The only residents remaining in the small town of Miners Hill are spirits. Most folks think it’s been that way for decades, but it’s only really been true for a couple a years.
Two years ago, I found her eatin’ stale bread outta the dumpster. I dragged her in the bakery and ordered her to wash up. She refused to say anything that first day as she stuffed blueberry muffins and croissants in her mouth, washin’ it down with some OJ. Over the course of that first year, I learned bits and pieces as she helped me knead dough and sweep floors.
She had a Ma and a Pa and a baby brother. How they came to live in Miners Hill she couldn’t remember, they had always been there. A supply truck came in once a month with an order her Ma would place over the phone. She and her brother would play in an old playground, complete with rusting swing set and creaky see saws and merry go round. Her Pa, well, she didn’t much talk about him that first year. But by the time she told me the whole story, I think them spirits in Miners Hill used her Pa for their own devices.