Patch of Land

There’s a small patch of land surrounded by thick woods on the outskirts of a certain small Mississippi town, unreachable now as no one has bothered to take care of the overgrowth. The land isn’t so big as to appeal to any buyers, but isn’t so small that it’s completely forgotten. Ask anyone old enough to remember its use and they’ll ignore you. They’ll look away and seem to zone out until you leave, readjust their hearing aid, or completely change the topic of the conversation.

The weeds and other plants grow wild and untouched there, with the roots of the trees surrounding it unnaturally thick and black. Not that anyone has been there lately to see things or get a good enough view to remember what they look like.

Many, many years ago, this small patch of land was used as an unmarked cemetary for the citizens deemed unfit for a normal burial site. They dug a hole as deep as they could reach (which, mind you, was very far and took many man-hours to dig), and left it open for the bodies to be flung like trash. They’d then set a fire in the pit to get rid of the usually disease-riddled corpses and leave the place for time to take care of the rest.

Naturally, the hole began to fill.

Charred, rotten bodies filled it almost to the top, to a volume not even the fires could take care of. They used it as much as they could before filling it with dirt and waste and leaves and such, then let nature grow around it to mask what once was. The trees, though, wouldn’t let them forget. The roots pushed the decaying skeletons upwards, tangled within it themselves, an amalgamation of nature and death.

The human fertilizer fed the foliage and helped it grow to such an unnatural degree that any osul brave enough to dare the wilderness would seem to be transported to another, nightmarish reality. Many got lost in the woods that seemed to shift around them, deceived by the voices that gave them directions which they so desperately followed. Their bodies would only aid the growth.

So, the next time you find yourself somewhere in Mississippi where the forst seems too dark during the day and pitch black at night, where even the townspeople won’t acknowledge your questions about it, just let it go. You’d make a fine mulch.

By waldofan