Some people swore that the house was haunted. The same could be said these days about any of the houses sharing the street. Their insides peered out through dull black windows, past flaking, fractured porch railings. Only the sound of wind rustling the overgrown grass and the unhinged slap of wood on wood filled the air.
Would the ghosts even bother with this place, where the novelty of haunting had surely worn away? What fun could a ghost find in frightening his peers? They were just like him and showed the same indifference as the squirrels.
Trains still barreled through from time to time, rattling everything, disturbing nothing. What conductor even noticed the town? The name had long been forgotten; removed from green roadside signs. But the roads hadn’t forgotten a thing. Though worn and broken they still pointed faithfully toward our little haunted town. Most travelers did not heed their course. Weeds and wildflowers were able to grow undisturbed in rifts of pavement.
But most travelers are not all travelers. Perhaps lacking a map, or with no true destination in mind, the town borders were stumbled upon and crossed. The ghosts would sit up and take notice, watching vehicles as they taxied past run-down lots.
Rarely did they stop once they saw the condition of the streets and homes. But legs needed to be stretched; drivers changed, directions argued about, and sometimes even bushes watered. Now and again a photographer wannabe snapped away at the rustic, broken, and organic. Each snap of the shutter held the hope that, cast in black and white, they would set the art world on fire.
A long blue boat of a car floated to a stop in front of the remnants of the pharmacy. The car was a model the ghosts would recognize from more corporeal times of the past. The rust smudged paint matched nicely with the décor of the town and could have remained in that lot forever.
A trio of youths spilled from the vintage beast, one making a beeline for the weeds behind the pharmacy. The driver called out after his companion, urging him to hurry.
“Yeah, Corey!” shouted the third as he drummed a beat on the metal roof. “Before the children of the corn get you!”
Corey’s reply floated back dimly, weighted with profanity and threats. His friends laughed happily; they knew one another’s vices and fears well. They jumped at every chance for torture.
The waiting pair took notice of the home across the street. The gate stood perpetually open. For boys with only mischief on their minds this was an irresistible invitation. They hurried across the street, wading through tall grass, and shouldered through the rusted, rotten front door.
Zipping and half running, Corey returned to the car alone. He called out for his friends, scared already of what trick they were planning. They stumbled almost immediately out of the house, laughing and jostling. Corey demanded to know what they’d been doing but he was only urged back into the car and the boys took up their seats again.
Their music blared to new levels as they scattered dust and sailed away glancing once over their shoulders to see their work. They continued on.
The ghosts collected to watch. They saw the future in the dry, hot breeze that so eagerly carried shocks of orange, yellow and red toward piles of dry brush and onto structures of old wood. They saw their future and their demise in the fire. Nothing was ever the same again after that.
