The moon shined down on the Hollow that lay quietly tucked away in the mountains. Hardly anyone knew it even existed, and of those few, the only ones that cared about the backwoods community were the ones that lived in it. No outsider really knew anything about the area’s history, let alone its name. The people up there, they were kind, but unshakable, the kind of toughness you get from laboring for everything you’ve ever had, and often times losing what you worked so hard to receive. So, naturally, when strangers came along, the mountain folk never really accepted them, not even if they’d lived there for decades. It took generations for a family to become accepted. Because even though the people in that little town had so much pride and honor, they also had a few skeletons hiding in their closets, just waiting to be found and let out.

I remember the first time I went to Greer’s Ridge. It was late summer, right at the time when the leaves first start their turning. I remember the drive up there. I remember; the fiery reds and ambers of the trees contrasting with the blues and smoky grays of the mountains. The mountains, oh, how I loved those mountains! My mountains, they were so old and wizened. They held a rare beauty; I don’t think I’d ever seen anything so wild and raw.
As the car drove up the bumpy unpaved roads towards the mountain-top, I looked out of the window. At first all I saw was forest, and then all of a sudden, the trees fell away LITERALLY. All I saw beside me was open air. I leaned back into the leather seat of the automobile, & savored the view. Before I knew it, the vehicles steady rocking motion soothed me & by the time we were a quarter of the way up, I was asleep.