GHOST TOWN: By Nick Allen
Saturday, January 9th, 2010There were wooden buildings in various states of repair in the clearing and Peter walked into the nearest. It had obviously served as a kitchen in years gone by, but now there was broken glass on the floor and deep dust on all the units. Peter ground a shard of the glass under foot just to hear a satisfying crunch, the only sound except for that of the cicadas.
He’d heard about this place hidden in the forest, the stables-cum-riding school that had been abandoned just eighteen month after opening, but was surprised to have stumbled upon it. That said, it had reputedly gone to the wall due to its remote location, holidaymakers having better things to do than to trek for an hour to reach it.
To the right was a tree house perched in the arms of a huge plane tree, the ladder to it looking extremely rickerty, while towards the left was a semi-circular drinks bar clad in wood. The whole area resembled a western ghost town right up to the dry water troughs and the rails to which the horses would have been tethered.
Peter slipped off his heavy rucksack, left it on the bar top and took a slug of water from his bottle. He crossed the courtyard area, his hiker’s boots scuffing the parched dirt as he did so, and went towards the largest building, a tumbledown structure that had obviously been the stables.
He wished Lucy was here to see this, rather than back at the hotel nursing a twisted ankle, as she had been the one to tell him the story of the abandoned stables in the first place. It appeared that the owner, finally realizing his venture was doomed, got drunk on night and just left. He didn’t think to untether the horses before he ran, which all died a slow death in this remote location.
Despite the blazing midday sun, Peter felt a chill as he stepped into the area where the wretched animals finally died. He kicked around the stony ground looking for signs of the poor beasts but someone had obviously cleaned the place up. Then his toe hit something metal. He reached down to find a rusted horseshoe buried in the dry dirt. He teased out a stray nail still embedded, then, thinking it would be a nice memento, began carrying it back to where he’d left his rucksack.
It was only then he noticed that the constant chirruping of the cicadas had stopped while the wind began to gust and swirl sending spirals of dust into the air. Then the banging came – it was just loose planking being buffeted by the wind, but it had a rhythm and a resonance that, to Peter, could almost have been the sound of desperate horses kicking, trying to free themselves. And the wind, as it rushed through the trees, could perhaps be mistaken for the whinny of the frightened beasts.
Peter threw his memento to the ground and, not bothering to pick up his rucksack, ran as though the devil himself was on his heels.
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© 2009 Nick Allen
Nick lives in Dorset where he works as a mental health nurse. When not writing he enjoys walking, poker and scrabble. See more of his stories at http .://www.thetinybadger.com
