Ghosts of the Desert
A long, lonely road with only the sky and wind as its usual companions somewhere in the forgotten American West leads to a true Ghost Town.
Avarice, Nevada was once a quaint mining town called Charity. The people there were hard-working, God-fearing folk that wouldn't harm a soul. There was a school, a church, a market store, and enough houses for a total population of about one hundred people. It was the perfect place for just about anyone in 1890.
That is, until he came. Nobody knew who this stranger was, but he only passed through, not stopping to talk or to get supplies or to rest, on a large black horse. Anyone who looked at the warhorse closely enough would swear on their mother's grave and their own that to look in the stallion's eyes was to look into the very depths of Hell.
The sheriff, a large, muscular but fairly young man by the name of Marcus Art stood outside the school, the kids inside hidden inside until the danger passed.
Because, yes…this man was dangerous. He produced a killing aura so profound that no one dared to walk the same road he did. Reaching the outskirts of the town, he stopped and looked at Marcus. Their gazes locked and a foul, evil wind picked up the dust, swirling around the two men. When the dust settled, he was gone.
And so was Marcus.
Soon after that, Charity turned to Avarice. Without Marcus there to protect the citizens and enforce the law, a number of lowlifes and riff-raffs, of thieves and bandits, of gamblers and prostitutes descended on the town like vultures on a dead corpse. What was once a good, respectable village turned into a haven of Hell's deviants. The newly dubbed Avarice burned in its own sins, first the people of Charity either died off or moved and then the hellions slowly slithered away, like shadows retreating from the sun, in search of their next victims.
But the Ghosts of the Desert will always remain, waiting to ensnare anyone who comes too close and devour them in the darkness.