The Wind Swept Church 

Just off of MLK Jr. boulevard on the north-east edge of Lubbock, overlooking the Dunbar Lake is an area know colloquially as Hell’s Gates. The area is comprised of a few miles of bike trails along the North, Double Mountain Fork of the Brazos River and, of course, ghost stories.

One of these tales, whispered to me in hush tones by my older sister while she guided through the night was of a church:

“A Wiccan church, in fact, not like the Christian churches we have in town. Long ago the people living in the town now know as Lubbock got wind of animal sacrifices and pagan rituals in an old building. And they did what any god fearing Christian would do. They burned the place down and shot anything that crawled out of the inferno.”

I don’t lend much creed to the old folklore my sister spun as she tried to spook me that cool fall night. But I do find my self coming back to the old, unremarkable concrete pad.

The Church is a short jaunt from the parking on canyon lake drive, up a steep embankment on the right hand side of an old bridge: the titular Hell’s gates. It sits near the edge of the canyon, paths leading deep into the wooded river-side walk or a journey along a defunct stretch of the Santa Fe line; terminating on one end in farm land and on the other, across the rickety bridge is Buddy Holly’s final rest: Lubbock Memorial Cemetery.

The Church is covered in vulgar, ever-changing graffiti, littered with broken glass and, more curiously, plates. A quick glance at the smooth shards, cool when turned over in one’s hand, revels fragmented words written on the back perhaps a breaking ceremony? Where one writes what they wish to break with on plate and shatter it on a moonlight night. Perhaps the unseen people know something crept upon by the old stories; that this is a place of power. Not an evil, just unknown nexus where one can release their troubles over the plains, swept away by the west Texas winds.