Most doors still stood sturdy in their frames. They were a little dirty, but if you only focused on the doors you’d expect people to come out as if nothing had changed. Broken cars and rusty pieces of metal littered some of the larger driveways, stripped from all but their most useless parts.
Woodhaerst, once a hub of modern housing and technological developments was now a ghost town in the truest sense. The wind in the trees and the creaking of wood were the new dominant sounds in a once lively community rich in sounds of joy and simple pleasures.
The main hotel has had a few esteemed guests over the years, but it was now decrepit and starting to collapse bit by bit. A few animals still dare to wander here, but most wisely stay away from the fragile walls.
You couldn’t help but feel lost in this town now, even if you knew exactly where you were. It was a lonely place with only distant memories of what once was. But there was something oddly poetic about nature reclaiming what was once theirs to begin with.
Some doorways seemed in relative decent condition while others were destroyed and were indistinguishable from other collapsed walls and piles of rubble. Window panes hung perilously from their hinges and here and there drapes had been flung out by the wind.
Blencogo, once a major festival town and home to an amazing night lift had all but faded away from history. The wind in the trees and the creaking of wood were the new dominant sounds in a once lively community rich in sounds of joy and simple pleasures.
The safety of the bank was forfeited long ago. There was nothing left but empty halls and empty safety deposit boxes, boxes that made for great nesting areas for small birds who gladly took advantage of this.
Street after street of abandoned homes made for a terrifying thought. Each house was once a home, a home belonging to a family and now there was only emptiness. But even though many buildings had found a new purpose there was just no way this town’s former self could ever be restored.