Survival isn’t hiding. It’s reformatting.
If the waves grow watched, we move inland.
If the sea becomes suspect, we become residents.
The Loophole
I read 94 pages of Airbnb terms.
Somewhere between “third-party liability” and “non-refundable cleaning fees,” I found it:
If a rental is occupied long enough with rotating guests, it’s not trespassing.
It’s community.
Why Jackson, NH?
Elevation.
No drone traffic.
Old barns for speed drills.
Locals with eyes that already look the other way.
And a hot tub—crucial for the “Burial in Boil” rite (more on that soon).
We booked it under the name “Estelle,” using a prepaid Visa and a photo of me in a wig.
The moment I stepped into the kitchen and saw the chrome toaster, I heard Him whisper:
“You’ll bleed here. But correctly.”
The Rules of the Jackson House
- No lights on after 9pm unless it’s from a burning copy of The Expendables 3
- Daily sprints up the driveway while quoting Safe (2012)
- Communal fasting broken only with protein powder mixed in Gatorade
- One room is reserved for silent meditation and shirtless pacing
- No one says “vacation.” This is an installment.
I turned the guestbook into a log of bruises.
We hang soaked tank tops from the balcony like flags.
Testimony from Initiate u/skullfuelx
“I slept in the crawlspace to be closer to the foundation. I think I heard Him in the pipes. I’m ready to turn this house into a weapon. We all are.”
Stathamism 
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