The Winds by George P. Flick

I’d heard some strange tales on the prairie, but none quite as weird as the winds. There was an old man who lived out by dead oak pass, an old prospector. One night he showed up at my door, he was pale white.  I brought him in and made him coffee, his eyes where wide and blood shot, his hands shanked slightly. It was some time till he spoke a whisper.  At first it’s in the wind was all I could hear. What’s in the wind?  The souls of the lost ones. In a raspy gasp, he said could I not hear them? I looked outside there was no noise, not even a breeze, I turned to him and asked him “when was the last time you slept?” His response was strange: “How could anyone sleep in this wind.”  It happen rather quickly, he stood straight up and said “They’re here.”  “Whose here?” I said.  He pointed at the door and said, “There!”  I looked at the door and in surprise it suddenly swung open as if a gust of wind blew it open, but there was no movement in the air.  I turned to the old man and in terror saw what was happening to him.  He was a full two feet above the floor, his long hair was in disarray as if he was in a wind, his face was consorted as if in pain, his eyes wide with fear.  He slowly floated towards the door.  I fell back on the floor in horror, it looked like he was in a whirlwind, his close were being torn off him, but the only air movement in the room were my quick breaths.  He floated out the room and that was the last time I ever saw him.

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