by Lorien Lucero<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Drew climbs out of the truck and whistles as heat blankets him, sweat misting his forehead in moments. He wipes it away. At least the sloped shoulder where he parked is shaded, though he wonders if the trees on either side only trap the sweltering air. He peers up and down the two-lane road, wary of traffic. There is none. Of course, there wouldn\u2019t be. Evening is coming on, and this is no place to be caught after dark.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He would not be here for anything, save that it\u2019s what Ray wants. Drew doesn\u2019t even think he believes in ghosts, but if it will help his brother forget, he will oblige. For now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A deep breath, then he plunges into the woods. He ducks under hanging vines, strays from the path to avoid ground still muddy from flooding last month. Dwarf palmettos nod in a breeze. He takes a last look over his shoulder, back at the truck. A single tress of Spanish moss wavers over the cab, gilt by fading sunbeams. He shakes his head and walks onward.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ray had better be there already, Drew thinks. He doesn\u2019t want to wait. Especially not by the marsh at the path\u2019s end where, Ray told him on the phone this morning, you can see the old Marjorie Rutledge Home where the woman still roams the creekside, searching for lost love. He sighs. The whole thing seems a fool\u2019s errand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It hasn\u2019t always been like this, Ray\u2019s obsession with the paranormal. Though it\u2019s understandable, considering what he has lost. It\u2019s hard not to worry about him, but Drew calms his thoughts. It\u2019s the first time he\u2019s agreed to come on one of his brother\u2019s \u201cinvestigations,\u201d but then again it\u2019s the first time Ray has gone out on a forest trail, in pure darkness, in the middle of the sticks. He couldn\u2019t let him go alone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Why does Drew have to be the stable one? It\u2019s a role he resents. He misses the way things were when they were young, both of them bold and reckless. Yes, it\u2019s been worse since the accident. And no, his brother hasn\u2019t been the same since Julia. But Ray, though older, has forced him to be sober and sane for them both.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Drew jumps as something unseen caresses his face. He laughs: only an orb-weaver\u2019s web, likely the only ghost they will find tonight. A mosquito shrills in his ear, but its voice seems far away. As if the sound itself is a haunting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Far ahead a flashlight beam waves. He can\u2019t see the marsh yet, but Ray has seen him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When blue hour comes the forest cools, though Drew\u2019s body is still damp with sweat. Ray trudges beside him now, jittery\u2014from coffee or excitement? Hard to tell. He\u2019s had more late nights in recent months than Drew has ever known him to, so it could be both. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ray stops, stares off to the right where the roots of a fallen pine stretch, hopeless arms reaching in vain for heaven. \u201cThere,\u201d he whispers. He leans toward his brother and points. \u201cStraight past that is a shortcut to the best spot to see the house from. We can\u2019t go on the grounds itself; it\u2019s privately owned. Across the creek is the closest we can get.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don\u2019t think we should leave the path,\u201d Drew frowns. \u201cIt\u2019s going to be dark in under an hour.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His brother waves him off. \u201cIt\u2019s fine,\u201d he says. \u201cI have flashlights, and GPS if we get lost. Plus, I already came out here yesterday to check things out.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
This is new information. At night, or in daylight? Drew isn\u2019t sure their excursion is entirely legal, since he doesn\u2019t know who owns this land. There were private driveways on the road, but no houses to be seen, though none near the mile where they\u2019ve parked. He shakes his head, imagines what Emma would say if she could see them now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWho\u2019s this ghost we\u2019re hunting now?\u201d he asks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThe Rutledge woman. I told you.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cTell me again.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ray sighs. \u201cFine. Marjorie Rutledge. Lived before the Civil War. Had a secret affair with one of her neighbors, I think, who\u2019d just moved in from Beaufort. Her father thought he had slave blood in his veins, though you couldn\u2019t tell by looking at him. So Marjorie kept their love a secret. When her father found out, he had the man sent to the peninsula on an errand, but\u2026he never returned.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Drew waits, knowing his brother enjoys the drama of these stories. He cringes as a narrow vine catches on him, unseen in the gloaming. He swears below his breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ray doesn\u2019t notice. \u201cSo Marjorie, she went out to the creek to watch for him\u2014back then they traveled by boat more than by road. She laid in bed for days, claiming to see his image in her fever, begging his forgiveness.