Scary ghost stories and stuff (1)

The Dead Girls

Memories can flow like water - Editor

The Dead Girls

by Aaron J. French

Chris Evans has heard the rumor of the two dead girls.  But he thought it was only a superstition.  He’s fished this section of Lake Erie since he was a boy, since back in the seventies when the water deterioration was so bad it spawned an article in Time Magazine and the subsequent Clean Water Act of 1972.

His father used to bring him here at dawn, when the sky was lit up with pink and the waters swirled a dark, uninviting gray.  They’d sit in his dented boat and wait patiently for fish to bite.  A peaceful experience, a time for father and son to be alone.

But now Chris is sitting alone on the lake in the middle of the night.  In the same boat, the one his father bequeathed to him; a beer cooler at his feet, the sprawling tackle box on the bench.  His pole leaning out.  A Styrofoam cup filled with dirt on his lap.

It’s the smell that gets him, that earthy fresh aroma.  Nothing fuels nostalgia like soil and worms and fat grubs.

When the pair of luminescent shapes first appeared over the water, he’d assumed it was a trick of light.  But that was more than three hours ago.  They’ve moved over time, drifting slowly across the lake, going up and down the shoreline.

When they passed before the boat, Chris forced himself to watch.  He studied their golden faces, their long flowing hair, their tiny bodies wrapped in grass and reeds.  They glanced at him, each girl putting a finger to her lips, then continued on.

At the moment they’re at the other end, but he still sees them.  The night sky is reflected in the water, so they resemble two planets orbiting the stars.  They’re absolutely silent, and aside from their luminescent auras, they’re undetectable.

Aided by the moonlight, Chris plucks a worm from the Styrofoam cup and splices it onto the hook.  Guts squirt across his fingers.  He wipes them on his jeans then stands, rocking slightly with the boat.

He steadies himself, brings the pole back carefully to avoid the hook.  Feels the weight of it above his shoulder.  A deep breath and he whips it forward; the spool of line unwinds.  Aside from insects, it’s the only sound for miles.  The hook drops into the lake with a plunk, goes down quietly.

Leaning the pole over the side and wedging the handle up against the bench, he throws a back-glance at the glowing dead shapes.  There they are, unmoving for the moment, two balls of light piercing the dark.  They do that sometimes: sit perfectly still.  But they eventually continue back along the shore.

His bladder is full, so he unzips his fly and urinates into the water.  The night air chills his skin.  He has the sudden memory of his father doing the same thing.  Dad seemed larger than life: his towering form, his enormous member, the endless stream of gold that arced into the lake.

Chris sighs.  He misses those times, back when he was a boy and the world seemed like a happier place.

He sits down and his pole rattles, just slightly.  The string jerks through the eyeholes, then slacks.  Then nothing.

Whoa there.  What was that?  A bite?

Gingerly he takes up the handle, applying his thumb and forefinger to the reel.  No reeling though: he doesn’t want to scare it off.  He must be patient and wait, just like Dad taught him to.

Dead.  Dead—father—dead.  The words don’t go together in his mind.  But it’s the truth.  Chris gave the order himself.  Memories: the living will, the wheeze of the ventilator, the beeps of the medical machines, the decree not to resuscitate. Life fading from his father’s eyes.