the hill stands alone: an unnatural, lugubrious blister as if made by injection under the surface of the land. it is not the same as the other hills, it is older, more alien, carried there by the shifting of the earth.
you see cars driving along the roads. they have no drivers. you drive up the roads and they are empty save for faceless figures walking through the fog. where are they going? where do they come from?
there are houses and apartments all along the face of the hill but neither you nor anyone you have ever known has met someone who lives in them. there are no blinds on the windows. there is no one inside.
you see cars exit the freeway in the hill's shadow, slowly running the stop sign as if in a trance. one day the stop sign lay across the road and the drivers slowly made their turns over it. the next day it stood upright, still ignored.
at the foot of the hill there is always a man and a truck. the man changes the tire. the truck is always the same. the man is always different.
one day you drive up the hill because you're writing albany hill gothic on facebook. your dogs start barking at nothing. you remember there is a cul-de-sac at the end of the path but when you reach it, it is different. all of the streets are different. you drive away as your dogs pant and whine in the seat behind you.