‘One can imagine the rising panic among residents when a dozen people reportedly dissolved into frogs over the course of two months in 2015, none of whom had previously reported frog-like symptoms but all of whom lived in Malton, Louisiana. A little harder to imagine, perhaps, is the hesitant relief of Malton doctors upon discovering that it had not been 12 people after all but, seemingly, the same person, over and over. The doctors quickly washed their hands of the situation, leaving it to local conspiracy theorists to name the being. The result is ‘The Malton Frogman.’

Malton residents are quick to explain that the common title may well be a misnomer. Many are of the opinion that ‘The Malton Frogman’ is really more a collection of mischievous frogs than a single living entity. Eyewitness accounts tend to support this theory. ‘The Malton Frogman’ only reveals its skin as it prepares to dissolve and is otherwise clothed from ‘head’ to ‘toe,’ often in a trench coat but occasionally in a more complex dress, stockings, cardigan, and bonnet affair. Twice, now, ‘The Malton Frogman’ has appeared in the uniform of a local pizza delivery company, arriving and dissolving on the stoop of baffled customers moments before a ‘Malton-mia’ pizza pie was to be delivered. Though its motivations remain a mystery, most eyewitnesses agree that ‘The Malton Frogman’ has impeccable comedic timing and little to no regard for human life.’

Hector and I are pursued by a hitchhiker for days past Malton. I never indicate any intention of stopping- there’s just no room on the bike. This doesn’t seem to deter ‘The Malton Frogman,’ who steps out at the last minute each time so that I have to swerve through a disassembling cloud of frogs. He’s shorter with each iteration, his volume of frogs decreased by those lost on impact, until he’s nothing but twitching baseball cap on the shoulder.

-traveler

Here’s the thing: I don’t want to mess around so much where guns are involved. I’ve seen the things at work. I’ve seen the way they change people. Guns are an off-switch for the living and anybody who dabbles with ‘The Private Lot’ is risking that long dark. Myself included.

I kennel Hector for this misadventure and the woman at the counter helps me download an app for livestreaming his activities. Nothing makes me feel old like fumbling around with phone technology, worrying about software compatibilities and apologizing for my cracked screen.

A few hours pass before I’m nervously forcing down a burger a few miles east of ‘The Private Lot’ and the only thing that calms me is watching Hector chew lettuce in his rented bed. It’s late autumn and the sun sets before I’m through. I pull a dark sweater over my head and change pants in the restaurant’s bathroom, switching from jeans to a pair of loose khakis in mucky brown.

“Going out to ‘The Private Lot’?” The cashier’s question catches me off guard. She hands me my change before I decide whether to lie. “Have fun out there.”

‘In 2018, Randall Harrison Sr. declared, apropos of nothing, that his forested half-acre and the cabin at its center were off-limits and that trespassers would be shot on sight. In a full-page classified, he detailed the process by which he had demarcated the land, having erected fences and posted signs, fulfilling and exceeding the qualities of property suggested by castle doctrine. He posted proof of ownership and specific GPS coordinates to be used in determining where his property began and, thus, where one should avoid. He claimed to have alerted the sheriff of all of this, though the department refused to comment.

Gun shots were heard in the area just three days later. Harrison Sr. reported having fired upon, and missed, three men in the forest. Two days later, another round of gunfire was reported neared the interstate-facing property line. Harrison Sr. reported another group- ‘at least five, this time.’ After a week of relative peace, Harrison Sr. posted a new classified, reiterating the security of his border.

Shots were fired nearly every night following for three weeks. A photo was taken of Harrison Sr. as he perused the supermarket about 15 days into these events. It is the portrait of a man on his last leg. Not long after, footage of ‘The Private Lot’ during these nightly ‘raids’ began to appear on the internet. Working backward, the pattern of events began when an anonymous user uploaded a photo of Harrison Sr.’s initial classified posting. A group of people, some of whom opposed the castle doctrine and others for whom no real motivation was necessary, decided to make a dangerous game of breaching ‘The Private Lot’s’ borders as often as possible and in increasingly dramatic ways.

Randall Harrison Sr. has not had a peaceful night, since.’

