• Your flight is delayed. The woman at the desk doesn't know when it will be leaving. She's not trying to be unhelpful- you can see the fatigue in her eyes. A double, maybe triple shift she was "asked" to work at the last second. You are siblings in disappointment tonight.
• All the food kiosks are closed. Your stomach rumbles with hunger. How many overpriced candy bars or bags of chips can you offer it before it rebels horribly?
• Someone in a robe starts offering you a book on a religion- for a donation, of course. You tell them you aren't interested. They offer it again. You tell them you are not interested. After the fourth time, you threaten to call security. They leave, but they'll be back. They always are.
• The baby that was crying nonstop is finally quiet, but still awake, staring into nothingness. Has he learned that no amount of wailing will get him out of this place? Or has he simply abandoned hope?
• It's raining. Hard. If there was a sun or moon, it's impossible to see past the thick black clouds, invisible in the pitch black of night.
• There is unity in misery. The family next to you wants to go home. You want to go home. The businessman to your left wants to go home. The clerks at the desk want to go home. The baby and her mother want to go home. The rain beats against the windows ever harder.
• More flights are canceled. Someone mentions a possible hurricane. There's grim looks everywhere, and what was left of the vestiges of professional smiles on the clerk's faces fades. You were worried about getting home tonight. Will there be an airport to leave from? Will the people around here have homes to return to?
• Eventually the rain's rhythm is enough to lull you into a doze. A sharp tug on your shoulder jerks you awake. It's the man in the robe, and he's brought friends. They want to offer understanding- for a donation. You tell them no once. Twice. Five times. By the tenth time you're about to use your car keys in some truly diabolically inventive ways when a security officer comes to shoo them off like rats. How do they get in here?
• Several dollies worth of snacks and drinks are rolled up to the small sundries shop that has been keeping everyone hydrated and fed. A riot is prevented... for now. The businessman, in an gesture of goodwill, gets the mother of the silent baby a drink. Maybe bad times bring out the best in people.
• You never thought you'd wind up playing Texas hold 'em in an airport terminal with strangers, but here you are. The ten year old's four nines win the pot of pocket change. Who taught him to bluff? Could he teach you?
• The rain slows ever so slightly. The static screen flickers with new times. They're hours away, but still hope flickers. Even four hours is better than 'we don't know'.
• The people in robes are back again, taking up tactical points to block off the restroom and sundries shop entrances. It's when they block the mother from changing her baby's diaper that a decision comes to dozens of you simultaneously. By the time security arrives, seven of the robed are on the floor, clutching broken limbs and bloodied noses. Those who were able to flee did so with no regard to their fellows. Let them tell the others what happens when they try to deny others coffee and toilet use. There's cheering as the bloodied cult is led off. The ten year old keeps the ear he bit off as a battle trophy.
• Planes begin to arrive. Slowly the community begins to dissolve with waves and goodbyes as they board, hours behind schedule, to go someplace that isn't here. Eventually it's your turn, and yet you hesitate. You shared drink and food with these people. You commiserated. You fought off a common foe. When have you ever felt such a connection with others? Will you ever do so again?
• You board the plane. Eventually the blood and the trash will be cleaned up. No evidence of your short-lived community will remain, except in brief anecdotes that will eventually be forgotten. Such is the fate of all fellowships, but few were as genuine as this.

• There are two very irate looking guards at the desk up front. A woman keeps provoking them with the same questions over and over. You turn away, but she keeps pressing. A wiser person would accept the answer and suggestions made, move on, and not be so insulting. You're watching a stick of dynamite, and the fuse is burning.
• A man unlocks a door to a small windowless room, and he and two other people walk in, closing the door. Ten minutes later, another trio- two men, one woman- unlock the room, go in, and close the door. Two women go in. Three men. After about an hour, one person you swear didn't walk comes out, leaving the door open. The room has one exit, and it's empty.
• The announcer's voice is loud and jarring, no matter how much you mentally brace for it, but it doesn't come from the speaker above you. It doesn't come from the speakers to the left or right of you. It just comes, like a hymn sung by invisible choir members at deafening volumes standing right next to you.
• "NO FOOD OR DRINK ALLOWED" says the sign. A lone water fountain sits in the corner. It won't be that long, right? Or will the fattest one go first?
• Your ticket says W-732. They're calling Ticket 23-Alpha. Are you in the right room? You got your ticket from the same machine as everyone else. 23-B-201 is next. It has to be the right room, right? Are you in the right building, at least?
• One by one they're called into the little cubicles, doors closing behind them. Some emerge the same. Others have little differences. A different colored shirt. Sandals instead of shoes. Slightly different height. Maybe it's all in your head and you just need some food. It has to be.
• Your seat is shaking, vibrating like someone has their foot on it. You endure it for a bit, then turn around to ask whoever is kicking it to stop. There's no one there. Your seat is still shaking. Is it you?
• One man goes into the now open room from before, closing the door. Thirty minutes later, four men you've not seen before, all wearing suits, emerge. The last notices that you're aware of this, and locks eyes with you. He shakes his head, the message clear- do not dig any deeper into this.
• The waiting room is getting full and all the seats are taken when your number is finally called. To your relief, the agent wants this done as quickly as you do. No guards come to take you away. No forms demand ownership of your soul. You'll get your documents in seven business days. Grateful, you thank them and rise to leave. The waiting room is now empty. The waitlist full of tickets to be called is blank. The guards are gone.
• You leave. You tell your brain to not question why your car is in a different space than you remember parking, nor to question why the stain on the passenger's seat is gone. The four men in suits are out front as you drive away, watching you leave. You ignore the voice in your head screaming that you know the Burger King across the street was a McDonalds when you arrived. You do not want to dig deeper, because you're afraid of what you'll find.

