Over time, the fortress crumbled and the crows took over, fighting battles of their own over the parapets. Ordinary people, no longer as valiant or as bloodthirsty as the ones who had thundered across the hills, built houses, cheery green and yellow boxes everywhere. The railroad men drove their tracks boldly right below, and people climbed on and off the train as if nothing had ever happened.
But the stationmaster always shook his head when asked about tours up the hill.
“Up there? Nar. I never goes up there.”
As the 4:17 started to chug its way, his feet felt the vibrations. Felt them as always, continue long after the cars had blurred across the fields, continue underneath, as if something there was just waiting.
*Based on a 100 word flash fiction prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, based on this photo by Sandra Crook.
26 July 2019
Nicely ominous
It’s funny how tourists will flock to someplace, but the locals just take it for granted. Great story!
I could see all those ghosts rising up from the tracks.
Chilling. Liked your take.
Dear Maria,
Welcome to Friday Fictioneers. Nice take on the prompt.
Shalom,
Rochelle
Very ominous. I’d like to have read more of this.
Oh wow. The stationmaster knows a thing or two it seems. Beautiful language, and a disturbing finish.
I love the atmospheric chill here. Such things often are forgotten except by the old townies who have lived there forever. There are things to be said for staying put — being the keeper of the town’s memories; the ones not on the books. This is a very good story.
Very chilling!