Dust Never Sleeps
Dust Never Sleeps
By Glen Flensoz
There’s a stretch of land out west that doesn’t show up on most maps. Locals call it “the basin,” but that feels generous. It’s a scar—flat, windless, and so quiet it hums.
I passed through it once. Just once.
I was on assignment to shoot the remains of a ghost town out in the high desert. Nothing major. Some collapsed buildings, an old rail spur, a few corroded tombstones with names long since unspoken. The light was beautiful, the kind that makes even decay look deliberate.
But something felt off from the start.
There were no birds. Not even vultures. The air was too still, too thick—like it had stopped circulating. I kept telling myself it was just the altitude, just the heat. I’ve spent a lot of time alone in strange places. I know how the mind can slip.
Then I found the chapel.
It was sunken halfway into the sand, like the earth had tried to swallow it and gave up halfway through. The cross on the roof was snapped—not by weather. Something twisted it. Inside, no pews. Just dust. And something else.
Boot prints.
Fresh.
I should’ve left. But pride's a real idiot.
I followed the tracks through town—past a saloon skeleton and an outhouse so sun-bleached it looked like paper—and into what must’ve been the sheriff’s office.
There were bones in the cell. Old, yes, but hunched. Not laid to rest, but cowering. Like something came through the bars.
And then I heard it.
Boots dragging.
Not behind me. Not in front.
All around.
I turned slow. Nothing there. Just heat and silence. But the prints I’d followed? Gone. Erased. Not wind-blown—like they were never there.
And that’s when I knew: I’d overstayed my welcome.
I backed out, careful as prayer, made it to my truck without turning around. Got in. Started the engine. Drove three hours straight, white-knuckled and locked-jawed. Only once I hit pavement again did I realize something else had happened.
Somewhere between the bones and the boots, I’d quietly and irreversibly pissed myself.
Not proud. Not ashamed, either.
Just honest.
I still have the photos. Funny thing—they don’t show what I remember. The bones are gone. The chapel’s intact. Cross straight as anything. Just blue sky and empty sand.
But I know what I saw.
Some towns weren’t abandoned.
They were digested.
—
Until next time, pack an extra pair of pants. — Glen