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd a few days later, she\u2019s dead.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Drew peers at his brother, frowns. There is no hint of grief or pain in his voice, talking this way about death. That\u2019s a good thing, isn\u2019t it? But it doesn\u2019t feel right.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Would Ray be so detached if Drew were to mention Julia? He doesn\u2019t think so. His tongue curls to shape the name, as if her memory wants to be given voice. For a moment its will seems irresistible, but he masters it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The unspoken name still hovers in the air, though. Ray turns sharply and stares at him as if hearing it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat was that?\u201d he says at last. Drew shakes his head. Ray does not break eye contact.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He crouches, brings out a small black device with a screen and lots of options. He presses the small red RECORD button.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI didn\u2019t hear a thing\u2014\u201d Drew answers. Ray hushes him. At last he puts the device away, apparently satisfied.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not ten minutes later they reach the path again and soon see the darkened form of a house. It looks lonely from where they stand here, across the creek and the plain of golden marsh. White siding, black-shuttered windows; or the kind of green that\u2019s almost black. An old plantation home. Late antebellum, maybe. Emma would know.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOkay,\u201d Ray says. \u201cLet\u2019s see if we can reach her.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Three small flashlights emerge from his bag. Cheap ones, the kind you can find at a dollar store. He unscrews the handle of each just enough to get the battery loose, and flips the switches on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHello? Is anyone here with us?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Drew can barely see the flashlights on the forest floor, but he squints down at them anyway, wondering what to expect.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIf you\u2019re here, you can turn on these lights by touching them. Two flashes for yes<\/em>, one for no<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Nothing happens. Drew waits, wonders what Ray is thinking. He begins to let his thought drift off, remembering how they\u2019d kayaked creeks like this nearer to home with their parents. How once, when both were younger, Ray had rowed so far ahead that Drew could not see them past a bend in the marsh, and for what had seemed like hours (probably no more than minutes) they had sat in stillness watching a white bird stand still as a statue. \u201cHello, Mr. Egret,\u201d Drew had sung out. The way he\u2019d formed the words sounded like Mister Regret<\/em>. Drew smiles, remembering how Ray had laughed at that for days after.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A slow yawn sneaks his breath away. He clears his throat, wonders how long they will stay here and wait\u2014when the first bulb ignites. One, then another. The third, for whatever reason, remains off.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He watches, mouth gaping. Ray smiles and nods, reaches again into his bag.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAre you looking for something?\u201d he asks. \u201cOr maybe someone?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The light flashes twice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDid someone important to you disappear?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Twice again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ray grins. His breathing quickens. He holds another device up and numbers blink on its pale screen. Drew doesn\u2019t know what they are, but the numbers make him shiver.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHold this,\u201d his brother commands, and Drew accepts a small camera. He watches a psychedelic array of yellows and oranges and purples form and shift, till he recognizes the shapes of trees and then Ray himself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s a thermal camera,\u201d Ray sputters. \u201cMeasures heat differences. See if you can see anything in it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Drew squints into the mess of color as Ray queries on. \u201cHave you been here long? Since the eighteen-hundreds?\u201d Two flashes. Still nothing on the camera but the cold creek and marsh, a stray crab or two climbing in the stalks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He looks up. The world is dim around them. Dark has fallen; he hasn\u2019t noticed when. Something snaps in the marsh grass. He can see movement there, but no shape. His throat closes. A chill creeps over his sweat-damp back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDid you die of lost love?\u201d One flash. Ray frowns. \u201cMaybe it\u2019s not her.\u201d Another flash, weaker this time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDo you see anything on the camera? Point it at the flashlights.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n There is nothing to see on the screen, not even the now flickering beams.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDamn,\u201d Ray swears. \u201cNothing on the EMF, either.