Ghosts from 1964

“It’s cursed,” we were warned. Tragic death tends to curse a place, I guess.

Half a century ago the path among the trees was lined with lights and attractions. Now it was like a shrine to simpler times, a grove dedicated to a distant past, a graveyard of happiness.

The skeletal remains of The Red Cyclone still remained, though most of it was rusted and rotten. We walked along the tracks as far as we could go. In the crisp morning air, among the mists clinging to the damp ground, ghosts from 1964 still were weeping for lives cut disastrously short.