In Creeps The Night

by Natalie Gibson

  Mary shuffled nervously in her seat, trying desperately to keep her thoughts focused on anything but the thin line of sweat she could feel starting to trickle down her back, and the constant buzzing of the trapped fly. She kept both her hands in her neighbors' who sat in chairs on either side of her own, and resisted the urge to flap her hands in an attempt to cool her overheating face.

  She peeked quickly out of one eye, casting a skeptical glance at the old woman at the opposite side of the table, and noticing that the lady in question had her eyes closed, Mary took the opportunity to study her more closely.

  The clairvoyant was dressed in just the fashion that any skeptic would expect, lavishly robed in black and purple, her neck, ears and fingers all decorated with silver jewelery of which was embedded with a dark purple crystal. Mary couldn’t help but wonder whether the abundance of jewels decorating the woman was in fact to detract attention from the crone’s face, pockmarked, haggard and deeply wrinkled as it was. With equal parts disgust and sympathy, Mary concluded that the jewelry had in fact failed.

  “Open your hearts. You are the vessel that will bring the dead to us.”

  Mary quickly clenched her eyes shut as the clairvoyant’s low, smoky voice filled the room. As her eyes slid closed, she immediately felt the heat of the room creep over her again and she shifted uncomfortably.

  “If you are here, give us a sign.”

  After a few moments Mary felt her body relax again, feeling half relief, half despondent. She should have listened to Paul, he was right, this could be nothing more than a scam, a farce.

  She felt her heart ache as she opened her eyes again, looking around the room at the other occupants. Her eyes met those of a young man to her right, and she could see the despondent skepticism on his face that she knew must be mirrored on her own.

  I had to try, she thought to herself.

  She’d tried for a year to put the past behind her, but Thomas was still everywhere she looked. She couldn’t walk down the street without seeing him on the street corner, giving her a loving yet sad smile, before he disappeared.

  Her friends couldn’t understand the depth of her grief. Her best friend Charlotte had long since remarried after her first husband had died during the Battle of Ypres, and as she always said, she was the one who was married whilst Mary was only betrothed.

  But she couldn’t let him go. Maybe it was because his death had been such a waste, not at all a death of glory that would help defeat the Germans. The other widows all had stories to tell. “He was killed saving one of his platoon during the first surge of the Battle of the Somme,” Lucy from across the street said with proud tears in her eyes, whilst Beatrice from the village over-described how her husband had been by the huge explosion of mines under the German trenches, a move which finally won the Allies some land.

  Instead, Thomas had been killed by a sniper whilst on a recon mission just two days before the armistice was signed and the surviving troops made their way home.

  And that was why she would never let him go for the rest of her life. She had been cheated out of love by a stray bullet, which did nothing to alter the course of the war.

  Mary thought of Paul, her fiancé’s best friend, the one who had broken the news to her.

  He’d tried to argue with her when she’d told him about the séance, claiming that it would only upset her.

  Maybe he was right.

  “If you are there, give us a sign. Speak to us.”

  The clairvoyant gestured toward the small glass tumbler in the center of the round table, surrounded by a series of letters. The occupants of the room quickly followed suit, and all placed a finger on the top of the tumbler.

  “We are listening. If you have a message, speak now. Talk to us.”

  A sudden chill swept through the room, and Mary gasped along with the woman next to her. The air which had previously felt so hot against her skin, suddenly turned cold, causing the hairs to stand up on end.

  “Give us another sign. Who is it you wish to speak to?”

  They waited another moment in nervous anticipation and Mary let out a shuddering breath as nothing happened.

  Then without warning, the glass on the table began to move. Mary felt her heart beat harder in her chest, something between hope and fear building within her.

  Thomas, please is that you? Are you there? Speak to me! she pleaded desperately in her mind, watching with wide eyes as the glass moved slowly toward a letter.

  “F? Does anyone have a name beginning with F?” The clairvoyant looked around and at the shakes of heads, she went to speak again.