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Nothing else happens after this. Ray makes a few recordings, takes more readings with his instruments. He doesn\u2019t seem disappointed. He tells Drew this is how things usually go. A lot of work and little to show for it. But it\u2019s the hunt that matters, he says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Drew doesn\u2019t see it. He\u2019s never been a hunter. Nor has Ray, for that matter\u2014not before his girlfriend died. He remembers his brother\u2019s face when Julia\u2019s father called him to let him know she was gone. The broken look that had swam in his eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It\u2019s gone now, that look, but something else has taken its place. Drew isn\u2019t sure what just yet. This sort of chase, the relentless search his brother is caught up in\u2014something about it unnerves Drew, though he doesn\u2019t know why.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He walks Ray back to his sedan, a hundred feet or so ahead of where his own truck is parked. The road is still empty, but now it looks smaller, more remote. Its own little world in the dark, no street light at all. It\u2019s an intimate loneliness. Does Ray feel it, too?<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ray climbs into his car. \u201cGive you a ride back to your truck?\u201d he asks. Drew shakes his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d he asks, catching sight of something red on his brother\u2019s arm. Ray blinks, studies his inner wrist: a small constellation of red mounds.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDamn bloodsuckers,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A phone call wakes Drew in the morning, a full hour before he\u2019d planned to rise. He throws off sheets raveled around him, grabs the glowing screen, presses the glass to his stubbled cheek. \u201cHello,\u201d he murmurs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDrew? Is that you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He sits up, eyes wide and alert. \u201cEmma! I forgot to call yesterday.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI knew you would,\u201d her voice creaks in that way he loves. \u201cIt\u2019s fine. I had a great time Friday night.\u201d She hesitates. \u201cIt\u2019s been too long, Drew.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He agrees. He thinks of her often. Even when they\u2019re broken up, which is not infrequent, he wonders if she will come back soon. They know each other too well, after all, good and bad. He winces, catching an angle of sunlight glaring in through his window. It blinds him like her own image would if she were here now, her black hair, olive skin, darkened eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHow did the thing go?\u201d she asks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThing?\u201d He knows what she means, but makes her say it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWith Ray. The ghost thing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMm. About what I thought. Tripping through the woods in pitch dark like a couple of moonshiners.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Emma snickers. He pictures the tilt of her head, the smile lines that form when she laughs. He can nearly see it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI almost wish I\u2019d been there for that,\u201d she says. \u201cI\u2019m glad you went with him. How did he seem?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He draws a breath to answer, but it sticks in his throat. He isn\u2019t quite sure what to say. He\u2019d seemed like Ray, for one thing\u2014for one of the first times he can remember in a good while. And there\u2019d been a light in his eyes that was new. A light Drew has never seen there before. It pulls at his mind, nagging.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI mean,\u201d Emma says, \u201cThese ghosts of his\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThere was no ghost, Emma. The cake is a lie.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She\u2019s silent a moment. He wonders if his tone was harsher than he\u2019d meant. \u201cI\u2019m just worried about him,\u201d she says. \u201cI mean, this isn\u2019t something you just get over. They were made for each other. That\u2019s rare.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He seems to hear a wistfulness in her voice, one he almost resents. Then resents himself for feeling it. \u201cI am too, babe. But I really think he\u2019s fine. Or will be. Give him a while. It\u2019s been, what, a few months? He\u2019s coping in his own way.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThat\u2019s what I\u2019m worried about. He\u2019s not<\/em> coping. What he\u2019s doing, what y\u2019all were doing\u2014that\u2019s not coping. It\u2019s running away from things.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Drew frowns. He knows that she is right, but doesn\u2019t want to admit it. He remembers vividly how alive and present Ray was. Nevertheless. \u201cMaybe,\u201d he allows. \u201cMaybe he is. I\u2019ll talk to him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDrew,\u201d she murmurs. \u201cJust look out for him, is all I\u2019m saying.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Her words stick in his head the rest of the morning. He wolfs down cold pizza, showers quickly, and sits under the fan on full-hurricane-blast at his computer. Pulls up Google, types:<\/p>\n\n\n\n ghost hunting debunked<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n 172,000 results. He swears.