The road cuts like a scar through the Oregon high desert, a double-yellow artery pulsing with ghosts and gasoline. Antelope….. Christ, even the name sounds like a bad joke from the gods. A town chewed up by cults, spit out by time, left to rot under a sky that doesn’t care.

We were chasing the skeletons of America’s forgotten highways, low to the ground with the smell of asphalt and sage in our noses. The mountains loomed like black teeth, the sun bleeding through the cracks in the clouds, daring us to keep moving forward into the madness.

Out here, you don’t find ghosts, they find you. Whispering through the wind, rattling in the fences, lurking in the silence of abandoned streets. This road is a sermon, a warning, and a dare all at once. And like lunatics on the edge of sanity, we drove straight into it.