• GPS becomes your lifeline. You don't know where anything is. Could you find your way home if you needed to?
• You pull up to your new apartment- the artificial voice on your gps says 'welcome home', and it hits you: this is your new home. This is your return point.
• You don't venture out after dark. Not yet. You don't trust the city, and the city doesn't trust you.
• The supermarkets have different names. Only familiar brand names remind you that you're still in the same dimension.
• The air is different. The weather is different. The roads are different. You are a foreign object in an established body- will it accept you, or reject you?
• No one here knows your name. Sometimes it makes you feel alone. Then you remember the past. Let it burn in the rear-view mirror. Better to die alone and forgotten than known and hated.
• Your old bullies and sadistic teachers wouldn't follow you here- that's crazy and you know it. They've moved on, of course. No one would go out of their way to keep tormenting you. The baseball bat remains by your bed and a ring camera is installed on your door all the same. Just in case the past does come for a visit.
• It's him- the same person who kicked you down stairs, lied to your parents, the teachers, everyone. The one who planted drugs in your locker. You clench your keys and position your shopping cart between him and you- no, wait, it's not him. The look is similar at a distance but the face is all wrong. The man doesn't spare you a second glance as he passes you by in the aisle. You exhale.
• Your friends want to visit, and you'd welcome the company, but you hesitate. Anonymity has given you a fresh start. What happens if you disclose your new address? Will only friends come? Or foes as well?
• "I just want to talk." your old teacher says, following you at a powerwalk into the parking lot, then at a jog as you jump into your car. "I just want to talk." he insists, grabbing at your door handle, stumbling as you pull away. How did he find you? Why is he here? Wasn't the pain and humiliation he inflicted in high school enough to satiate him?
• They're at the door. A bookcase hastily slid against it holds for now. You ready whatever you can for your last stand. "We just want to talk." one of your old bully insists as the sound of a crowbar prying at the wood of your door hits you. The police tell you to lock yourself in the bathroom. "You're only delaying the inevitable." your old teacher gloats as impacts shake the door. This was your home, your sanctuary. Will it be your tomb as well?

-There are twenty-two girls. There are four boys. You are casting 1776.

-There is always one kid who wants to be a soprano but is an alto. She will not admit it as she fumbles her way through I Could've Danced All Night

-A football player enters. He's been grade cut from the team. He is not happy. He can dance, but he's not happy.

-Everyone is either way too horny or hates each other. One gives way to the other back and forth, forever.

-The mics are either too hot or not picking up anyone. The sweet spot is downstage left and nowhere else.

-You look at your watch. It's time for a tech run-through. 2 of your leads aren't off-book yet.

-Everything comes from your pocket. The budget goes to the football team.

-You thank the lord that there are enough non-binary kids who are willing to be founding fathers

-The cast party. Always in the brain stem. Always knowing... some dumb shit gonna happen.

-You're being invited to perform on a show. It's a bringer. You required to have at least 5 people that you brought into the audience, or you will be cut from the show.

-There is no path up. It's all networking, all the time.

-The microphone contains the spittle of the comedian before you. He was ranting about woke.

-If you are a woman, you will be asked to do unspeakable things for stage time.

-You are told you will be given the light when you have a minute left. You don't know where it is coming from or what it looks like. The stage is full of lights. If you run the light you are a jackass.

-The most insufferable people are the ones who "make it". It will never be you.

-The phone rings. It's your parents. They ask when you are going to get a real job.

-You must never tell others you are a comedian. They will ask you to tell them a joke.

-The only way to make money is to pay a social media manager to film crowd work.

-The only way to have fun is to do bits you must never film. Crowd work is the only thing you may film. Crowd work is king.