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But Drew is patient. He can\u2019t get these worries out of his head, nor the memory of last night. He sees lights flashing in his mind\u2019s eye. Have you been here for long?<\/em> Did you die of lost love?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n An hour later he\u2019s satisfied. He\u2019d felt anxious before, but it\u2019s amazing how quickly that fades when you have answers. It all came down to thermodynamics. Flashlights generate light and heat, heat causes expansion, breaking the circuit and cooling the insides. Cooling causes contraction, which pulls the insides together, forming a circuit again\u2014and on and on. Basic physics. Not ghosts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n His phone vibrates. A text from Ray.<\/p>\n\n\n\n come rn<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n u need 2 c this<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Drew stops for a cold-brew on the way, reveling as the caffeine enters his bloodstream. He would offer to buy Ray something, but the guy is probably jacked up enough. Traffic slows on the way over. His fingers thrum the wheel, then stop. He stares at them. Is he nervous? But what is there to be nervous about?<\/p>\n\n\n\n No one answers when he knocks at Ray\u2019s apartment, so he lets himself in. Signs of neglect abound. It hadn\u2019t been this bad when he was last here, a week ago maybe. Books lay stacked or left open, spines up, around the sofa. Empty beer bottles line shelves and tables. A smell wafts out from the kitchen: unwashed dishes, mingling with the vapor from his brother\u2019s e-cig, faint and sickly sweet. He cringes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh, hey,\u201d Ray stumbles out from the hallway. He seems surprised to see Drew.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBit distracted lately?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo, no. Just have a lot of things running through my mind.\u201d His eyes flit here and there across the apartment, but if the mess embarrasses him it doesn\u2019t show.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI know what you mean. I forgot to call Emma yesterday.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ray shoots him a look. \u201cEmma Flores? Y\u2019all are back together again?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYeah, we went out Friday night. Didn\u2019t I tell you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n His brother seems unsure for a moment. His eyes glaze over, his lips part. \u201cYeah. Yeah, I guess maybe you did.\u201d He gives a playful smirk, and again he is the same familiar Ray. \u201cWell, good luck to you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cRay,\u201d Drew warns.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat? I didn\u2019t say a thing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Drew sighs. \u201cSo what is it I need to see?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWell\u2026hear, actually. Let me pull it up.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ray grabs his laptop from the coffee table and turns it on. \u201cOkay, here it is. Listen closely.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Drew listens. There isn\u2019t much to hear. The laptop\u2019s speaker sings the droning of insects, the faraway rasping of frogs. A breeze whispers, sounding like static. Then Drew hears his own voice. \u201cI didn\u2019t hear a thing\u2014\u201d<\/em> Then the frantic hiss of his brother.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ray closes the laptop. \u201cTell me you heard it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI heard you and me, and some marsh sounds, but\u2026\u201d He shakes his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat? No, no. There\u2019s a voice! I\u2019ll play it again.\u201d He does.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Again Drew shakes his head, shrugs. \u201cI don\u2019t hear any voice but ours, Ray.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ray sighs, exasperated. \u201cIt\u2019s there. You just have to listen. It says, \u2018He will return\u2019<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Drew sits on the sofa\u2019s arm. His lips tighten. \u201cListen, I\u2019ve been reading about all this,\u201d he begins. \u201cThey have different names for it. Matrixing, apophenia. It\u2019s when the brain imposes order and meaning on something where there\u2019s nothing there. And then there\u2019s confirmation bias, when you cling to anything that fits your expectations, but reject anything that doesn\u2019t as irrelevant.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ray\u2019s features harden. \u201cYou don\u2019t believe me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI don\u2019t hear anything, Ray. I didn\u2019t hear anything that night, either.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBut you saw\u2014\u201d He screws his eyes closed, touches his temples. \u201cConfirmation bias, right? Isn\u2019t it possible you\u2019re doing the same thing?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Drew looks away. He surveys the apartment again and suddenly blinks. \u201cWhere\u2019s your Les Paul?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He remembers it clearly, the ocean-blue electric guitar his brother had saved for for years, setting aside what he could from late-night coffee shop or bar gigs he\u2019d scraped together, long before his graveyard shift job as night auditor at the inn. Drew had been one of the few to see him play it the first time. He and Julia and Emma. Normally it hung over the mantel, between a bookshelf and a potted cactus, but the space was empty now.