ghost town - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
A gust of dry wind winds through the maze of ancient houses where windows have long shattered in the weakness of their structures and rotting boards, some broken, others hanging try to cover the empty eyes of every abandoned home. Doors hang on the few threads of their hinges and groan with pain at every sway. Weeds socialize across the cracking asphalt of every road, gathering and laughing at the lone pedestrian as they try to weave around the catching fingers with every step.
The ghost town was out of place in the rolling hills of yellowing grass. The old road was barely discernible through the flora that had colonized it and so the dilapidated buildings that once fashioned a high-street had the feel of a movie set. But this was no million dollar venture, these were tear-downs that no-one had any incentive to demolish. They were inhabited by the birds and sometimes sheltered wild dogs. The occasional window was still in possession of its glass but most had broken so long ago that there was no trace of the shards on the rotting plank floors. In most homes the roofs had partially caved in or at the very least they sagged like a disappointing soufflé. The only welcome was the howl of the wind and the only future of the town was to be slowly beaten by the weather and eventually succumb to gravity without even a witness or person to mourn its passing.
There is little to distinguish Miner’s Gulch from any other fading boomtown on the outskirts of civilization. The night air, though cool, is painfully dry and dusty, the unpainted wooden buildings are peppered with dry rot, and the two most important structures - the saloon and the well, likely in that order - are right smack dab in the center of town.
As you approach the town, it is immediately evident that something is wrong. Despite the lateness of the house, there should still be lights shining through the windows and the saloon should still be doing a brisk business. Instead, the town lies under a blanket of silence and the only light seems to be coming from fires burning beyond its southern border.
The town had been built on a grid and no expense spared. The glass stared down from skyscrapers that kissed the grey sky above. The roads were perfect rivers of tarmac untouched by all but the construction vehicle tires. Traffic lights blinked to control the non-existent cars and the pedestrian crossing buttons were shiny without a sheen of finger-prints. The air was as clean as the countryside. On occasion a deer would gallop through the streets or a bird alight on the tall black lampposts, but other than that the only noise was the wind. At the train station stood seven high-speed engines with multiple high-class carriages but the clock on the wall had long given up on telling the time. By anomaly it topped the nations charts for lack of crime, smallest hospital wait-lists and lack of children failing in school. It was a ghost town, or perhaps a ghost city. Built in the belief that people would come and industry follow. They just never did.
The ghost town was forgotten entirely. It had been built in a shallow basin and so once over the brow the smattering of rotting wooden buildings disappeared from view. It had less charm than a graveyard, at least those are places built out of sentimentality and love. This was a place built by greed and abandoned without a backwards glance. They came with the allure of gold in the hills and left in bitterness, resenting the land for its failure to deliver them unearned wealth. Just to stand amid the rotting town was enough to make you feel like a ghost, an unwanted spectre of the humans that came to take and never give, never to love the land or the nature, not to make a home or be respectful. In the still air of this natural depression the stain of their indifference had time to sink onto your skin. It was beautiful and melancholy, haunting in its desertion. A monument to what motivated its builders and a testimony to their undying folly.
From earth that bares no life but the short scrubby grass, yellowing under the constant glare of the sun, rises a ghost town that has no imaginable right to exist. The three-storey homes and derelict stores are clustered close together, arranged down a single narrow street, though the reason for such proximity isn't clear given the thin soil stretches in every direction until the land rises to low hillocks. Between the decaying dwellings that have lost more paint than they have kept, the wind is channelled to a low howl. The style of the buildings suggests that the town dates back over a century and likely fallen out of living memory, relegated to a small black dot on an old archived map.
The ghost town was all faux-Victorian architecture and built in a landscape that bore eternal grudges. The winters were cold and the summers cooked anyone foolish enough to be outside, the spring and autumn lasted only days or were skipped over entirely. When the cavalcade pulled in they were the only ones disturbing the dusty road and not a single velvet curtain twitched.
The ghost town was more than "ghost" in name. When the sun-rays failed and moonlight was the only illumination for miles around, the phantoms and spectres rose from the ground or else stepped from the creaking walls. On the rare occasion that the living walked the dusty streets the ghosts remained invisible and harmless, but on halloween night the rules were different...
Deserted streets, tumble-down stores, shutters hanging by once hinge bangs eerily in the gusty wind, dust, tumble weed, dark ominous cloud, dirt road that will turn to a river of mud in the coming monsoon, town saloon with peeling paint sign, half drunk whiskey shots, a silent grandfather clock, thick dust on the counter, broken stools from a last bar brawl.