Kingland

"Listen to your sense of dread!" the first sign said. "TURN BACK! Do not drive into Kingland!" commanded the next. "You've been warned; heed the warnings!" was next to the road, but it was not a billboard, but a scribble on the back of a "for sale" sign pegged into the ground. "Wow, this is some great marketing," Bruce whispered, filled with glee. "More than a ghost town" was its reputation; even the dude at the gas station looked at him as if he were crazy and waved him off. "Oh, I ain't denyin' that somethin's there, Mister," gas dude had clarified in a low, hushed voice (backing up from the car like it and its rider shared a taint), "I'm sayin' you don't really wanna see what it is. Folks don't come back from Kingland and that's a real thing." "Are you an extra?" Bruce had asked, loving every second of the "dire warning bit", but the guy kept backing up ... literally walking backwards into the tiny station with solemnity. He gunned it out of there, headed into the Arkham woods on a two lane winder. There was no handmade sign outside of Kingland, just one of those white crosses you see roadside where someone has died; it was broken off on one side making one of the arms a proper stake. Bruce nearly stopped to get a picture, but he was burning daylight and had thirteen miles to go. "Kingland, Kingland, Kingland," he sang to himself as he drove. No one local would provide any information about the town, so he'd gone out to Reddit (like you do); no responses save one (some zygote in Philadelphia): "I've heard it's called Kingland because that's the place where Stephen King's stories all come true." "Dickhead," Bruce had grumbled when he read it. "What an idiot."