I expect to park a ways down the road from ‘The Private Lot’ for secrecy’s sake, to walk in quietly through the woods. What I don’t expect is having to park a ways down the road for the sheer overflow of traffic that has occurred. ‘The Private Lot’ has no parking area, per se, but a nearby trailhead has already filled up by the time I arrive, just an hour after twilight. Everyone there is dressed like me, with a hodgepodge tactical-hiker aesthetic in mind, but nobody seems particularly stealth-minded in action. A group of men laugh and clap shoulders near an ATV. Two women smoke pot in the back of a flatbed truck.

A group of guys waves me over on the way in. They’re sweaty, covered in mud and black paint. The shortest of them extends a hand.

“I’m Tom.” he says. “You looking for a group?”

“I was sort of thinking I’d go in alone.” I tell him. “Like, uh, in terms of infiltrating or whatever… seemed like a crowd would draw fire.”

“You’re coming with us.” He hands me a beer and a flashlight. “Let’s head back in, boys.”

We don’t sneak through Randall Harrison Sr.’s forest. We run. The men ahead of me are shouting and laughing and I hang back, guiltily thinking that maybe they’ll fall first to a gunshot or beartrap and I’ll save them, obviously, if I can, but no way in hell am I taking the first hit and probably no way in hell am I sticking around to save them, realistically.

It’s dark but they seem to know the trail and as we move through the forest I begin to recognize the trail myself, its trees spray-painted sickly psychedelic and its ground trampled to earth, littered with beer cans and cigarette butts. Lights ahead suggest Harrison Sr.’s cabin and the men do stop, then, at the forest’s edge, and all around I hear other people like us shaking in the brush. Just as I’m ready to ask what happens next, Randall Harrison Sr. himself cracks the front door and a renewed hush falls. Thinking the coast is clear, he steps onto his porch and lights a cigarette.

The crowd emerges from the trees all at once, screaming and cursing and shining lights in the man’s eyes. He startles and tries to cover his face. He reaches downward and I see the pistol on his belt and I shout “GUN” but nobody’s listening. He gropes for the door handle instead and stumbles back into the house. From the window we can see him cursing and stomping and holding his head, pulling at his hair. The crowd shouts and jeers for a few minutes more and disperses with the sweaty buzz of a mosh pit. I crack the beer and lose myself among strangers, feeling guilty and guilty for feeling that way.

-traveler

‘The Twin City Skylight’ is a dark rectangle in an otherwise blue sky. It’s difficult to conceptualize and then it isn’t, really, and a series of instinctual fight-or-flight reactions suddenly vie for control of my body. ‘The Twin City Skylight’ is an open wound, a window into space. It’s windy beneath it and the sound like wind is atmosphere whistling into the vacuum. It blows steadily upward and it feels like falling. I do fall- groundward, thankfully. A bout of nausea washes over me. Hector hops over to paw at the pocket where I keep little bags of salad. He’s oblivious to ‘The Skylight,’ not at all worried by my erratic behavior in what must smell, to him, like a normal field.

My head itches under the rented helmet and thoughts of lice and skin disease and other mundane terrestrial concerns center me. I roll onto my back and try again.

‘Nothing feels quite so dangerous as ‘The Twin City Skylight,’ though it remains among the top five safest destinations recorded in this edition. Had it occurred naturally in the early stages aeronautic development, ‘The Skylight’ may have garnered a Bermuda Triangle-type reputation for the tendency of its uncommon air current to catch unsuspecting pilots off guard. In reality, the area’s quirks are so well documented and pilots in the region are so well-briefed that ‘The Skylight’s’ airspace is safer, by the numbers, than almost anywhere else. No accidents have been reported there since the sky-rending in 1968.

The creation of ‘The Twin City Skylight’ remains something of a mystery. Details regarding the technology involved in maintaining an atmospheric gap are classified and classified alongside is an explanation as to why ‘The Skylight’ was installed in the first place. A common suggestion seems to be that ‘The Skylight’ represents a half-baked idea about venting some of the world’s ‘bad air’ in the same way one might handle a smoking passenger by cracking the car windows.

