Dust Devils dance a macabre dervish
Tumbleweed twists in torment
Ghosts of the Disappeared stalk the streets of Death
Screams of silence fill the graveyard of the Abandoned
Gates creak open with unearthly screams
Come down to the Graveyard
Coffins spill their bone chilling secrets
~ The Abandoned and the Disappeared ~
Tell me what happened to these Ghost Towns…
Twist a tale of terror,
Send shivers of horror down my spine with a story,
Flay the flesh from my skin as you open my veins and bleed me out with our poetry…
Rules
Submit your daily entry (1 per person per day) in the comments.
Submit either a Flash Fiction Piece/Prose
or
Short Story
or
Poetry
Prizes
There can be only 1 ultimate winner for this contest.
You will win
1 * Ebook – Death by Drivein (CoffinHop Anthology)
1 * Mystery Trick or Treat
Contest runs 24th – 31st October 2013
Winner to be announced – 5th November 2013
xxxxx
Canate, Italy
With roots in the 12th century built into the solid mountain walls of MT Lago, the village of Canate is lost in the spirits of time. The village can only be reached by foot along ancient stone footpaths.
The last families abandoned the village by 1958. They left with what they could carry on the steep stone paths and abandoned everything else.
Since 1958 this picturesque village on the mountains of the Italian coast has remained abandoned and deserted. This is not a village with crumbling walls even though it has been deserted for 55 years. This is a village that for whatever reason was just left behind. Why in 1958? A thriving village for 8 centuries and now a ghost town lost in the secrets of time for the last 55 years.
Tell me what happened to this ghost town…
x
Dig up those coffin-hopping boots,
dance down to the graveyard for more
bone-chilling CoffinHop tricks & treats.
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Kim Koning 
Mother’s milk – with it, she reclaims all. Stone she crumbles in a torrent of tears; garden she weeds with nourishing seed; ore she wraps in a shroud, making of it her own. Time’s ravage, nay – her sweet, tender kiss misunderstood.
I didn’t turn my head. I didn’t look. I stayed perfectly still, every muscle tensed for flight. And not even my expression reflected that the hands on my shoulders – the masterful hands rhythmically massaging one of my erogenous zones – transmitted the cold touch of the grave.
It started with a whisper, the day the Church dug into the earth for its new well. Just a voice out of the dark cold ground. The workers laughed, called it the wind, but some -the wise ones- made a sign of the cross. For when the night fell, that whisper turned into a multitude of voices, screaming in our heads, giving us our nightmares, visions of blood and death. Night after night we listened, weeped with the morning sun, until we could stand it no more. We fled our village, and left it to the demons.
I love ghost towns. So interesting to see time standing still.. Interesting story on this one. Will have to think on that.