  “Who is it that—” She didn’t even get to finish her question before she was interrupted by the glass moving steadily again, stopping surely at the R. Before anyone could move, the glass suddenly sped across the table, moving from letter to letter in quick succession. The glass vibrated under Mary’s hands as it moved faster to each letter, before it stopped abruptly at the E.

  “Friendly fire,” the man to Mary’s left said in a hushed tone, breaking the stunned silence in the room.

  “What does that mean?” Mary heard herself ask, her heart beating wildly.

  He answered sadly, “It’s when a soldier is killed by one of his own men.”

  Suddenly the candles in the room flared high, a rising heat washing over Mary, and a vase on the side table crashed to the floor, smashing into pieces.

  The women screamed, and everyone’s hands shot back from the glass, as it forced itself away from its captors and sped across the table. Mary watched in horror.

  M-A-R-Y

  “Thomas!” she cried out immediately, her heart seizing in her chest. “Thomas, I’m here.”

  Another vase fell from the sideboard, and the chilling breeze returned, blowing out the lit candles in gusts of icy air, leaving only one flame remaining.

  The glass changed direction again moving from the Y back to F. It whizzed around the board quickly, spinning from one letter to another, over and over again.

  F-R-I-E-N-D-L-Y—F-I-R-E—F-R-I-E-N-D-L-Y—F-I-R-E—F-R-I-E-N-D-L-Y—F-I-R-E—

  “Thomas?” The clairvoyant finally spoke again, and Mary gasped, tears falling down her cheeks as her hand clenched to her chest, as though her heart would fracture. “Who was it? Which of your friends fired?”

  Under no visible control the glass moved again and Mary watched it with a growing realization as it began to spell.

  -P-

  She didn’t need to see the name, it suddenly became clear.

  -A-

  She saw the man’s heartbroken face as he gave her the news.

  -U-

  “It’s my fault. I should have seen,” he’d said.

  She’d thought he’d meant the sniper. Now she knew he meant Thomas.

  -L-

  The glass came to a stop and the candles flared again, bathing the room in warmth.

  Mary just stared at the table in front of her, remembering Thomas’s final message.

  -P-A-U-L-

  Her lost love’s best friend.

  UNDER A GRAY October sky, Philip follows the jet black Pomeranian down the sidewalk and past the yards decorated with Halloween ghosts, jack-o’-lanterns, and skeletons.

  “We can’t go too far, girl. It looks like stormy weather.”

  The fluffy Pom ignores him and keeps walking, occasionally stopping to sniff a bush.

  Philip picked up the dog yesterday from an old woman in a neighboring town. He was driving and checking out the surrounding areas when he spied her crude cardboard sign. It was written with white spray paint and hanging by three rusty nails on a telephone pole.

  Philip pulled to the shoulder of the road and walked up to the sign. In sloppy letters, it read: Black dog. Free to good home. First house on right past sign. Philip. 1:6.

  The last word on the sign was what caught his eye. Philip. Spelled like his name with one L, not two. Yes, it was an abbreviated Bible verse, but it was enough for him. He didn’t believe in gods,
but he didn’t believe in coincidences either.

  Philip drove to the first house on the right. It was actually a rundown, double-wide trailer. An elderly woman answered the door.

  She told him the dog was a stray.

  “Ain’t got no name,” said the old woman, wearing flip-flops, a faded blue sweatshirt, and black sweat pants. Overweight and apparently alone, she had the voice of a gravel pit and puffed on a cigarette like her life depended on it. “Probably looking for the kid it belongs to. Been hanging around here for a week. Can’t afford to keep it fed. Take it if you want it.”

  Philip winces at the memory of the ugly, old lady.

  The dog turns out to be a friendly pooch, though.

  Philip hadn’t thought of a name yet, and the dog seems fine without one.

  Philip feels as anonymous as the dog. He only moved here last week and hadn’t met anybody except his landlord. He figures a dog would improve his chances. It had in the past. Everybody loves a cute dog.