An equally likely explanation is that Russia was doing it first. ‘The Sochi Skylight’ seems to represent the same technology and appeared on the same timeline as its Minnesotan twin. Interested parties might research ‘The Whistle War,’ which refers to four months in 1971 in which the USA and the USSR would aggressively adjust the sizes of their ‘Skylights’ to create sudden, high-pitched wailing in the middle of the opposition’s night. The fallout is documented in Michelle Lee’s bestselling ‘Mutually Assured Annoyance,’ which can be ordered for $13.99 via the slip at the back of this book.’

I spend an hour in the field- long enough to see at least one other person react to the sight as dramatically as I did. He collapses into his teenage son and Hector startles at the sound of their helmets cracking together. I move as though to offer support without any real intention to help and the son waves me away. He looks up at ‘The Skylight’ and is relatively unfazed.

I lay back on the grass and rest for a while longer and just when I think I’ve wrapped my head around the thing, the moon begins to cross above ‘The Skylight’ and I throw up. I wave the teenage son away and crawl back to the motorcycle. Space is stupid and scary and if the Wayside leaves orbit in my lifetime it will go without me.

-traveler

‘The Welcome Mat’ is conspicuous, to say the least- visible from a long ways away. How long? I haven’t done the work on that and neither has Shitholes, really. Hills crop up to the south, so it’s probably bright as hell for people who live up on the hillsides facing it. Probably mostly obscured for everyone past that. The terrain is otherwise flat and I’d guess ‘The Welcome Mat’ can be seen for as far as the flatness holds, if not as a distinct facility then at least as a neon horizon.  

From space?

‘No, ‘The Welcome Mat’ cannot be seen from space. Not regularly, anyway. There was a week in 2017 during which ‘The Welcome Mat’ powered an array of skyward-facing layers which blipped on and off in a pattern that, according to the owners, indicated proof of humanity’s understanding of fundamental mathematics and, therefore, intelligence. The array itself was the much-delayed product of a moderately successful crowdfunding drive several years prior. It was deactivated a week later following a stern warning from the FAA (though the owner prefers the more ambiguous ‘federal agents’ in recounting the ordeal).

In defense of the owner, visitors have noted the on-and-off presence of ambiguous government official types over the years, sometimes in uniform and other times in half-hearted disguises. In fairness to the government officials, undercover or otherwise, the owner of ‘The Welcome Mat’ is said to activate the laser at random and for such short bursts that the FAA isn’t reliably able to prove anything- not with the current budget anyway.

‘The Welcome Mat’ is outwardly a 24/7 laundromat. Its machines are overpriced and the business does little to conceal that its passion lies elsewhere. The clothes-cleaning is merely ‘The Welcome Mat’s’ strategy for keeping the lights on- and there are many, many lights to power. Visible from miles around (and, intermittently, from space) one might assume that alien visitors sophisticated enough to travel between galaxies would have the sense to avoid a place as welcoming as ‘The Welcome Mat’ seems to be. Any civilization sufficiently advanced will recognize and avoid a try-hard.’

‘Try-hard’ doesn’t begin to describe ‘The Welcome Mat,’ unfortunately. The sheer wanting in it is difficult to convey There are the lights, of course, which might be forgiven for all that they attract tourists. The building is trimmed in that shade of neon blue that’s difficult to look at directly. The windows are framed in bright red. Plasticky human statues crowd the roof, holding lanterns or reaching up to the sky in welcome. Searchlights whirl and crisscross at ‘The Welcome Mat’s’ corners. Their pattern terminates on the landing strip nearby- beckoning.

The landing strip is an uncanny slice of daylight past dark. It radiates heat and gathers smoking insect corpses. The asphalt is painted with a scrolling, upside-down message.

‘WE WELCOME YOU TO EARTH! PLEASE FORGIVE US OUR WARS AND CRIMES WE ARE LEARNING STILL. WE ARE NOT LIKE YOU BUT WE ARE PEACEFUL. LAND HERE AND YOU WILL BE SAFE. NO GOVERNMENT, HUMAN OR ALIEN, WILL REACH YOU HERE.’

