The Sunday Spook

The sounds of the little neighborhood by the train tracks were typical of your everyday, working-class neighborhood. Children’s laughter and screams of “Tag!” and “You’re IT!” were heard from every corner, while adolescent strife played out in the music as the teens washed cars and shot hoops. Dogs barked at the threat of any intrusion upon normal life, followed by their masters’ admonitions to be quiet.

Life was good in this not-so-sleepy town of Ghostly Hollows. That is, it was good if you lived here. And if you didn’t? Well, not so much.

The four streets leading into the Hollows looked normal enough, and they were actually in quite good repair. But just let one misplaced soul cross its boundaries and the basis of the development’s name is soon made clear.

Upon the touch of a stranger’s shoe, the road will roll up, swallowing the intruder whole.

Upon the roll of a stray car’s tire (or truck or motorcycle or golf cart, if you will), the street lights bend at the base, pounding the invading machine into the ground, never to be released from the grasps of the souls beneath the tar.

Upon the breeze made by a migrating bird the trees suddenly spring to life, snatching the poor critter right out of the air before it can even make a sound.

Yet in this strange little hamlet the residents came and went as they pleased. Life was normal for them and no one thought things strange. In fact, they liked the privacy the Hollows provided, and were often praise-full when they thought about the reason behind the strange occurrences at the slightest hint of a stranger’s breath:

The fact that the neighborhood’s inlets were few, and the ones that came through were accessed only by crossing through one of the cemeteries planted at each of the four corners of Ghostly Hollows.