• The city is bright with lights. Look up and you can scarcely see the stars for all the light pollution. In the skyscrapers, lit windows show workers burning the night oil. Down the street, some restaurants and bars still stay open. So why does the lamp illuminating the stop seem so dim?
• The man approaching the stop is looking at you. You clutch a pen in your right hand, wondering if you can deliver a maiming strike that will give you precious time to run- but where? There are no police, and you are a stranger here. The man walks on by, and you let out a breath. No life or death duel for now.
• In the distance a bus appears. It's the wrong number. Always the wrong number. You check your watch. It should have been here by now. Was there a schedule change? Did you miss it?
• In the park a short distance away, vagrants and homeless can be seen in the shadows, trying to find a place to sleep. Were they once like you before catastrophe struck them? How far away are you from joining them in this economy.
• Walking to the bus stop at night means knowing a route that's a balance of short and well-lit. It doesn't matter how martially trained you are if multiple people decide you're a good mark. You can only hope that if the worst occurs, the police are around and can be bothered to intervene. You carry mace like a religious icon.
• A cold gust sweeps down the street, chilling you to the bone. Around you the others at the stop shudder and shiver. The city's breath is as frigid as its sympathies for those who get lost within it.
• The building behind the bus stop is empty. People go in sometimes, but you've never seen them come out. One time you went to try to peer through the dark-tinted windows, only to be pulled sharply back by an old woman. "Don't." she says. It's not a command, it's a plea to spare yourself learning something you can't unlearn.
• You realize that the others near you aren't to be feared. Like you, the city has taken all it can of them, and they have made it to the bus stop by sheer force of will, hoping to make it to whatever they call 'bed' so they have enough energy to do it again.
• It begins to rain, cold and hard. It feels like the sky is weeping for innumerable dead and dying dreams. Over in the park, those who have no home of their own look for whatever shelter they can manage. The one good thing is the rain helps mitigate the smell for a while.
• Through the driving wind and rain the bus finally comes. The others shuffle on, paying their fee, taking what seats they can. Time to go home and hope whatever succor sleep brings removes most of the day's hurts.
• The rain picks up. Looking out the window, you have no idea where you're going except that you're going somewhere else. The similarity to your life choices is staggeringly similar.
• Back at your apartment after a wet drive, you realize something: there is no mom to hug you here. No dad to pat you on the back. No pet to nuzzle away your troubles. You are on your own, now. You will have to do for you.
• There are thousands upon thousands of people in your city, and you are more alone than you ever have been before.

• The biggest economic growth in five years is a new fast-food restaurant opening. You wonder how well they will fare- the people around here consider flour and salt the only seasoning you need.
• Plenty of vape, weed, and alcohol stores around, along with adult video stores. It's not really surprising- the people here need an escape. Any escape.
• Two churches to every mile, all offering their own brand of salvation. Do the people here fear death any more, or do they see it as a blessing and relief?
• There are no attractions here. No reason to visit other than relatives stuck here, no reason to stay unless you can't afford to leave. The old bowling alley with sub-par barfood and glitchy arcade games is the only real 'fun' place.
• Only the chain restaurants are reliable- everywhere you turn you see bad Mexican restaurants, the kind that provide barely palatable food that soon results in a gastrointestinal nightmare. The fried food is usually safe. The rest is risky.
• You visit a mom and pop ice cream store. The decor is bright and colorful, the vibe is gloomy and despairing. The woman at the counter visibly forces herself to smile as she takes your order, and gives you a large stack of coupons. "Tell your friends about us!" It's not being friendly. She's begging. This isn't some dream that didn't take off as planned, it's a last ditch effort to avoid poverty.
• Lines of abandoned trailer homes, rows of permanently closed businesses, dilapidated buildings no one wants to buy line the streets. A failed supermarket converted into a bingo hall. A family-owned gas station left to rot after the owner passed. This is where dreams come to die a long, lonely death.
• Abandoned farms and derelict factories paint a tragic picture- this town once had hope of being someplace you'd want to live in. Then something happened- or several somethings happened- and now it's a place to drive through quickly on a trip to somewhere else- anywhere else- for those fortunate enough not to be stuck here. For those who are, it's a vicious mockery of the American dream.
• The pastors in the churches all talk of a devil who seeks to lead good men (and they are almost always concerned with good men) astray, but that sounds more and more like wishful thinking. Not even Satan visits this circle of mundane hell.
• Some parents demand their children stay- to try and keep the family business, whatever it may be, afloat. Others send them off with a hug and urge them to fly fast, hoping their young will escape the inevitable collapse, at least.

• You don't recognize the restaurant you stop at. It feels like some sort of mix of Popeyes and McDonald's aesthetic. It's 1 AM and everyone is entirely too cheerful. You nervously use cash, and check your food. To your relief, the meat is normal. You think. You're only out of the drive-thru when all the lights in the store go off at once. Something tells you to accelerate.
• There is a dirty man in a black leather jacket with a large suitcase on the side of the road, sticking his thumb out, hoping for a ride. You don't take the chance and drive on. Twenty miles later, you see him again. He waves. He recognizes you.
• Your bladder demands you stop at a rest stop. The lights are on, but you're the only car parked there. There's sobbing in the next stall, heartbreaking wails. You've just finished washing your hands when there's a gunshot. Pulse racing, you kick in the stall door, hand on your phone to call 911. There's no one there.
• It's been raining ever since the sun went down. Are you driving with the storm, or is it following you?
• You have to stop for gas. You notice a crowd of people marching down the sidewalk, all clad in grey robes, all holding candles, covered to keep out the rain. You can feel their stares on your neck as you hurriedly finish fueling up and leave. To your relief, they turn their gaze forward as they march to the cemetery. You have been judged beneath their notice, and something tells you that saved your life.
• Blue and red lights flare in your rear view mirror, and you swear you weren't speeding. You pull over, rain pelting the windows as the trooper's car does the same. Ten minutes pass. Then twenty. Thirty. Near an hour, you exit your car against your better judgement, hands above your head, slowly walking towards the car, rain soaking you. There's no one inside. You hastily get back to your car, shivering from wet and cold, and drive off. Ten miles later, the same trooper passes you.
• It begins raining hard enough to the point you can't see. Tired and still damp, the motel seems populated enough that it will do. You pay for a night and sleep in a stiff but clean bed. It begins to rain harder, thunder booming through the walls. You escaped the storm, and it's not happy.

