The bugs don't bite anyone in Beecher's Hollow, though they sometimes lay eggs in visitor's eyes. Tourists have been known to pass through and confess they've been seeing things in a whole new light. Somehow the colors of the world come in more kaleidoscopic, as if something refracted the view streaming in. This isn't far off the mark given the organic crystalline nature of the insect eggs. However, after a few weeks those same sightseers wake in the middle of the night screaming -- newborn bugs like winged spiders eating their way out the eyes.
During the Winter in Beecher's Hollow the water tastes like vodka. Yet, it's a matter of debate as to whether the H2O has any intoxicating effect. Considering that in Spring the water tastes like melon liqueur, tequila in Summer, and whiskey come Fall, many speculate the permanent residents of Beecher's Hollow have a Herculean tolerance for booze.
Here the drugstores possess myriad opportunities to push thought beyond reason. Shelves are packed to overflowing with the better known varieties of mind altering substances, while other more exotic, seldom heard of means for slipping off sanity are equally available. Anyone interested in seeing through time should pick up Cream of Castaneda. It tends to come in a tube and doesn't require much to use. A dab'll do ya, so a tube can last more than a year. Just remember to heed the warning label. Things may seem better after alteration until one actually returns from the trip to discover killing Hitler allowed for an unprecedented era of technological expansion resulting in the evolution of genetic manipulation to the point the world is now being slowly taken over by zealot Catholic rats with opposable thumbs. But if that turns out to be the case, well, the drugstores in Beecher's Hollow are a veritable pharmacopeial cornucopia; there's bound to be some opium on sale somewhere.
There's an hour of the evening that inspires some people to go home and others to dive deeper into the night. When there's no chance anything rational can occur, that's the right time to visit Simone Delacroix's House of Mirrors. Hell, it doesn't open till that hour strikes anyhow. But don't let the name fool you. This is no funhouse, though it certainly is fun.
Take Main Street to the town triangle then duck down the first alley you pass you're certain you shouldn't go down (the distinct possibility the shadows might mug you is practically palpable). In the middle of that alley knock on the brick wall. If the first knocks elicit nothing try the opposite wall. One is bound to open. At the bottom of the metal spiral staircase remember to walk in like you know how to get out. Take any free table. A waitress will be along to deposit the drink you want, though you'll never have to order. And if it doesn't look like any concoction you'd ever try now's the time to stop being afraid. Then just enjoy the show.
Simone Delacroix usually begins the evening by playing piano. She wears a three piece suit like a sexual stockbroker. The lady has always had a gift for making masculine things seem more suited to women. She strokes the keys. Pay attention to the tune. Sad notes are a bad sign. That means the rest of the show will involve the manufacturing of sideshow oddities. Granted, one can then witness the literal birth of a lizard -- her egg tooth used to C-section an exit -- or observe the sewing involved in the transition of fully grown separate twins into Siamese, and don't cover your eyes or you'll miss the scarification necessary to twist a boy into a pain junkie blockhead. The freaks all come from somewhere. As such, there's even the making of the genocidally well intentioned, living dead computer watchers, and friendly perverts -- it's a rare thing to witness the warping of a person's sexual soul. However, it should be noted Simone does play kind notes on occasion. Sadly, few people recollect with much detail the kind of shows that follow her happy tunes: "It was nice. Lovely singing. I don't really remember what was sung, but it was nice. Really nice."
Beecher's Hollow never really shuts down. Every shop, every diner, every hotel, bar, movie theater, library, and electronics store is open 24/7. It's a blessing and a curse. People feel obligated to justify the hours by doing whatever they can as often as they can whenever they can; head home from purchasing a toaster at three in the morning to munch crunchy rye while reading a just checked out copy of... it doesn't really matter except this is Beecher's Hollow's own chicken and the egg. No one knows which came first, the 24/7 or the residents' habits. And like most such quandaries no one really wants the answer.
There's a place called Beecher's Hollow. It isn't hard to find. But I'm not sure I'd want to live there, though some tell me I already do.