There are only two kinds of people in out town. "The stupid and the stuck," my father had affectionately classified out neighbors. "The ones who are bound to stay or too dumb to go. Everyone else finds a way out." There was no question which one he was, but I'd never had the courage to ask why. My father was a writer, and we lived in Anston, South Carolina, because the Nestors always had, since my great-great-great-great-grandad, Ellis Nestor, fought and died on the other side of the Santee River during the Civil War.
Only folks down here didn't call it the Civil War. Everyone under the age of sixty called it the War Between the States, while everyone over sixty called it the War of Northern Aggression, as if somehow the North had baited the South into a war over a bad bale of cotton. Everyone, that.is, except my family. We called it the Civil War.
Just another reason I couldn't wait to get out of here.
Anston wasn't like the small towns you saw in the movies, unless it was a movie from about fifty years ago. We were too far from Charleston to habe a Starbucks or a McDonald's. All we had was a Dar-ee Keen, since the Gentrys were too cheap to buy all new letters when they bought the Dairy King. The library still had a card catalog, the high school still had chalkboards, and our community pool.was Lake Moultrie, warm brown water and all. You could see a movie at the Cineplex about the same time as it came out on DVD, but you had to hi hitch a ride over to Summerville, by the community college. The shops were on Main, the good houses were on River, and everyone else lived south of Route 9, where the pavement disintegrated into chunky concrete stubble - terrible for walking, but perfect for throwing at angry possums, the meanest animals alive. You never saw that in the movies.
Anston wasn't a complicated place; Anston was Anston. The neighbors kept watch from their porches in the unbearable heat, sweltering in plain sight. But there was no point. Nothing ever changed. Tomorrow would be the first day of school, my sophomore year at Stonewall Jackson High, and I already knew everything thar was going to happen - where I would sit, who I would talk to, the jokes, the girls, who would park where.
There were no surprises in Anston County. We were pretty much the epicenter of the middle of nowhere.
At least, that's what I thought, when I closed my battered copy of Slaughterhouse-Five, clicked off my iPod, and turned out the light on the last night of summer.
Turns out, I couldn't have been more wrong.
There was a curse.
There was a boy.
And in the end, there was a grave.
I never even saw it coming.
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Beautiful Secrets (Cranksepticeye Fanfiction)Fanfiction
Jack McLoughlin is unlike anyone the small Southern town of Anston has ever seen, and he's struggling to conceal his power and a curse that has haunted his family for generations. But even within the overgrown gardens, murky swamps, and crumbling gr...