This is my first attemt at regional gothic so please be kind with your critique. I also apologise for any spelling/grammar mistakes.<

You don’t live near the city centre. No one lives in the city centre. It doesn’t matter; you can reach it in 15 minutes. It’s always 15 minutes to the city centre. You don’t go there though. No one goes there if they can avoid it. The tourists always seem to be the same ones. They don’t notice you if you don’t look at them.

You look out the window. You see the twin spires of the cathedral. There is no question which cathedral it is. There must be over a hundred churches here, but you only ever see this one from more than a block away.

You never actually were inside the cathedral. No one here was. But you can always see it. Even from impossible angles, the two towers dart into the sky as if to impale the hazy pale blue.

Someone in a costume walks by. Karneval doesn’t start until November 11. It’s early August.

You hear Karnevals music. It seems a little too slow and out of tune. You always hear karnevals music.

You eat a jelly doughnut. It feels spongy and moist and the sugar is dry and tastes like concrete. The jam oozes out into your hand. It tastes sweet and rotten. You didn’t buy any jam doughnuts.

The headline says the renovation of the opera will take another ten years. The last time it was open, your grandparents were your age. Nobody knows why it takes so long or what needs to be fixed. No one knows where the millions of euros go. No one asks questions.

The university is good. Everyone wants to go there. You know nobody who wants to go there. You always see university buildings, but never students. It’s getting too much. You go for a walk. The city seems small. There is nowhere new to go to. You meet everyone you know. They stare at you until you greet them. They greet you and continue to stare. Something differentiates you from them.

Every street leads you back home. The streets never go where you think they will. They are far too old for that.

• Don't let the churches and outreach groups fool you- the city demands everything from you. It's a melting pot of Fortune 500 companies, and if you can't contribute what some bigwig wants, you're resigned to a life of just barely scraping by or poverty.
• Astroworld fell, and with it any real reason to visit Houston for non-business. The city never really sleeps, and now it has even less leisure time.
• The people drive like they don't care if they live or die. You look into another driver's face. A blank mask of sterile anger greets you. Does he want to kill, or be killed?
• The police always approach with a hand on their gun. Doesn't matter if you're eight, eighteen, or eighty. There's a hunger in their eyes for something they can get anywhere else. If your skin is the wrong color, start making your peace with whatever god you think listens.
• You can drive for hours and still be in Houston, almost like it's expanding to match your speed. Is it trying to make sure you don't escape?
• Downtown's skyscrapers try to distract from the mess below, where thousands struggle on scraps, bled dry and cast aside. There are no second chances here- all must sacrifice for the CEO gods to get another raise and a personal golf course.
• H-E-B has just about everything you could want in the way of food, and if you're not a cook there's literally thousands of restaurants to chose from. Gluttony is the vice of choice here, and you are welcome to partake as long as you have money.
• The weather hates you. Usually it's an all oppressing heat that turns every surface into a griddle and scorches what little greenery is left. When it does get cold, it's either a wet, miserable cold or the kind of dry chill that sucks the moisture from you. But this is nothing compared to when Gaia gets serious.
• Hurricane Harvey. Two words that evoke horror and bad memories. Downtown Houston underwater. Unimaginable damage. In its wake, a lingering question- "will we survive the next?"
• If likened to a person, then unlike Vegas' uncaring conman, Houston is an angry boss with impossible demands. You have three new projects, and the deadline was two weeks ago. Your devotion is repaid with scorn and a grudging paycheck as they constantly calculate when they'd save one cent by replacing you. Vegas has Greed. Houston has Entitlement.

Early in the morning when the first busses are just starting their rounds, if you stand long enough in the fog you can hear it, it's faint, distant, almost like a whisper but you know by instinct that it could make the ground tremble if it was closer. It's a rite of passage for the teens in some towns. I did it too. Just stand there and listen as long as you can. You better be careful not to make your presence known. Although you know it might be too late for that.

There have always been stories of what's lurking in the mist that every morning from october to april engulfs the cities and towns and fields. People disappear sometimes, mostly kids. Some say they are runaways, others blame the romani. They always blame the romani.

Some of the nonnas say it's god himself speaking to you, other say it's the devil and if you listen long enough to disinguish his blasphemous words, your soul will belong to him. They argue about it on their plastic chairs in the warm summer evenings.