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSold it,\u201d Ray grunts. \u201cHow else do you think I can afford all this equipment?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n It feels like a punch in the gut. Drew\u2019s eyes flutter closed and he draws a breath, wishing this wasn\u2019t happening. He glances at the mantle again, studies a photo of Ray and Julia smiling, her small hand pressed against his chest. Drew stands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m sorry, Ray,\u201d he murmurs. \u201cI\u2019m not going to help you with this anymore. I can\u2019t. I just can\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ray\u2019s gaze rises toward his brother, pulling Drew\u2019s own attention back to him. Neither speaks. A long span of time slips by before Drew takes the first step away, breaking the eye contact, and leaves his brother alone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He feels guilty as soon as his brother\u2019s door shuts, but there\u2019s no help for that. Ray is set on a course Drew cannot stop, is living in a world he cannot reach. Nor had he ever had much luck in swaying his brother\u2019s mind. When Ray is set on something, you either climb aboard or jump ship.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It\u2019s fine, he tells himself. This ghost thing will lose its appeal and he\u2019ll run out of steam eventually. And when he does, I\u2019ll be there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He shakes the thought from his head, turns on the radio. Traffic is heavy, more than usual. It\u2019s going to be a long drive home.<\/p>\n\n\n\n For the next week or so he passes by Ray\u2019s apartment when he can, and monitors his social media, which tends to be inactive. This isn\u2019t unusual. Ray is more concerned with living life than documenting it, a trait Drew both admires and envies. Again he asks himself: why does he get to be impulsive, the free spirit? Why should I color inside the lines just because he never can?<\/p>\n\n\n\n His concern only grows when he speaks of Ray to Emma on Thursday night in his car, on their way to tacos at Santi\u2019s.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI saw him at the library yesterday,\u201d he says, \u201cbut he didn\u2019t even acknowledge my wave. He looked right through me. I don\u2019t think he even saw me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Emma smiles. \u201cI\u2019m sure he\u2019s just in his own head.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe\u2019s been that way more and more. I don\u2019t know, Em. Do you think I was wrong? Maybe I should fight harder for him, help him with whatever he needs me for.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She studies him as his Nissan slows for a red light. \u201cYou\u2019re his brother,\u201d she says. \u201cIf you don\u2019t stick close to him, who will?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Drew doesn\u2019t respond. His brow furrows, laden with the weight of his thoughts. \u201cHe\u2019s never been like this. Unfocused, imbalanced.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo. Not before Julia. They were so happy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd healthy. At the library, he was covered in bites again, more than last time. I think he\u2019s been going back out into the woods without me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Emma is silent at this. It feels like she wants to speak, but no words come.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDon\u2019t worry,\u201d he rushes, \u201cI won\u2019t let it happen again.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDrew, I\u2019m not sure I want you out there, either. You could contract zika, either one of you. There\u2019s been what, forty-some cases in the state this year? Up in Myrtle, then in Florence, even as far as the Upstate. It\u2019s definitely spreading.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Drew makes the turn onto Meeting. They are nearly there. He smiles. \u201cAww, that\u2019s sweet, babe, but I don\u2019t think you need to worry about that. It\u2019s just a mild flu.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cUnless we\u2019re pregnant.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He brakes, harder than he needs to, as they pull into a parking spot at the restaurant. He searches her face, half stunned. \u201cAre you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo,\u201d she shakes her head. \u201cBut what if we wanted to?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDo we?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She bites her lip. Thinks for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBabe, I want to tell you something. Something I\u2019ve never told anyone else. I don\u2019t think even Ray knows. I don\u2019t think she had the chance to tell him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He frowns, confused. \u201cOkay.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cJulia\u2026 When she died on that highway, she\u2026\u201d Emma swallows. \u201cDrew, Julia was pregnant.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n It takes Drew a few days to find some pretext to visit again. In the end, he can\u2019t think of one, and it is Ray who comes to him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHey,\u201d Drew greets his brother, finding him parked by his truck in the lot outside work. \u201cI didn\u2019t expect to see you any time soon.