Whispers from Crowsnest

The clouds roll by on the outskirts, and the blades of grass sway softly in the eerie cold.
The occasional rain drips quietly on the charred remnants of the town, a requiem to the fires extinguished.
The earth lay fresh, soft and devoid of life at the site of graves.
The dark lake is still, reflecting the northern pine forests and the disused piers to the east, only ever bubbling when an ethereal fish passes by.
The town is empty and quiet.
Dirty and unkempt.
Full of shadows and nooks.
Dust, litter and distant whispers are carried in from the cold draft from places unknown.
Windows are cracked and smeared.
Doors boarded or shattered into pointy fragments.
The power lines are tangled and in some places, torn.
The roads are pot holed and cracked - as if a giant fist pummeled at the concrete.
Not a soul in the day light, but the crows that frequent the graves and broken roofs.
Welcome to Crowsnest, where the dead and the foul come out and play at night.