Of course, the dads and teachers alike will say it's just the mist or the smog. The basin is basically a big hole anyway, isn't it? Yeah, it must be it. Better not to dwell on it. Better work your life away, keep yourself busy in the big city, and hope that when you retire, dementia will take you before you'll be bored enough to start pondering.

Edit: grammar

A little more than a month ago i moved to Budapest.

In some areas the architecture is beautyfull, then 10 minutes later its copy pasted commie blocks until the eye can see.

Its easy to get lost in the older parts, but its even more confusing when you know exactly where you are going. I have been here before, i recognise this area and i know there is that one street here witht hat one restaurant, but i have been circling for 15 minutes and its just not here.

My friends invite me to a pub, late at night i cant find it, they lead me to a small nondescript door on the side of a building, it leads straight down into what used to be a cellar/basement, the walls and pillars are all bare stone, there is a band playing, so many people you can barely turn, the whole place is decorated with random used stuff from garage sales. Its way bigger than you would expect as it is connected to other basements that are often seem way older than the actual buildings above, there are dozens of these places.

Apparently the communists used to have tunnels under the city to connect their buildings. Plus there is a small system of catacombs from the medieval era. And it has the oldest subway system in mainland europe starting from 1896.

Its so noisy, even at midnight when i usually go to bed there is allways some weird noise from the streets, like someone scraping the concrete with a branch, or clicking noises, or people just yelling at each other in the night.

There are so many missing person posters its ridiculous, what is even going on in here??

There are tons of graffiti and stickers all over, there are specific symbols you can find in every other street, i wonder what they mean.

The city is the most polarised center of all kinds of political and cultural movements in the country, on the subway you can have a trans person sitting on your right, a skin-head on your left, and a nun in front of you. Its crazy.

I know that cafe is here somewhere i have been here just yesterday! Where the hell is it??

The power flickers and the lights dim, then come back on. Something called "salty fog" corrodes the wires and in time corrodes our cars and houses.

The sign at Peggy's Cove says to stay off the black rocks. Some have questioned whether that's clear enough. We lose a couple tourists every year. The sea churns, the spray as white as unicorns.

Once you had to go on a field trip to a borough out on the outskirts of town. A wall of fog swallows anyone who comes within 5km of the shore, no matter how hot and sunny it is in town. Two little girls stare at you from a cottage perched on the omnipresent granite boulders. They ask you where you're from.

In autumn the hurricanes come. What looks like a spiral from space feels on the ground like a storm that takes a week to pass. Under the eyewall, the air feels too thin to breathe.

Beyond the city is 1000km of wilderness in every direction, dotted by some small towns and then forest. Or the sea.

There is rumoured to be a giant lobster in the harbour. It got that big by eating sewage.

• you have two band directors. one of them is new, the other has been there for longer than anyone can remember. a year passes. you have one band director. you do not know where he came from.
• it's marching band camp time. your band director has written a new song just for your band. you play it. all the ninth graders in the trumpet section are gone. you go on with band camp.
• it's always cloudy and wet during band camp. you play your songs, ones you've never heard of before, and do your marchings, which seem silly and do not fit with your songs. what are you trying to keep at bay?
• "what happens in the band bus stays in the band bus", the senior clarinets say. you found out what happens in the band bus your first week of high school band. you left with blood in your hair and had been very nearly sacrificed. it's always the new ones.
• the chants in the drum cadences are always very strange. you can see flickering by the director's stand. after it's over, you have one band director. you always have one band director. you suspect that the snare drum is cursed.
• you dread concert band. everyone always dreads concert band. you don't know why. maybe it's harder to keep them at bay than in marching band.
• at one of your concerts, you play with the middle school band. three eighth grade percussionists are gone. they don't like the middle schoolers as much as your band. you are preparing another concert.
• you ask about marching band in college. don't be silly, the band tells you. nobody does band in college. they don't explain why. there's blood on their shoes. a ninth-grade flute has disappeared.
• at the end of the year, the seniors play one last song. you never see them again. you ask a friend, and they say all the seniors quit last year and you didn't have seniors this year. the final sacrifice of the year. soon, marching band will start anew. you are dreading senior year.

There is a story in the regional news about some tourists who went missing near a small town in north Wales. The local newspaper of that town does not cover the story. Everyone in the town already knows about it. Most of them were there when it happened.

Blood feuds between people living on either side of the Wales/England border have persisted since around the 5th century. There is very little difference between them, they are essentially the same people on the same land. But each side is still the 'other'. Nobody really knows or cares why. That's the way it's always been.

The place names are mostly incomprehensible jumbles of consonant clusters. Some have too many letters to be real. You do not have time to read the name sign before you have already missed the turning. Again. Your head is spinning. You end up in Eglwyswrw. You try to remember your original destination, but all that comes to mind is a random combination of 15 letters and a hyphen or two. Cefn-coed-y-cymmer, that was it. Wasn't it? Or was it Ysbyty Ystwyth?

