Witching hour

'People love twilight more than the bright day, and it is in twilight that ghosts appear'

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Even as a child, I loved ghost stories. The world of the hidden, the invisible. The dark room, the sounds, and the small arc of light under the door fueled my imagination to write countless horror stories.

And what could be more fulfilling for my imagination than a complete ghost town in the middle of the desert? Yes! I was looking forward to this moment like crazy!

This time, I checked the camera twice for memory and battery, because a visit to the old salt mines Humberstone and Santa Laura awaited me.

The old mining town, half an hour away from Iquique, was shut down in 1961, taking a piece of Chile's history with it. After the introduction of new nitrates production techniques in Europe, the glorious era of the mining town of Humberstone, with its 3,500 residents, who were mostly mine and factory workers and their families, came to an end.

Main factory in the nearby Santa Laura plant.

During the work in the mines and the factories, over 400 people died in accidents alone. A similar number died from diseases. Even today, former residents come to the site once a year for a festival to commemorate that time.

Residential building on the site.Most of the buildings are still nearly intact as they were left. Very little has been renovated out of respect for the memory.

As I walk through the old, dusty streets, the slightly cool wind from the Atacama Desert blows. And I thought I could hear more than just the wind, almost like a melody. A whistle, perhaps a whisper....

Here in the old church, families said their prayers for the fathers in the mines.

The workers were recruited from the south of the country and enticed to the mining town with very good wages. The same happened from the United States and Europe. Many hoped for wealth and a chance. Many were disappointed. The harsh working conditions, seclusion, and illnesses caused many people to fail here.

The dusty pictures on the wall, the old plates and medicine jars, old books and clothes, even the walls. They all tell stories of life, hope, departure, disappointment, and suffering.

The old wooden floor creaks under my steps in the school. Hopefully, it holds. I sit down, slightly hunched, at the old small school desk, listening to the sounds behind the door, in the broken windows, and the creaking in the beams below me, closing my eyes and waiting for twilight....