I’ve had dreams about falling lately. Not from anything — just falling, into a place that doesn’t want me.
No end. No bottom. Just weightlessness and static.
The kind of dream where you wake up sweating and convinced your floor moved a few inches while you slept.
Which brings me to Blue Mountain — the part of the map where Kingsmouth whispers go to scream. The locals won’t talk about it unless they’re drunk, and even then, you’ll get words like “thin,” “bad vein,” and “don’t go alone.”
Naturally, I went alone.
🪨 The Quarry (Or: My Brain Got Rearranged by a Rock Pile)
I started near the old mining road, where the signs were more rust than metal and the fences looked like they were losing an argument with gravity. Beyond them was the quarry — carved deep into the side of the mountain like something chewed through it from beneath.
Nothing moved. No birds, no bugs. No wind. Just that kind of silence that has texture.
Halfway down the slope, I felt the pressure. Like altitude sickness, but internal — as if my thoughts were being pulled sideways. The ground under my boots felt soft, like walking across a dream stitched onto a memory.
And then… the time slip.
I checked my watch — yeah, I wear one, I’m that kind of nerd — and it was 14:42. I blinked. Took a few more steps.
Checked again. 15:04.
Twenty-two minutes.
Gone.
There were marks. Faint indentations along the quarry wall that didn’t match any mining tool I’ve ever seen. Deep gouges in a spiralling pattern, with a residue like old oil but with flecks of something… red. And warm.
Yes, I touched it.
Yes, I regret it.
Later, I found a chunk of metal embedded in the gravel — maybe part of a mining drill? But it was bent in a curve, like it had melted and reformed. I picked it up and dropped it immediately. It hummed.
As in, actually hummed.
Here’s the part where I stopped feeling brave.
🌀 The Spiral and the Sound
At the lowest point of the quarry, there’s a hollowed-out pit. Perfect circle. Something was dug — or birthed — there.
And in the dust, I saw it: a spiral stain, maybe 8 feet across. It looked like rust at first, but it smelled… wrong. Like iron mixed with old honey. I crouched to photograph it and—
I blacked out.
Just for a second, I think. But when I stood up, my knees were wet. There hadn’t been any water.
My camera roll had seven new photos.
Two were just black.
Three were of the quarry.
One was me, mid-step, walking away.
And one… one was me from behind. From about fifteen feet back.
I was alone.
I know I was alone.
Was I?
I don’t remember leaving. I just remember the road being there, and my legs moving. I didn’t think. I didn’t talk to myself out loud like I usually do (yes, I do that). I didn’t listen to music. I just walked, like something was walking through me.
When I got back to the safe zone near the inn, my boots were red. Not mud. Not blood. Something else.
I don’t think Blue Mountain is haunted. I think it’s aware.
I think it’s remembering things through people like me.
And I think it’s getting closer to remembering everything.
Next time I go back, I’m bringing a compass, a canary, and three exit strategies.
Until then:
Don't go near the quarry alone.
Don’t trust the ground.
And if something offers you a spiral? Don’t take it.
Still here. Still shaken.
— Jenna ⛰️
keep feeding