There is evidence that the message glows in the dark, in case the lights fail.

The inside of ‘The Welcome Mat’ is humid and thick enough with the smell of detergent that Hector mostly chooses to remain in his kennel, nestled head-first into the blankets there. Framed headlines regarding alien abductions are tacked along the walls and many are accompanied by shelves with objects that, presumably, have been recovered from these incidents. The owners of ‘The Welcome Mat’ have cast a wide net, collecting everything from mildly radiated glass cookware to pieces of decommissioned war planes. There is a collection of hair, taken from willing abductees. There is a small library, free to peruse while one’s clothes dry. I want to look more closely at all of this but get the sense that every one of the six other customers is analyzing me when my back is turned, trying to decide whether I’m for the cause or against it- whether I’m alien-friendly or a government plant.

The catalyst for this paranoia is a sign posted at the door. It’s a list of weapons, mostly guns, and it begins with the words: ‘To whom it may concern.’ A not-so-concealed threat, controversial online for its ambiguity. Some die-hard ufologists believe the actual intent of ‘The Welcome Mat’ is not at all peaceful and that the sign is subtle indication of the owner’s arsenal, to be counted upon in case a hostile alien lifeform took the facility up on its seeming naivety. Others insist it is a warning to the agents- an indication of what they might expect to face were they to attempt anything more than a quick wash of their all-black wardrobes.

The tension is thick enough that I try to find some means of speeding up the wash and, failing that, likely seem more suspicious for all of my pacing and for the frantic way in which I take in ‘The Welcome Mat’s’ abduction paraphernalia, switching between approving nods and disbelieving frowns based on the nearness of other patrons and my own amateurish read of their potential affiliations. They mostly keep their distance, though I catch one man waving some sort of beeping instrument near Hector’s kennel. Noticing my notice, the man walks out the door and leaves his churning washer of black suits to mildew at the end of the cycle.

I’ll say this about ‘The Welcome Mat:’ it’s reasonably easy to tell we’re followed on the way out- a parade of black sedans that switch off their headlights each time I pull the bike over to let them pass and disappear into the Wayside via indistinct service roads as soon as it’s clear I won’t be coming back.

-traveler

‘There is a stretch of I-90 that narrows and slows, narrows and slows, until the billboards are leaning in from all sides and a tunnel forms. Day becomes a neon sort of light and, just like that, you are lost. ‘The Billboard Corridor’ is more hurdle than hotspot, roughly equivalent to a crowded forest floor in that it is a symptom of unchecked growth and for the fact that it regularly burns to the ground.

Property along the interstate is tricky, as one might expect. The shoulder belongs to the state but much of the area just beyond is private and many private parties are willing to host a sign or two as a means by which to subsidize farmland and empty lots. It’s not so difficult to imagine how a competitive market might fail to regulate the frequency of signs. It’s not so difficult to imagine that the signs might become larger both in regards to square footage and in regards to height, until massive walls tilt inward from the sky and blot out the sun- a psychedelic tunnel: advertising that is both subliminal and supraliminal.

It’s not so difficult to imagine how one might get lost, there, for all that it remains an unbroken stretch of road.’

It occurs to me that, for all my complaining about Autumn by the Wayside’s tendency to disregard its genre’s tradition of providing practical, fact-based trivia in its entries, my own writing doesn’t exactly fill in the gaps. For anyone searching for insight in the conversation between the book and this blog, let me say this:

When ‘The Billboard Corridor’ burns, it burns from outside, in. Which is to say that it’s very possible to be a long ways into ‘The Corridor’ before one sees any indication of danger and, if my experience is anything like the average, the first sign will be an unseasonable, but undeniably pleasant, late-autumn warmth. Note, also, that the sign-posters have caught on to the burning, that the burning has been incorporated into the spectacle. If one thinks they see the name of a popular fast-food restaurant formed of three-story flames in the places between billboards, one should believe their eyes.

‘The Billboard Corridor’ burning is a sight to see- a great, flaming worm that sheds its skin and billows dusk. What I would pay for footage of Hector and I streaking from its mouth on the motorcycle, singed and sooty and alive all the same.

-traveler