A ghoat story

We reached the old Prospector’s town on top of the mountain just as the fog descended. Wandering amongst the ruins, it seemed as if time stepped back to let us see a glimpse of what it was like when this town was bustling with life, a century ago.

The hollowed-out trunk of a huge old tree served as the tavern, we had been told. And we could almost hear the tinkle of long-forgotten music and the yells and catcalls… and then we could hear it in truth. Eerie drawn-out sounds came from all around. And bells! Or was that the sound of miners working? My hair stood on end.

We left, confounded.

In the valley below we passed a flock of goats, bells clanking, their bleating echoing spookily through the fog to the mountaintop above, like the voices of the Lost.

Preferred source: Stories/A ghoat story.doc