  Out of curiosity, Philip had looked up the Bible verse when he arrived home from getting the Pomeranian. It read: “Being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.”

  Sounds like adventures are in my future, he thinks.

  Like Philip, the nameless dog is anxious to explore the new neighborhood. After fifteen minutes of walking, the dog darts toward a copse of trees, stops at the edge, and starts barking before disappearing into the woods.

  Philip hears the distant song of children’s laughter dancing through the trees.

  “What is it, girl?”

  Philip maneuvers through the leafless trees, catching glimpses of a merry-go-round, monkey bars, and a sandbox.

  He loves playgrounds, although this one looks neglected.

  Philip hears the familiar creak of a swing jangling back and forth on its chain.

  When he emerges from the trees, he sees a single swing swaying in the wind.

  Except there is no wind.

  The swing is empty yet moving like someone just finished using it and ran off.

  Philip glances around the abandoned playground but sees nothing, not even his dog.

  He’s about to whistle for the Pomeranian until he notices the distinct shadow of a child on the ground, moving back and forth in time with the swing.

  Philip visually inspects the trees behind the swing, trying to locate the branch that must be casting the shadow. He sees nothing but treetops as still as stone with branches like dead, gray fingers reaching for the sky.

  He looks at the ground again. The moving shadow remains.

  Philip walks toward the swing, curious about the anomaly. He figures the light from the gray sky is enough to penetrate the tops of the trees and cast the shadow, but what is moving the swing? How could somebody jump off at his approach and disappear without a sound so quickly?

  Philip approaches the shadow and abruptly halts as the swing and the shadow simultaneously stop moving.

  The shadow rises from the ground and stands up directly in front of the swing.

  “What the hell?” Philip whispers.

  “My name is Emma,” the shadow says.

  It is obviously the voice of a young girl, but disembodied somehow like the sound from inside a cave.

  A young girl? Philip is more intrigued than frightened since he’s never believed in ghosts. Still, he takes a cautious step backward…and feels an ice-cold pressure from behind like walking into an open freezer.

  Philip turns and sees another shadow standing there.

  “My name is Olivia,” the shadow says in a different girl’s voice.

  Philip’s curiosity starts bleeding into fear.

  He turns to his left, and there’s another shadow.

  “My name is Sophia.” Another girl’s voice.

  Giggles fill the chilly autumn air as Philip whips around to his right.

  “My name is Ava.”

  Surrounded by tiny shadows, Philip feels the cold radiating from their charcoal nothingness. As he decides what to do next, more tiny shadows rise from the ground.

  He counts a total of six. The remaining two say their names: Isabella and Mia.

  “W-w-what is this?” Philip asks.

  “This,” the one named Emma answers, “is how we play.”

  Three weeks later, a police officer opens the closet door to Philip’s bedroom.

  “He didn’t even unpack his clothes?” the officer asks.

  The apartment manager standing nearby shakes his head.

  “It’s weird,” the manager says. “He was a nice guy, but when the first of the month came and went and he hadn’t paid rent, I got worried. His car is still in the parking lot, and it’s been parked in the same spot for weeks.”

  The officer glances at the cardboard boxes of clothes and is about to close the closet door but stops when he notices a box labeled, “Memories.”

  He pulls out the box and carefully places it on the bed, an unexplained sense of dread creeping up his spine. When he opens the box, he sees a number of manila folders stuffed to overflowing with newspaper clippings.

  The tab on the first one is labeled, “Emma.”

  The officer opens the folder. Inside are newspaper accounts of the search for a young girl named Emma. One of the articles is accompanied by a photograph of Emma holding a black Pomeranian. Paper-clipped to the newspapers is a lock of chestnut brown hair.

  “Look, Mom, a swing.”

  The mother navigates through the trees but can’t keep up with her nine-year-old daughter.

  “Chloe, be careful. Don’t run.”

  Chloe jumps on the swing and starts flying high and fast, smiling at the playful shadows on the ground all around her.

  Hovering unseen just inside the tree line is the ghost-child named Emma. Standing beside her is a black Pomeranian ready to run and bark at the little girl on the swing.

