It stood off to the east of town, in a zone of weeds and rust-colored earth, a vast, black box, bristling with spiky chimneys, extending over some five acres or more, dwarfing everything around it. This was, I knew at once, the famous Plunkettsburg Mill. Evening was coming on, and in the half-light its windows winked and flickered with inner fire, and its towering stacks vomited smoke into the autumn twilight. I shuddered, and then cried out. So intent had I been on the ghastly black apparition of the mill that I had nearly run my car off the road.
- Michael Chabon
4 comments:
Still feeling the chills cascade trough me. This is amazing. Jaw droppingly amazing. The picture is from a neighborhood of Johnstown called Franklin.
I stood on that street, some 50 odd years ago. I grew up in a nearby community; one of the many coal mining towns that fed the blast furnaces of "Beth'lem" Steel.
It's a pity it's not in color, so to show the waste dust that coated everything. Houses, street, cars, anything downwind had an orange-red rusty film.
It was a different time and a Faustian deal that kept us fed, but ruined our air, land and water.
Wow. I really appreciate you sharing that!
Too cool; love it!
Folks that enjoy Lovecraftian-ish horror, but maybe haven't ever had the chance to read any of Chabon's stuff may want to acquaint themselves with both 'In the Black Mill' and 'The God of Dark Laughter' (which I note is still available over at 'The New Yorker' website).
Not only is it just great reading, but Chabon's willingness (maybe even eagerness) to use his credibility as a "Real Writer" to help grant oxygen and legitimacy to genre storytelling merits a few extra clicks and shares where his stuff is concerned. ;)
Wren just introduced me to his writings and I’m hooked. I will definitely read your recommendation, so huge thanks.
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