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou\u2019re my brother,\u201d Ray smiles faintly. \u201cI\u2019m not going to cut you off just because you ditched me. Besides, I need you out there. We have to go again\u2014out to the marsh.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Drew laughs, but feels no humor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cListen, I know we don\u2019t see eye-to-eye on everything. But I\u2019ve taken a page from your book. I\u2019ve done some research. And I\u2019ve found something.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou\u2019ve found something,\u201d he repeats dumbly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ray smiles. Drew can see the glow in his eyes even behind the Aviators. \u201cA connection. Something real. It\u2019s even documented.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Drew is intrigued. He\u2019s certain whatever his brother has dug up won\u2019t convince him, but he shrugs. \u201cOkay, let\u2019s see it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ray fishes a library book from the passenger side of his car, an old cloth-bound green tome with thoroughly yellowed pages and crabbed type. He flips through, finds the gas station receipt he\u2019d used as a bookmark, and points halfway down the left-hand page. \u201cHere,\u201d he taps the book and hands it to Drew, who reads:<\/p>\n\n\n\n Joseph\u2019s letters show high ambition for his daughter\u2019s fortunes, and a keen insight into her worth as a bride. His intention was to marry her to a neighboring planter family, the Jenkinses, whose holdings would have doubled the estate he\u2019d inherited from his father, Branford Rutledge. Tragically, Marjorie died of malaria when she was sixteen years old, just before the family was to leave for their summer house in the pine forests to the north.<\/em><\/p>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n Drew reads on, but finds no further mention of Marjorie Rutledge. He sighs. \u201cI\u2019m not going to guess, Ray. What the hell does this prove?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ray shakes his head, grins. \u201cShe died of malaria,\u201d he says. He waits a moment. \u201cDon\u2019t you see? It was <\/em>her! The ghost. I thought it wasn\u2019t, since she said she didn\u2019t die of lost love. One flash when I asked, remember? But she didn\u2019t. She was telling us the truth the whole time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cTelling us?\u201d Drew\u2019s eyebrow raises. \u201cRay, that\u2019s a stretch.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOkay, maybe, but you saw. You were there, Drew.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cRay, I didn\u2019t see anything. You know I don\u2019t believe\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDon\u2019t believe what?\u201d There is a manic look in his eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Drew throws up his hands. He doesn\u2019t want to do this a second time. It\u2019s not why he\u2019s here, having this conversation when he could have been halfway home by now. No, he\u2019s here for Ray.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He thinks: Malaria, huh? And now we have zika. With all the ways people have advanced in the centuries since Marjorie\u2019s death, mosquitoes are still wreaking havoc on us. Only zika won\u2019t kill you.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou want to go out there again?\u201d he asks. \u201cOkay. But this time we\u2019re bringing bug spray.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n They ride together this time, in Drew\u2019s truck, with all of Ray\u2019s things in the back of the cab. There is more traffic today, and the hour is earlier. It\u2019s a concession Ray has made. \u201cThere\u2019s no reason,\u201d Drew had argued the day before, \u201cwhy ghosts would be more active at night. And if they\u2019re shadowy and pale like people say, why would you look when there\u2019s no light to see by?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ray can see the reason in this. He sits back, lost in the hypnotic sight of tree after tree slipping by as they drive the narrow road. Drew glances at him, wonders.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Should he tell Ray? Emma didn\u2019t say not to. Surely he has a right to know.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then again, the loss of Julia has been painful enough. Is it right to add to Ray\u2019s grief with the loss of his child as well?<\/p>\n\n\n\n Why is it Ray is obsessed with ghosts? Drew realizes he has never stopped to ask himself the question. Not to find proof of an afterlife, he thinks. Ray has faith in that already, though he seldom talks about it. It has to be something else. Something more.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They arrive at the path, and Drew parks beneath the oaks again. Their feet make muted sounds as they crush dead leaves and mats of orange needles. The air all but clings to them, full of damp fingers whose heat they can feel in their skin. They pass a palmetto, shaded and mournful, its trunk scarred.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ray glances at him with appraising eyes and Drew smiles, reassuring him. Whatever it is he believes or doesn\u2019t believe in, he believes in his brother. Or wants to. Is he doing the wrong thing? Is he helping at all, being here?<\/p>\n\n\n\n A black smear drifts across his face, and he ducks. A mosquito, bigger than the kind he\u2019s used to seeing. He\u2019s heard of them before, though he\u2019s never seen one, these zebra-striped, feather-legged things. They\u2019re subtle and mean, relentless.