timberhill

CRAZIN:

Hello. My name is Crazin Foxhunt. About a year ago, my family of four and I moved to a town called Timberhill, Louisiana. Since then, I have observed countless strange and seemingly unexplainable happenings and events that have caused me to re-think not only my own perception of life, but also reality itself. I have decided to begin creating these audio installations at random intervals in time to raise awareness about Timberhill, and the strange occurrences that have transpired there, as well as the preservation of my own sanity in these unsettling times. During the installments, I will serve as your herald and reporter of the bizarre events of Timberhill. Let’s get started. Timberhill is a coastline small town of about 500 people, although the entrance sign clearly reads “population -4.” The town’s main export is a type of earthworm that is found exclusively within it’s borders. The worms are used primarily for fishing and dining, and are distributed in tin cans by the towns own “Can ‘o Worms Bait and Tackle.” Every Thursday, a grey semi-truck drives into town to receive its shipment of worms from the cannery at the edge of town. The driver of the truck has no face. Timberhill as seen from driving towards it must appear quite strange from a distance. A few non-descript boxlike shapes haphazardly scattered about, coagulating in density nearer to the tall, gaunt shilloette of the church house, towering above like a dark, silent relic of a time forgotten. And yet, I think that by far the strangest part of timberhill’s appearance is the perpetual halo of cloud, hovering over the town in a solemn, exact ring. The townspeople never seem to mention it, and might as well be completely unaware of the odd enigma. But then again, they don’t talk about many things. For instance, the strange and complex hand gesture that everyone seems entitled to preform before meals. When questioned, no one could seem to recount what the ritual means or how it started, but simply stated that “it’s just the right thing to do.” Fireworks can be seen over Timberhill on the 4^th of July every year, even though nobody in town sets them off. Other annually recurring events include the slow dissention of a long, black, wooden ladder stretching from the heavens into the bottom of the lagoon on October 8^th, and the total and complete ignoring of February the twenty sixth. The townspeople sleep straight through it, and it is scribbled out of all calendars. Also, instead of parading through the streets on Halloween, the children of Timberhill cower inside and draw their curtains for unknown reasons. Almost all life refuses to enter the town’s border, excepting earthworms, and strange eyeless fish that swim slowly and blindly through the bay. All of the townspeople are convinced that it is currently the year 1956, and they all act and dress accordingly. There is only one hospital in Timberhill. All of the nurses dress in plague doctor masks and white jumpsuits, and have never cured anyone of anything. Behind the hospital grows a small tree that produces cherry pits and no fruit. No one in Timberhill has ever died except by being poisoned. Howling noises can be heard from the nearby forest only by children of seven years old. There is one restaurant in Timberhill, a small diner simply called “Restaurant.” No one has ever been inside or knows what type of food they serve, because it has been “closed for Labor Day for as long as anyone can remember. Timberhill is named after a small, decrepit hill beside the church house, and overlooking the lagoon. The hill is under constant supervision by a strange, pale white creature with one eye that floats about two feet above the ground, and creates a soft humming noise. The citizens have affectionately named her the “mother worm”. Every Thursday, at precisely four in the morning, everyone gathers around the hill, and begins to chant odd incantations in Latin to the mother worm for eight minutes straight before returning to bed with no recollection of anything that happened in the morning. Whenever the-

ELANOR:

Crazin? Crazin? The walrus is back. He seems angry. I -waaaaa!

WALRUS:

ROARRR!

CRAZIN:

Ahh! Uhh… okay this concludes this instillation of the Timberhill Reporte