The sun set for the last time on the condemned farm house. I stand at a distance where I can see the golden horizon reflected in the glass windows.
I never knew this house when it was inhabited by anyone but ghosts. Those specters are why its windows are still intact. No one has dared to break the glass for fear of opening the floodgates for spirits and ghouls.
Ghosts of the murdered…
…and murderers alike.
Something unholy, something unspeakable, occurred here. Something no one talks about. Those old enough to remember claim they don’t. The local newspaper archives were lost to a mysterious fire. Vague references to the murders exist only in faded, yellowed journals, dismissed as the rantings of paranoid farm-wives. No one questions. They’re afraid of the answers. Nothing grows here. The trees stay dormant year ‘round, yet never die. Perhaps too much blood soaked into the soil. Perhaps they saw too much.
Now the bulldozers come at first light. The powers that be in the county seat have ordered razing of all derelict and abandoned structures, for the “safety of the community.”
I’m worried for the safety of the operators. The ghosts may want freedom, but this house has been home to them for seventy-four years.
They won’t take kindly to its destruction. Before they take flight, they’ll take revenge.
I back away to my packed car, to drive as far as the night will take me.
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