Haunted Farmstead

Early 1900's Silo at Night photo by Hankstyr.

He wasn’t sure what to make of himself, given that he passed up invitations to hang out with friends so that he could rummage around in abandoned farm fields, exploring the burnt out husks of barns, silos, tool sheds. He loved to roam haunted farmsteads on moonlit nights, with a six pack of beer or a bag of weed, maybe a friend or two, but mostly alone. He enjoyed the company of ghosts best.

The farmhouse stood within a ring of fir trees, to protect it from the strong winter winds, he suspected. All that remained was a stone foundation and a fireplace. The hole of a cellar was filled with charred timbers and a refrigerator and an old moldy doll with a missing head. At the side of the house stood two rusted clothesline poles, still rigidly posed in T formation. The cord stretching between them was missing. Why did this empty space between the poles cause such a pang of loneliness? He could almost smell clothes drying in the sun, hear the snap of sheets flapping in the wind. He wanted to curl up in the grass and watch the woman hanging clothes out to dry, one hand reaching up to pinch the clothes to the line, the other fishing blindly in a dress pocket for a wooden clothespin. In the dark he walked between the poles and closed his eyes as though, if he concentrated hard enough, he could feel the brush of bed sheets against his cheek. This was how he spent his Friday nights, while his friends were out getting drunk in the parking lots of fast food restaurants, or getting laid, or at least trying to. What would he tell them when they asked what he did that night? The truth. Always the truth.