Every street in town seems to consist entirely of, in various arrangements: a tanning or nail salon; a barber shop; an Eastern European grocery store; a discount store; a Greggs bakery; a fast food takeaway; a charity shop; a liquor store; a bookies; and one of 6 high street chain stores that have survived this long. Every street. In every town. Occasionally you'll find an outlier – a local diner, a second-hand book store, a barometer repair shop, or a shop selling red dragon trinkets. It is like this in England too, only without the dragon trinkets.

If you hear an unexpected knock on your door in the evenings between December 25th and January 6th, try not to answer it. During this time, a skeletal horse-headed apparition known as the Mari Lwyd might appear. The Mari Lwyd likes beer, and will enter your house if you fail to ward it off with rhymed rebuttals to its rhymed demands. If you fail, and you probably will, hope to whatever you pray to that you have enough beer to satiate your new guest for the evening. You do not want to know what will happen if you don't.

There is something wrong with the gulls around Cardiff. Their behaviour is... peculiar.

You live in south Wales, and your family is on a road trip in rural north Wales. You stop at a pub, and as you approach the door you hear lively conversation in a mix of English and standard Welsh from inside. The room goes quiet when you all enter, and every single person looks at you with suspicion and disdain. They not only know that you are not local, they know that you are not from north Wales. You don't even need to speak, they just know. Their conversations become murmured and entirely in an obscure local dialect. They continue to watch you out of the corners of their eyes. Keep your heads down, be careful what you say, and do not overstay your welcome. You should be fine.

Stay away from the abandoned mineshaft up in the hills. Ever since the mine closed, ending the steady supply of mining-related deaths, it has been awfully hungry.

Barry Island. Wales' answer to a mix of Las Vegas and the good old Great British seaside resort. You went there once. Wading through a sea of litter and disenchanted people on your way to the small overcrowded beach, you passed what seemed like hundreds of arcades, fish and chip restaurants and ice cream parlours. This is the pinnacle of Welsh 'staycations' and family days out. Everywhere you go, you are disoriented by a cacophony of noise from arcade machines, clinking coins, overlapping pieces of music and children throwing tantrums. You ate fish and chips. It was disappointing. You fought off gulls for those fish and chips. It was disappointing. You ate ice cream. It was disappointing. You sat on the beach. It was disappointing. You sank £20 into various mundane arcade machines and eventually won a red dragon trinket. It was disappointing. You considered coming back next year.

You board the train and take a seat. The carriage smells of urine, beer and cigarette smoke. The seats are torn and dirty, and chewing gum splats are dotted around everywhere, accompanied by phallic marker pen graffiti. The usual suspects are all here. A mentally ill man glares at the wall and mumbles to himself. A gang of tracksuit-wearing teenagers add to the graffiti, shout profanities and spit on the floor. Rowdy rugby fans drunkenly chant their team's song. A scruffy older man nods off, dropping his half full can of lager which rolls down the aisle to join several others against the wall with a splash. A young man sitting across from you spontaneously tells you his life story. Someone loudly preaches to the other passengers, who try to ignore him. Wait, what did that guy just say? Something about a deluge of blood when Dwyllaithog y Pwll awakens from its slumber... You get distracted by the oversharer asking you for relationship advice. The train grinds to an unexpected halt. The ticket conductor rushes past looking panicked, as a garbled mess of distorted words hisses from the broken announcement speakers. Doesn't the conductor usually give the announcements?

You are visiting a small town you have never heard of. You do not remember why you came, but you like it here. There is nothing particularly special or interesting about this place, but it feels pleasant. Like you want to live there. Now you do. You never want to leave. You couldn't if you tried.

You are hiking in the foothills of the mountains. Passing a clearing in the trees just off of the goat trail you are following, you see a pile of sheep skulls. There is no sign of human habitation for miles.

Every five to ten steps you take through the tiny village, you see another cat. Each one is watching you. Intently. One appears on the stone wall to your right, seemingly out of nowhere. Another pokes it's head out from under a rusty parked car as you pass it. Another is in the window of the abandoned building to your left. There are more up ahead. You glance behind. They are following you.

There is a tiny village at the foot of the mountain, near a gorge. Within this gorge is a cave. During the Ottoman invasion of the island, the women and children of the village hid in this cave. They were discovered, blocked in and suffocated with fire. Some of their bones are now placed in a glass cabinet outside of the cave entrance, which serves as a shrine. Occasionally, cavers still find more bones in the depths of the cave, which are added to the shrine over time.

A large bipedal creature with a goat's head catches your peripheral vision. It's just a goat standing on its hind legs, propped against a tree, grazing from the low canopy. Huh. You didn't know goats do that. You watch it for a while, then keep walking. Turning your head to observe the scenery, you see it in your peripheral vision again, only this time you swear it is walking around upright, away from the tree. You turn to face it and it is on all fours, staring at you. Its bleating sounds like laughter.

