know there've been more. I saw them. I think.

When the thing passed we didn't quite know. It was just a slow realization. By then we were on the cold kitchen floor, leaning on our hands and each other.

We both took turns pouring each other waters from the tap. We both swallowed four glasses in four long gulps punctuated by some deep gasping.

"What was that?" I asked her, after my last glass.

"That," she said, her smile lines still cracking all over her sweet face, "that, my love,  is TheBoanthropic."

- K

p.s. moar soon