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Except when Raid is part of the equation. He smirks as he sprays and the insect falls away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They are quiet as they make their way to the marsh. Ray stops every now and then, checks his EMF detector, makes a note in his Moleskine. Drew watches him. He doesn\u2019t know what to say, how to contribute. He\u2019s just happy, he realizes, to be here with his brother. To not have lost him when Ray has lost so much.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The marsh lies close ahead, brimming with scents of mud and silt and the effluence of life. The shrimp are snapping in the water. Frogs sing unknowable songs in their alien voices. Ray takes his voice recorder out, switches it on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAre you here?\u201d he begins. The air is stifled, silent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMarjorie,\u201d Ray tries again. \u201cWe\u2019re waiting for you. We\u2019re here to listen if you want to talk.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Drew yawns. Then a motion catches his eye. At first he can\u2019t see it. The air itself seems to move, but it isn\u2019t the air, it\u2019s a cloud of insects. Mosquitos. They gather in the space between Drew and Ray and take on a shape: a flowing, billowy shape, a figure half forgotten by the past. They hover there, holding their form. An arm swarms upward and gestures to Ray, who has just spotted it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n His mouth opens, wordless. He steps toward the shape. A single mosquito flees the beckoning finger, lands on his outstretched hand. Drew is just close enough to see it bite him, then fly away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The swarm wavers. Ray steps closer. A breeze flits under the shade of the live oaks and strokes Drew\u2019s brow. It seems to make the shape\u2019s long hair flutter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMarjorie<\/em>,\u201d Ray whispers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cRay,\u201d Drew warns. \u201cListen to me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The shape trembles again, then scatters. The insects vanish into the forest, drunk with their burdens of blood. \u201cNo,\u201d Ray calls after them. \u201cMarjorie. Don\u2019t leave!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Drew wants to reach out, to place his hand on his brother\u2019s shoulder, but the shoulder is gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cRay! Ray, no! Stop!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n His brother\u2019s footsteps clatter off into the woods, ringing in Drew\u2019s ears. And somehow Drew cannot move.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then he does. He runs, spotting a flash of his brother\u2019s orange shirt. His pace quickens. He can see motion now, ahead through the press of pines and palms, but no color. He is catching up, though. \u201cRay!\u201d he shouts. \u201cStay with me! Ray, wait!<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Drew dodges a low-hanging oak branch, leaps over a ditch dulled with standing water. He halts. This is it. The place where Ray had been. He should be here.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Trees surround him. Trees and orb weavers and the slow singing of cicadas. But Ray is gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cRay!\u201d he gives a mournful shout.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Drew shivers with energy, and with something else as well. He is surprised at how cool the afternoon has grown. The heat has broken. He stops, calls again after his brother. \u201cRay!\u201d<\/em> There is no answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Lorien Lucero is a trans writer living in Charleston, South Carolina with her two dogs and her best friend. She has a BA in English Language and Literature from, with a double minor in Geology and Southern Studies from the College of Charleston.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" by Lorien Lucero Drew climbs out of the truck and whistles as heat blankets him, sweat misting his forehead in moments. He wipes it away. At least the sloped shoulder where he parked is shaded, though he wonders if the trees on either side only trap the sweltering air. He peers up and down the two-lane road, wary of traffic. There is none. Of course, there wouldn\u2019t be. Evening is coming on, and this is no place to be caught after dark. He would not be here for anything, save that it\u2019s what Ray wants. Drew doesn\u2019t even think he believes in ghosts, but if it will help his brother forget, he will oblige. For now. A deep breath, then he plunges into the woods. He ducks under hanging vines, strays from the path to avoid ground still muddy from flooding last month. Dwarf palmettos nod in a breeze. He takes a last look over his shoulder, back at the truck. A single tress of Spanish moss wavers over the cab, gilt by fading sunbeams. He shakes his head and walks onward. Ray had better be there already, Drew thinks. He doesn\u2019t want to wait. Especially not by the marsh at the path\u2019s end where, Ray told him on the phone this morning, you can see the old Marjorie Rutledge Home where the woman still roams the creekside, searching for lost love. He sighs. The whole thing seems a fool\u2019s errand. It hasn\u2019t always been like this, Ray\u2019s obsession with the paranormal. Though it\u2019s