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If the Appalachia region has anything, it’s urban legends and stories of cryptids and creatures that lurk in the trees. These stories are made evermore eerie by the ruins and abandoned structures reclaimed by nature sprinkle throughout the hills. Somewhere between the skin walkers and mimics, there are stories of ghost towns with ominous histories. One such town, is Livermore, Pennsylvania.
Living in the city, on top of thousands of others, in a box on top of a box — and shared walls — is horrid. The buzz of electrical wires and boxes, heavy-footed neighbors with vociferous habits and booming voices. It’s strange, to me, that anyone could ever truly enjoy it. It boggles my mind that some of you, those with a million other options, would still choose to live on top of each other. I don’t mean this metaphorically. No, I mean this in a purely literal sense. I lived above someone for several years — my floor, was [essentially] their ceiling. To be fair, I chose to live above others, because living beneath them is somehow worse. However, I do not want to be where I currently am either.
Things weren’t the best in South Carolina, but my time spent there served its purpose. Soon after I left, the ambivalence of relief mixed with grief consumed me. I received a phone call from police from the area I was staying in up in South Carolina, asking if I had seen or heard from an acquaintance of mine. I hadn’t, not since I had arrived in New Orleans; when I had asked her to meet up with me, get away from awhile. See, she was in a bad relationship, and things had been escalating. She said she would get back to me and let me know, but that was the last time we spoke.
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Sheena MonsterThey/Them/Theirs 
Naming the things that society works hardest to ignore, to reclaim the humanity stripped by systemic deception.
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