Forlorn Town’s Mysteries (Short Story)

Literature Wednesday is here, so, as promised…

DISCLAIMER: the events and the characters mentioned in this story are the product of the author’s imagination, partly inspired by a family trip.

Forlorn cities, towns, and villages, you preserve the history, the very spirit of authentic life before globalization unified it all in unrecognizable masses. The uniqueness of each place is so earnestly and strikingly breathtaking; these places still have their souls.

As it was in this case: no traffic, no crowded streets, no identical distant, glimmering buildings forged from glass and metal, only short, squatted red brick and wooden ones… Their boarded windows resembled firmly shut eyes, as if these houses were sleeping, waiting for the old tenants to return eventually under their leaky roofs. The 19th-century air is mingled with ’80s nostalgia, together weaving an atmosphere of sweet longing and suspense.

Old cars and decrepit shops were gaping at us with their dark windows, plaster stone angels on the corners of the antique buildings would probably fly away if not for broken wings or limbs. The playgrounds were iron and rusty, but to our surprise, we noticed a couple of kids hanging out there. They didn’t play or climb anything though; they were sitting and watching us intently with their large solemn eyes. These children were like little guardians of a dark mystery buried deep in the heart of this town, and their task was to keep an eye on us, making sure we wouldn’t discover more than allowed.

It was an uncanny thought, but my chaotic, ever-active mind soon jumped to feeling bewitched again by the slow pace and the intricate charm of this place. Historic houses, antique lives, enchanting ruins – all these things heightened my inspiration. The nostalgic wind carried the delightful fragrance of the cherry blossoms, playfully tearing their petals, and thus creating the pearly blizzard so reminiscent of the winter snow.

The ruins are the most charming when adorned with fresh flowers and greenery, for what is this scenery if not the love embrace of life and death?

I felt a poem beginning to emerge in my mind, expanding its form and pace, its rhythm patterns retracing those of the birds chirping.

As we neared the river, the glistening of water became noticeable even through the clumps of trees scattered all over the riverbank. It was dazzling; somehow, the sun’s reflection became more intense than the actual rays. Was it a fire torrent encircling this little town, never allowing modernity to touch this last outpost of memory and authenticity? What if it also protected some uncovered enigmas resting behind the crumbling walls?

I looked ahead, instantly pulled out of the pleasant nets of my imagination. There was an array of symmetric circles burned into the ground in front of us. It seemed to me that I could discern the soot and some remnants of coal lying around. In the very middle of them, one could detect the large iron nails driven into the ground. In a minute, all of us noticed them and stopped, appraising the view in silence.

The infinite multitude of stories about isolated communities and half-abandoned towns sprung up in my mind. It could be anything – from witch-hunting to sacrifice. How would we know? Some questions should be left unanswered if you don’t want to be next. Still, I heard my companions discussing these nails in whispers; these objects were definitely the weirdest element of this view.

We went further, and from the corner of my eye, I noticed the priest crossing the street; he greeted us from a distance. Behind his figure, I perceived a tall church towering above the town. It looked clean and renovated, strikingly different from the rest of the buildings. “At least they’re all church-goers,” I reflected, concentrating on descending to the river. The water was astonishingly blue, transparent, and so clean you could probably drink it. I picked up several shells from the ground and played with them in my pocket. There was a boat tied at the bank, though none of us ventured to untie it. The vessel looked older than the buildings, and I saw water seeping through its holey bottom.

We remained there for a moment more, breathing in the wet air, listening to the squeals of the seagulls and the whispers of the tree crones. The wind brought the delicate scent of blossoms even to this place. In the bottom of my heart, I knew I could live here, in this half-dead, drowsing, and silent town. I love when it’s quiet and close to nature… Provided they wouldn’t burn me at midnight, of course.

Rejuvenated, we came back to the streets, and now we were strolling along a display of long-deserted houses, each of them looking as if left in a hurry. You could see some clothes and blankets lying around, satellites, unkempt gardens all in bloom, food left on the porch. If you looked attentively, you could notice through the dusty, shattered windows the television sets, books, toys, even the old satellites installed on the patchy roofs. ‘What could possibly happen there?’ – I wondered with unease.

We halted in front of the highest building. The satellite lazily reflected the dawning sun, the window glasses were whole but they stored thick layers of dust on them, so no matter how much we tried, we couldn’t peek through. The roof looked as if a tiny meteor hit it, leaving a perfectly round trace in its tiling. The aged can of milk stood nearby, cherries shaded their white petals, whirling in the gasps of wind… Quite a usual view for this place. We almost turned away, but then the gate creaked piercingly, frightening the hell out of us. After some inspection, it appeared no one was there; it just was unhinged.

We started arguing whether this house was really forlorn, or whether perhaps some squatters lived there, but the discussion ended in nothing, so after some time, we went away, planning to check the church ruins at the outskirts of this place. However, out of a sudden, an instant hunch made me stop for a moment and turn back, inspecting the building one more time. And when I did, my heart skipped a beat and I gasped silently.

For I saw a little hand, a palm of a child pressing firmly against a dusty window from the other side. I guessed – I didn’t know for sure, but I believed I could discern a rope on its wrist.

© The story and picture by MarvellousNightmare on Coconut Doesn’t Exist

You can contact me via leomoria93@outlook.com