Alex Bledsoe - The Hum and the Shiver

But she’d never know until she engaged it. So she turned to the window and said, “I’m here.”

The haint emerged from the shadows beneath the red oak trees. As before, it stood so that the missing tissue in its side was plain, the wound looking for all the world like it had been made with a giant cookie cutter. Blood soaked the edges, but otherwise it was surprisingly neat. It took off its helmet, revealing the same dark hair all true Tufas sported. It had been a lovely young girl in life, but was now free of both flesh and gender.

Bronwyn forced herself not to look away. The haint’s eyes sparkled with moonlight as if they glowed. Its expression was wide eyed and blank.

“Okay,” Bronwyn said at last. “Come in here and let’s get this over with.”

The haint did not move. Slowly it pointed at the window. The blue glass still rested on the sill.

Bronwyn took a crutch and, after three swings, finally knocked the rocklike chunk of glass to the floor. It landed with a thud that reverberated throughout the house.

By the time she settled back against her pillows, the haint stood at the foot of her bed.

“Yah!” Bronwyn cried. She waited to catch her breath, then said, “Okay. What’s up?”

“I’m Sally,” it said in a voice that was just a hair slower, and considerably more sepulchral, than a normal speaking voice. “Sergeant Sally Olds. I died on the road to Basra in 1991.”

Bronwyn’s mouth went dry. Everything had happened on that road. “I drove that way myself.”

“I know. I saw you. I watched.”

Bronwyn shifted on the pillows; the pins in her leg ached more than ever. When she looked up, the haint had vanished.

A slightly darker shade stood in front of her dresser. Bronwyn said, “Oh, come on out here, will you? If I can’t even scootch around without freaking you out, this isn’t going to work.”

“It’s very hard to stay this way,” Sally said. “And I’m here for something important.”

“Yeah, I know. My mom’s gonna die, and I have to learn her song.”

“No,” Sally said. “I’m here just for you.”

Bronwyn’s breath caught in her throat. “For me,” she said flatly.

“You are surrounded by walls, Bronwyn. They were there before you were hurt, and even though your body is weak now, these walls are stronger than ever. They must come down if you are to be what you must.”

Rage flared in her heart; she hated being lectured. “And what’s that? Somebody’s wife? Mom to a brood of barefoot heathens just like me? I put those walls there for a reason, to keep me from marrying the first guy who made me come and being stuck in this valley for the rest of… of time !” She had no idea where this sudden insight came from, but she grasped its truth even as she blurted out the words.

“Yes, just like you’ve always known, none of that is for you. Your path is…”

The haint made a hand gesture that left Bronwyn speechless. For a moment the only sound was the night wind through the open window.

“I will help you,” Sally continued. “I know what happened. As I tell it to you, you will recall it. And relive it. That can’t be helped.”

“The hell it can’t,” Bronwyn snapped.

“There is no time for your pain, Bronwyn. It has to be drawn out, looked at, and dealt with. What will happen, will happen, and you must be ready for it.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Be ready for me tomorrow night,” Sally said, and turned toward the window. It gave Bronwyn an unobstructed view of the wound. Pieces of ragged organs dangled like the ribbons on a war hero’s chest. Before the haint took three steps, it vanished.

Bronwyn stared off into the night. Crickets and tree frogs gradually grew louder. The breeze stirred the banners and curtains.

She turned on the bedside lamp. There would be no sleeping for a while, and now she had to pee. Bedpans quickly lost their charm, and although getting up and going to the bathroom was a production even with her mother’s help, this time she was determined to do it herself.

The worst moment was when the weight of her leg hung free before it tipped downward. She felt it in her lower back and, oddly, her triceps as she braced herself, lowering her leg as slowly as she could until her heel touched the floor.

As she caught her breath, she saw an envelope half-hidden by her nightstand. Leaning as far as she could, she managed to retrieve it. The effort made her break out in a fresh sweat.

She turned the envelope over. It had fallen from the mail sack when Deacon moved it against the wall. The writing was a child’s, and the address in Jasper, Alabama. She opened it and pulled out the card.

Dear Private Hyatt, it said. Thank you for protecting our country. Someday I hope to join the army, too. Maybe by then they’ll let girls fight.

Bronwyn smiled at that. The girl would learn quickly enough how often girls fight, especially in the army.

But one thing makes me sad. I’m a Christian, and I’m sure you are, too. The Bible tells us not to kill people, and yet you had to. I feel very sad knowing you had to do that. All people are brothers, and we shouldn’t go around killing each other. But I know God forgives you, and I know Jesus loves you.

A small photo of a gap-toothed little black girl had been enclosed. Bronwyn gazed into those wide, dark eyes. She saw nothing she recognized.

She put the picture beside her on the bed. Someone was sad, not because she was nearly killed, but because she had to kill other people. Bliss’s words came back to her once more: Even with people, there’s some that need killing.

She realized with renewed vividness that she truly was different from other people, even most other Tufas. The haint knew it. And maybe that’s why Bliss entrusted her with that pragmatic truth so long ago.

She no longer had to pee. She lifted her leg back onto the mattress, wincing at the slight, almost obscene movement of metal bolts penetrating her skin. This would have to end soon. She took three Vicodin, one more than her doctor recommended, and closed her eyes, waiting for the effects to kick in. But she found herself still awake as the sky outside lightened at dawn, her curtains waving in the last of the night wind.

Craig Chess waved to George Landers across the Shoney’s. Craig had already claimed a booth, and the older man sauntered over with the easy grace of someone content with his place in the world. This particular Shoney’s was located at an exit equidistant between Craig’s home in Smithborough and George’s in Unicorn, and they’d met here several times so Craig could pick George’s brain.

An elderly lady stopped him and said something that made him smile. He patted her hand before continuing on. Craig felt a tingle of envy, because it was exactly that sort of moment he craved. He wanted the respect he saw in the old woman’s eyes. But he also knew George had spent years building it, and he, Craig, had yet to preach his first sermon in his own church.

When George reached the booth, Craig stood and offered his hand. “Reverend Landers.”

“Reverend Chess,” the newcomer replied. Then he laughed. “Craig, it’s both a pleasure to consider you an equal, and a little disconcerting. I have golf shoes older than you.”

“I’m not your ‘equal,’ George. You’re still my elder.”

“Ouch. ‘Elder.’ I should be wearing bifocals, then, and using a walker.”

Craig knew George ran three miles every morning, even on Sunday. “You know what I mean.”

They sat, ordered coffee, and when the waitress was gone, Landers asked, “So how goes the new church? Ready for opening morning? Is it next weekend?”