March 31, 2013

No. 343

The light in the old hangar cast a sickly yellow glow on the two occupants. Rain lashed the tin roof, the first sign of an approaching storm. All flights at the airport had been cancelled, leaving an old man and a young man to take shelter and wait.


“Have you heard of the ghost plane, boy?” asked the old man. “Every year, on the same night, a fog rolls in from the ocean and the runway lights dim. Then a plane comes in to land.

“We don’t see it on the radar and, when it rolls to a stop, it vanishes. We can never prove it arrived. But it comes.

“Some say it’s Amelia Earhart returning home. Others say it’s the last man back from the lost Flight 19. I can’t rightly say who, or what it could be. It makes the hairs on your neck stand up.”

“I’m not afraid,” said the young man.

“No, not now, you aren’t. But the first time you hear that engine, and every time after that, you will be.”

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