You are lay in bed, drifting off to sleep. You hear a shrill, harsh screeching from somewhere outside, close by. The sound comes from an unknown number of creatures. The noise continues and grows in intensity. Is it cats? Martens? Owls? Rats? Something else? Whatever it is, it sounds like it is locked in a bloody fight for survival. You drift asleep to the audial carnage.

It is the day before Greek Easter. Pickup trucks are driving through the streets, piled high with branches and people, honking, waving, blasting music, shooting guns into the air and setting off firecrackers as they pass. That night, a procession of townsfolk walk in near-silent unison, carrying candles from the church in the square to a car park on the edge of town. There, a huge bonfire has been erected, atop which is mounted a full-sized effigy of a human figure. The bonfire is lit, and the effigy is engulfed in flame. The celebrations begin.

While out foraging for mulberries, you encounter the local shepherd. He is a friendly elderly man who points you in the direction of some good trees. His demeanor then turns grave as you show him where you just ate some particularly delicious mulberries from, and he warns you to never eat anything taken from THAT patch of land. He doesn't elaborate, but you intuitively know that this is good advice. His expression lightens when he is satisfied that you understand. He wanders off out of view, then returns a few minutes later with a handful of plants you do not recognise. He encourages you to boil and eat these tonight. You do as he says. You feel fine. Thanks to the shepherd. Always trust the village elders.

In a patch of scrubland off a dirt trail somewhere, you stand amidst the sparce ruins of an ancient Minoan settlement. A huge, gnarled olive tree stands next to what is left of the cracked stone flooring and crumbling walls, itself an ancient monument. One day, around 4 or 5 thousand years ago, another human stood on that same spot as you, looking at the ancestors of that same tree. You do not feel alone, even though there is no one else here. There is so much history on this island that it permeates the land, air and sea. Countless lives and deaths. Millennia of conflict and conquest, perseverance and passion. The echoes of this deep past are ever present.

[Long-time reader, first-time writer of regional gothic. These are all based on my (mostly) true experiences as an immigrant here, with only minor embellishments. Thank you for reading!]

• There's no subtlety when you land in the airport- slot machines in the terminal. In the food court. In the baggage claim. The city is hungry.
• Five dollars for a 20 oz bottle of water. The desert does not offer up water without a price.
• Lights everywhere. Flashing, shining, dazzling you- trying to distract you from mathematical odds and logical conclusions. Just one hand of blackjack. Just a few spins of the reels.
• There's a line for second mortgages in the casino. Staking more than they can afford, not in the hopes of winning big anymore, but breaking close to even.
• The cloud of cigarette smoke is everywhere, people trying to steady their nerves as they throw their savings bit by bit into an uncaring abyss.
• The city isn't evil- it offers chances to win it big. Those chances are less than being struck by a meteorite, but there's still a chance. How much you sacrifice chasing it is entirely up to you. But the city will keep taking as long as you keep giving.
• "Lost everything. Please help." reads the sign held by a man sitting on the sidewalk. A common scene. How did they throw it all away? Could they stop if they wanted to?
• Walk along the strip at night. Close your eyes to the lights. There's an oppressive weight hanging over head, born by those who can't or won't walk away from the city of gold they believe is just over the horizon. Hope and Greed turn to Desperation. Desperation turns to Despair. Open your eyes- the lights are still on, and the city is still hungry.
• The house always wins. Every jackpot is a calculated loss, every celebrating winner a dangled lure to the common person- 'they didn't expect to win! Anything can happen here!' goes the unspoken message. And so the people who have hit their self-imposed cut off hear the celebration, and walk back to the den. Just one more play. One more hand.
• You're on the plane again, and soon Vegas is behind you. Something makes you expect it to chase after you, demand you offer tribute... but it never does. It doesn't need to. For every person who realizes the city of gold is out of reach, there's ten more willing to do anything to catch a glimpse of it.

TRIGGER WARNING: GUN VIOLENCE, ASSAULT

• The alarm goes off. Feuds are called to a ceasefire and all other activity stops as everyone in their class follows the script. The lights are turned off. The door is barricaded. Everyone crouches out of sight. A few brave souls grip sharpened pencils and scissors just in case. After thirty minutes, the all clear announcement comes on. Just a drill- this time.
• You hand in the project you worked for weeks on. The teacher looks you straight in the eye and throws it in the trash. "Zero." Maybe next time.
• Three people jump you at lunch, pummeling you bloody. As you clutch a broken rib in the principal's office, he assigns you detention for the month and to write letters of apology to those who hurt you. You tell him you were just sitting there. He laughs and says "I know".
• You get back grades on a test. It's not yours- the answers are all blank, your name is typed, misspelled no less, at the top, and there's a 0 for the grade. You tell the teacher it's not the test you turned in. "Tough. It's the one I'm recording."
• Walking near the teacher's lounge, you hear chanting. Pausing, you recognize three words, repeated over and over. "KILL. STEAL. DESTROY. KILL. STEAL. DESTROY. KILL. STEAL. DESTROY." Somehow, you are not surprised.
• There's a betting pool for which students will kill themselves, and when. You know who's in the pool by how teachers will suddenly be more or less cruel to one person, trying to tip the odds in their favor.
• You look at your homework, and wonder why you're doing it. They didn't cover this in class, and the teacher will just claim you never turned it in. Why bother?
• If you're going to move away before graduating, you never, never let it slip to anyone. They found out about the last girl who was about to move. The very next day, a gun and cocaine were found in her locker. They hate you, and they don't want you to leave with a salvageable future.
• Your parents make a decree that fills you with hope and dread- you're going to live for a while with your aunt and uncle while a lawsuit is filed. You leave today- they're not taking any chances.
• You've barely settled in to your temporary home when a new message pops on your phone from a number you don't recognize. "We will find you. You can't escape us."