understandable, considering what he has lost. It\u2019s hard not to worry about him, but Drew calms his thoughts. It\u2019s the first time he\u2019s agreed to come on one of his brother\u2019s \u201cinvestigations,\u201d but then again it\u2019s the first time Ray has gone out on a forest trail, in pure darkness, in the middle of the sticks. He couldn\u2019t let him go alone. Why does Drew have to be the stable one? It\u2019s a role he resents. He misses the way things were when they were young, both of them bold and reckless. Yes, it\u2019s been worse since the accident. And no, his brother hasn\u2019t been the same since Julia. But Ray, though older, has forced him to be sober and sane for them both. Drew jumps as something unseen caresses his face. He laughs: only an orb-weaver\u2019s web, likely the only ghost they will find tonight. A mosquito shrills in his ear, but its voice seems far away. As if the sound itself is a haunting. Far ahead a flashlight beam waves. He can\u2019t see the marsh yet, but Ray has seen him. When blue hour comes the forest cools, though Drew\u2019s body is still damp with sweat. Ray trudges beside him now, jittery\u2014from coffee or excitement? Hard to tell. He\u2019s had more late nights in recent months than Drew has ever known him to, so it could be both. Ray stops, stares off to the right where the roots of a fallen pine stretch, hopeless arms reaching in vain for heaven. \u201cThere,\u201d he whispers. He leans toward his brother and points. \u201cStraight past that is a shortcut to the best spot to see the house from. We can\u2019t go on the grounds itself; it\u2019s privately owned. Across the creek is the closest we can get.\u201d \u201cI don\u2019t think we should leave the path,\u201d Drew frowns. \u201cIt\u2019s going to be dark in under an hour.\u201d His brother waves him off. \u201cIt\u2019s fine,\u201d he says. \u201cI have flashlights, and GPS if we get lost. Plus, I already came out here yesterday to check things out.\u201d This is new information. At night, or in daylight? Drew isn\u2019t sure their excursion is entirely legal, since he doesn\u2019t know who owns this land. There were private driveways on the road, but no houses to be seen, though none near the mile where they\u2019ve parked. He shakes his head, imagines what Emma would say if she could see them now. \u201cWho\u2019s this ghost we\u2019re hunting now?\u201d he asks. \u201cThe Rutledge woman. I told you.\u201d \u201cTell me again.\u201d Ray sighs. \u201cFine. Marjorie Rutledge. Lived before the Civil War. Had a secret affair with one of her neighbors, I think, who\u2019d just moved in from Beaufort. Her father thought he had slave blood in his veins, though you couldn\u2019t tell by looking at him. So Marjorie kept their love a secret. When her father found out, he had the man sent to the peninsula on an errand, but\u2026he never returned.\u201d Drew waits, knowing his brother enjoys the drama of these stories. He cringes as a narrow vine catches on him, unseen in the gloaming. He swears below his breath. Ray doesn\u2019t notice. \u201cSo Marjorie, she went out to the creek to watch for him\u2014back then they traveled by boat more than by road. She laid in bed for days, claiming to see his image in her fever, begging his forgiveness.\u201d \u201cAnd?\u201d \u201cAnd a few days later, she\u2019s dead.\u201d Drew peers at his brother, frowns. There is no hint of grief or pain in his voice, talking this way about death. That\u2019s a good thing, isn\u2019t it? But it doesn\u2019t feel right. Would Ray be so detached if Drew were to mention Julia? He doesn\u2019t think so. His tongue curls to shape the name, as if her memory wants to be given voice. For a moment its will seems irresistible, but he masters it. The unspoken name still hovers in the air, though. Ray turns sharply and stares at him as if hearing it. \u201cWhat was that?\u201d he says at last. Drew shakes his head. Ray does not break eye contact. He crouches, brings out a small black device with a screen and lots of options. He presses the small red RECORD button. \u201cI didn\u2019t hear a thing\u2014\u201d Drew answers. Ray hushes him. At last he puts the device away, apparently satisfied. Not ten minutes later they reach the path again and soon see the darkened form of a house. It looks lonely<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":"","_wpscppro_dont_share_socialmedia":false,"_wpscppro_custom_social_share_image":0,"_facebook_share_type":"","_twitter_share_type":"","_linkedin_share_type":"","_pinterest_share_type":"","_linkedin_share_type_page":"","_instagram_share_type":"","_medium_share_type":"","_threads_share_type":"","_google_business_share_type":"","_selected_social_profile":[],"_wpsp_enable_custom_social_template":false,"_wpsp_social_scheduling":{"enabled":false,"datetime":null,"platforms":[],"status":"template_only","dateOption":"today","timeOption":"now","customDays":"","customHours":"","customDate":"","customTime":"","schedulingType":"absolute"},"_wpsp_active_default_template":true},"categories":[12],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3259","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-issue-18-2025"],"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3259","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=3259"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3259\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=3259"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=3259"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=3259"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
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