  It turns out the little dog has a name, after all.

  “Shadow, stay,” Emma says. “It’s okay. She’s just having fun. We’ll watch over her.”

  Shadow lies back down, letting Emma’s cool fingertips rub the sweet spot behind her left ear.

  Emma watches Shadow’s left leg start to shake with involuntary spasms of pleasure and stops petting her. Shadow looks up in disappointment, and Emma stares into the dog’s eyes.

  “You began a good work, and you carried it on to completion,” she says, paraphrasing a certain Bible verse.

  Emma then smiles a smile only a shadow can see and starts stroking the sweet spot again.

  “I’m glad you found me, Shadow. I’ve missed you.”

  NATE SAW IT first. He was drumming his fingers along the Mustang’s dashboard to the bass line of The Cure’s Burn. As he glanced out his window a mammoth shadow loomed in the dark. The wan, sliver of moon overhead was little more than a night-light, and there were few visible stars. Dropping his beat he leaned forward as Kevin downed the last of his soda.

  “What is that?”

  Kev eased down on the brake as they approached a forked road. He let the car idle as he looked past Nate to scan the darkness.

  “Oh, that’s Hellaway Bridge,” his voice shared obvious disinterest.

  “Hellaway?”

  “As in yeah, keep the Hell away,” Kevin explained. “Been called that as long as I can remember. Real name is Shrike Wood Pass. Super old. Named after the bird and woods around here. A footpath bridge. Not wide enough to fit a car. Built before the road went in so people could cross the stream back in the day.”

  “Looks older than dirt.”

  “Supposed to be haunted,” Kev added, and regretted it instantly.

  Nate was undeniable, hyper and awkward as a Great Dane puppy in the front seat. They could see the movie another night, but Kevin wasn’t even sure the flashlight in his trunk had working batteries.

  “Just aim the headlights in and we’ll be fine.”

  Pulling the car in as close as he co
uld Kev set the brake but left the engine running. The Mustang smelled like fries. Balling up the fast food sacks he tossed the trash in a thicket of weeds outside his window.

  Darkness was even deeper than it seemed from inside the car as they stepped out. This was the outskirts of town. An old back road seldom used except by younger drivers to reach Dansby, the closest town. The road and surrounding area were let go to seed, with massive Spanish moss-draped oaks crowding the skyline. No street or city lights could be seen from here. The Mustang’s headlights barely cut through the black night. Low-lying fog gave them a misting glow. Clusters of tiny gnats swarmed back and forth through the beams.

  Framed in that circular aurora the covered bridge pulsed with interior shadows. The entrance was a mouth of darkness impenetrable by the car. Spidery vines and kraken arms of vegetation hung down from its roof. It smelled of dampness and mold, and an odd mixture of briny water with decomposition.

  Using flashlight apps they held up their smart phones.

  “Wait.” Nate aimed his light higher toward the top of the structure. “Is that a dog?”

  For an instant they both glimpsed the black and white patches of a spaniel. It made no sound, but before either could voice a word the dog leapt far out into empty space. It plummeted down. All they could do was watch in what seemed painfully distorted time. It vanished into darkness. They heard no sound of it striking earth.

  Nate’s heart was thundering as he ran to the spot. He was sure the height was too great for the dog to survive. Sweeping their phone lights over the area they found nothing.

  “What the fuck?” Kevin’s eyes ached as he caught Nate’s glance.

  “What’s the story here? Why is this place haunted?”

  Kev flashed his light at the bridge again.

  “No one knows. There’s no tidy story. Not like a kid died here and a ghost attached to the place. I asked Professor Randolph about it once. He said some places are just that way. Sometimes there’s no science yet discovered to explain it. They exhibit evil or unnatural tendencies. Frequent accidents happen there or locations simply give off bad vibes. You’ve heard the stories about people disappearing and never found. It happens. I never had reason to come out this way when I was younger. But I heard stories about it being pretty weird.”