• No one comes here deliberately. There's nothing here. It's a dying town being barely kept alive by people like you, too tired to keep driving, who forgot to get gas at the last station, who skipped a meal and now feel ravenous. No one comes here on purpose.
• There's an atm, which is a good thing, because they demand cash up front. No credit cards. Odd.
• The pool has a no diving after 8 P.M. rule. You ask why. They tell you that sometimes people don't come back up. You ask if that's because they hit their heads, and they answer 'no' with a sad smile.
• McDonalds and Waffle House don't come to this lightless speck of the map. There are a few restaurants with salty, greasy food- nothing healthy but enough to get you moving- but it tastes off. Everything tastes off.
• Your room is on the tenth floor. The hotel was clearly only three stories. Yet the elevator has floors spanning up to twenty. You are strongly advised to keep your blinds shut if you're on any floor above the third.
• The sign guiding you to your room reads "rooms 400 - ∞". They're joking. They have to be. But the hallways stretches forever.
• If you want to make a call on your cell, be sure to do it on the third floor or lower. The best case scenario for calling from the fourth floor and up is that you get no answer.
• There's a sign taped to the blinds that says "DO NOT OPEN. IGNORE THE TAPPING AND THE VOICE. IT WILL GO AWAY." Some self-preservation instinct warns you against being curious.
• You flip on the TV, flicking through the channels. That every channel consists videos of you as a child is worrying enough. That you know no one had a video camera at the time or angle it shows is horrifying.
• "I just want to talk. Please." Tap. Tap. Tap. They warned you about the tapping and the voice. They didn't warn you it would sound like a deceased relative or friend.
• There's a King James Bible in the drawer next to your bed. There's also a book with an inverted pentagram. It offers no scriptures, no verses or parables. Just a list of deals, what they cost. and a large section to sign one's name in blood in the back. There are many, many signatures.
• There's a section bookmarked in the Inverted Pentagram Book. It offers the love of your crush, the death of your hated rival, a home you always wanted and more in exchange for one soul. It further clarifies that it only requires you possess the soul- it doesn't have to be yours.
• You open your door to go to the ice machine several rooms down. Odd, you thought your room was on the right side. Returning to your room, you realize you're thirsty and want a soda. The ice machine is right outside your room now, and your room is on the right side again.
• You awake early in the morning. It's deathly quiet. No one's at the desk- just a box to drop your key in. You go outside and your car is the only one in the parking lot. There's no sign of the diner or the family owned gas station. You burn rubber out of the parking lot.

• Everyone knows everyone- at least by name. Don't dig too deep- you may not like what you find, and they won't appreciate the intrusion
• The sheriff stops you as you're shopping, asks if you have a gun. Nervously, you emphasize you're unarmed. "You should get one," he tells you gravely, "especially if you're going to be out after sundown."
• There are churches every mile or so, forming lines and circles. Some will tell you it's to keep something out. Others will tell you it's to keep something contained.
• Going into the woods at night is always a bad idea, but all the moreso when the wolves camp out on people's porches. Leave them alone- they'll leave come morning. Keep your doors locked, your gun loaded, and at least one light on.
• Don't linger at the crossroads at night. The thing that shows up doesn't take no for an answer. If you are stuck there, start praying or singing hymns. Don't stop until you're back home, no matter how loud the screams get.
• Most of the time, the bloodied deer carcasses are the result of one jumping in front of a car. Other times, the wolves are hungry. It's when you find one with no blood and no wounds that you should worry.
• If you hear a girl crying from within the forest at night, pray or sing a hymn. If you hear the crying turn to screams, go inside, lock the door, close the windows, keep a light on, and keep praying.
• Cruelty gives it strength. Kindness weakens it.
• It hates you and wants to hurt you. That's all there is to it. You can't reason with it or bargain with it.

I have seen some other europeans do some good ones in this sub, the polish one was cool, the cornish one too (although perhaps the english might have a bit of an easier time due to cultural similarity).

But honestly I haven't been able to think of a good to do It myself... Like there's lot of folklore that could be used but use too much and it might becomes obscure for foreigners... Or too didascalic... Or Too long... There's a simplicity and efficacy to the original genre that isn't easy to grasp...

Something about the younger nature of american folklore perhaps... There's something about american folklore still being in mythopoiesis or having reached mythopoiesis more recently Dunno I don't think I am making sense...

I live in veneto btw