The Fool on the Hill

The only residents remaining in the small town of Miners Hill are spirits. Even they won’t be around much longer.

I’m more of a transient, so I don’t count.

There really isn’t any word for what I’m doing. You might go with “Exorcist” as a rough approximation, I suppose, except I’m not a priest. I’m cleansing the town of spirits one at a time, proceeding uphill.

Atop the hill is a government building, see the one that looks like a hotel but isn’t? That was once the State Asylum.

Before the mine and the radon gas release and So. Many. Dead.

I learned how to make lenses. I stumbled on a combination of polarized coatings that could render the essences of the recently dead visible. Whatever your brand of religion calls them. Then I developed my cleansing lamp using essentially the same effect.

Don’t worry, Mother. I’m on the way.

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150 words. Inspired by this week’s Monday’s Finish the Story prompt:

© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham