Lisa's Requiem
By Joshua Thays

I.

Illustration by Mark Fults

kay, open your eyes.”

Lisa smiled.  The giddy enthusiasm in her husband’s voice was playful and infectious.  She had no idea what George’s “surprise” was, but the sun glowed warmly upon her face, and a soft breeze brought a chorus of crickets that was both calming and familiar.  She did as George bade, and a confusion of emotion at what lay before her slapped her smile away with the brute force of erupting memory. 

Her initial reaction was shock--the kind of double-fisted, debilitating shock that strikes when a secret dream, buried deep within the subconscious, crosses one’s path in waking rounds.  The first blow fell as it would within that dream, a soft whisper of quiet recognition and acceptance, an obliging wave from a lost love across a crowded room.

As the realization of where she was truly struck and the doors to memory began to unlock one-by-one, something dark rose, clawing from the pit of her stomach into her throat.  It was a slippery, nervous thing that she could neither grasp nor examine.  She knew, of course, where it came from, but to have such a strong reaction after so many years?  She held back a scream that rose from the secret annals of her mind, as the fear, so slimy and green, stretched its tendrils up through her joy, twining with it until the two were inseparable.

“Well?” George asked.

Lisa simply stared, trying to suppress an overwhelming urge to run back to her car and fly to the highway, leaving George alone and mystified in front of his “surprise”.  At least she would be safe.  But safe from what?  The slimy, green feeling slithered back down to her stomach, refusing to divulge its secrets.  She stood, wondering what she was feeling.

The house, a 19th Century Victorian, complete with turreted windows on the second floor and wrought-iron fencing upon its peaks, was in an advanced state of disrepair.  What had once been majestic, chestnut siding had faded and begun to crack and peel in a way that was reminiscent of mummified flesh clinging to ancient bones, threatening to turn to dust at the slightest inquisitive touch.  The windows had taken on the look of leering mouths filled with irregular, sharp jags of teeth.  No one had bothered boarding them over.  The lawn had grown to horrific proportions, threatening to choke the drunken, rotted porch, on which a swing still clung to one rusted chain.

It was the house she had grown up in.

George stood to one side, studying her reaction.

“Well?” he asked; the goofy, pleased smile widening, still completely oblivious to her unmistakable distress.  Surely she looked terrified--or at least conflicted?  She turned to him and saw that he was neither worried nor deterred.  George was clearly very proud, and despite her feelings, Lisa didn’t have the heart to bring him down.  Besides, this was silly.  She had no reason to be so unnerved.  It had been almost thirty years since…since she had last been here.  She was a grown woman now, and had no cause to believe in the fantastic drivel that had enraptured her as a child.  And yet…

“Lis?”

She finally responded to George’s queries by falling into his unprepared arms, nearly tumbling them both into the knee-high weeds they were wading in.  She covered his face and neck with wet, excited kisses, each one making a large smacking sound that punctuated the chorus of crickets and steady drone of mosquitoes around them.  She felt ridiculous, as she always did when “acting” for George, but the happiness in his face remained, and she was satisfied.

“Hey!  Not too frisky now, lady!  There’s children around, remember?”  He jacked a thumb back at their car.

Their daughter, Jessica, sat in the back seat, head-phones blaring tribal beats almost audible even through the closed windows.  Her dark lined eyes were lost deep in a book.  Off in her own world, as usual.

“So,” George began, puffing his chest up importantly, “What do you think of it?  It’s the one, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is.  It’s amazing.  How did you find it?” She chided herself on such a flat delivery, but George didn’t notice.  Big surprise.

“A buddy of mine down at the Denton office called a few weeks ago.  This place just turned up in probate one day, and they dropped it into our lap.  I got a call ‘cause they were having trouble finding a buyer.  When they sent the folder, all the stats on it seemed kinda familiar, and I remembered you saying that you’d grown up out in Jefferson, so I did some digging around, and boom!”

He gestured grandly at the house.

Lisa stepped forward gingerly, hoping she wouldn’t step on some animal’s home, suddenly very glad that she’d worn jeans rather than the chiffon skirt she had been considering for this excursion.  A confused cluster of bugs flitted around her head, and she waved them off absently.  She stood in the shadow of the house that she had once called “home” and gazed up.  The dark wood frowned down at her, bitter from years of neglect.  A warm wind drifted lazily past, hints of sweet jasmine and the wet, earthy scent of decaying plant matter from the swamps.  As is often the case, the sense of smell is the most powerful retriever of memory, and now, the strange, pungent aroma became a key, unlocking the dark doors of Lisa’s mind until memory overpowered her waking senses. 

She saw herself standing on the lawn, now freshly-cut and perfect under the benevolent horns of the crescent moon.  Eight-year old Lisa’s back was turned, and Lisa the elder could see the dark stains of mud at the bottom of the child’s yellow dress.  A matching ribbon held a lock of hay-colored hair in place as the girl gazed up at the light blazing in the second-floor window.  Lisa knew that an endless stream of horrified, nonsensical screaming was coming from that room, but all that she could hear was the singing.  It had followed her all the way back from her secret play land.  It was high and melodic, lilting and swirling like a lyrical description of an elaborate dance.  The soft, familiar fey voices spoke of trees and brooks, fields and flowers.  They led young Lisa’s mind away from the harsh light and the screaming with indirect comforts and vague lullabies. 

Do not cry, child.

Behold this lovely flower and be glad.

The elder Lisa knew that this memory was false; a child’s storybook vision of the world to ease over a time of unimaginable pain.  But then why did she still see the flower?  

It seemed to float at the epicenter of the song, suspended above the ground by the magic of the tune.  Small green lights, no larger than the heads of young dandelions, danced through the air around the flower.  The song seemed to emanate from these tiny stars, and Lisa was aware that each had a distinct voice and a distinct song.  The cacophony of melody and pitch swirled and spun, becoming one unifying thought:  Come with us.

Before either of the Lisas could act, the door to the house opened wide, spilling horrendous white light onto the lawn, banishing the shadows.  The Lisas shielded their eyes.  Faintly, they could see the swirl of green lights fading into the darkness of the surrounding forest, taking their haunting song with them.

The bright light intensified, and Lisa was forced to look away.  The noon sun had come over the weathered peak of the house and the memory of that long-ago night was gone. 

Soft, stealthy snapping sounds caught her attention.  She turned and saw that George was leaning against the side of their car, arms crossed over his chest, self-congratulating smile still firmly in place.  Jessica stood a few yards closer to the woods, taking random pictures with the Nikon that she always carried with her.  The shutter snapped again, and Jessie stood, looking around.  Her round, pale face, framed by black hair, stood out against the woodland backdrop, looking forlorn and mysterious, Jessie’s two favorite qualities.  The only color in her clothing other than the obligatory black was a bright red skull with wild hair on the front of her t-shirt.  Above it in sharp, bony letters were the words:  Bella Morte.  Jessie’s favorite band.  At least, that’s what Lisa thought.  She tried to be an active, involved mother, but since Jessie had hit puberty, plumbing the depths of her daughter’s various sub-culture fetishes had become increasingly difficult.

Jessie caught her mother watching her and gave an obliging wave followed with rolling eyes.  She seemed to catch sight of something of interest beyond the corner of the house and hurried off towards it, moving like a shadow amongst the trees.

“Did you have a nice trip?” George asked.

Lisa walked over to where he stood.  “What do you mean?”

“Well, you were just standing there, staring up at the house for almost 20 minutes.  I assumed you took a little memory journey or something.”

Lisa thought of the singing, the comforting lights, the flower.  Surely imagined, yet somehow more disquieting than the memory they were covering.

“Yeah,” she said.  “Something like that.”

“Well, we don’t have to stand outside all day.  This is your house again.  We should go inside and check it out; we’ve got to be heading back to the city by three.  Of course, we can do the real grunt work, you know, cleaning and moving, next weekend.”

“Cleaning?” Lisa asked, more dazed from her “memory journey” than confused by his statement.

“Well, yeah,” George said.  “I figured we could fix the place up a bit and use it for a summer home.  You know, get out of the city for a while.  Live the simple life and all that.”
Without waiting for her response, George dug the house keys out of his pocket and made for the front door.

II.

Inside, the house no longer resembled a mummified corpse.  Most of the furniture that had been left behind when Lisa's family had vacated was shrouded in clear plastic that had grown an opaque, mildewy yellow over the years.  The entry hall, with its massive oak staircase, long, dark hallways, and suffocatingly warm, stale air, had all the reverent feel of a tomb.  Lisa stepped inside on shaky legs that no longer felt attached to the rest of her body, her earlier fear now returning to battle her growing curiosity, her need to know. 

This is where it happened.

Where what happened?

Right up those stairs, second door to the right.

Stop it!  It wasn't my fault!

"Not my fault," she whispered.

"Lis?" George said, sounding a tad concerned for a change.

"I'm going to go look around upstairs, okay dear?"

What?  I didn't say that!

"Alright," George said. "Want some company?"

Yes!  Don't leave!

"No.  I'll be fine."

George shrugged.  "Okay.  It's your house.  I'm gonna go check out the garage or something if you need me."  He turned to leave and stopped at the door, as if sensing something subtle and ghostlike, something that barely registered on his testosterone-laden radar.  He turned back to her with a questioning look.

Oh, please George!  Don't go!  I don't know what's happening!

She stood pleasantly by the stairs, completely at home with her surroundings, even offering a sweet smile.

George hesitated, but another sweep of his sensors revealed nothing abnormal.  All clear on the western front.  His confident, alarmingly oblivious smile returned, and he stepped out into the sunshine, leaving Lisa alone in the crypt-like house, a prisoner in her mind.

Who are you?

No answer.  Lisa began walking slowly towards the staircase.  The second step creaked heavily, much more so than she remembered as a child.  If George would have come with her, he probably would have gone right through it.  But at least that would have put an end to this.  She would risk George breaking his ankle if it meant that they would be in the car and away from here.  Away from whatever she'd forgotten, and whatever demanded that she remember. 

She reached the second floor landing, but instead of turning right as Lisa had thought she would, she was abruptly swung left, staring myopically down a blank, shadowed corridor, terminating in a single door.

"My room," she said, and started towards it.

Lisa, not wanting to panic, tried to play along with whatever was driving her, as she had often played along with George on his various whims. 

Where are we going?

Still no answer, just the dry clopping of her feet on the dusty, wooden floorboards. 
From her prison high atop her mind, she saw herself reach out and take hold of the doorknob.  Despite the sweltering heat, it was cool and slick to the touch.  She turned it and stepped into her old bedroom.

The room was incredibly bare, unlike the rest of the house.  Seeing it so was odd, almost like a strange, minimalist version of the memory she held.  At her feet, a haggard doll with ratty, straw-like hair lay in a forlorn posture of defeat.  She stooped and picked it up, sending a black beetle that had made the doll's porous head its home, scurrying for the comfort of darkness. 

On the far side of the room, against the wall, stood a full-length, ornate mirror, whose trim had begun to rust, belying the rich, gold color that was hidden beneath.  Lisa was made to look upon its glassy surface and would have screamed had she the control.  She was not alone in the room.

A little girl with long, blonde hair stood in the doorway, clutching a doll so new its black, button eyes were nearly reflective.  She stepped into the room, and so did Lisa.  She shifted the doll to be cradled in her other arm, and Lisa felt herself doing the same.

The long lost little girl, of whom no pictures remained, save the ones in Lisa's mind, padded softly up to the mirror, close enough to reach out and touch its smooth surface.  Her face broke into a wicked smile, horribly exaggerated, stretching further than should have been physically possible.  Lisa's own features twisted painfully into place to mirror the girl.

Now you know who I am.  As if it was ever a question in the first place.

What do you want?

The reflection's smile faltered, and the eyes dropped.  The girl suddenly appeared as a normal, scared eight-year old, rather than Lisa's merciless kidnapper.

You've forgotten.  How could you forget?

Forget what?  I know what happened here, and it wasn't my fault!

Not that!  The apparition hissed.  Our friends!  How could you forget them?

Our friends?

As Lisa watched, captive, a series of soft, green lights flickered into existence, surrounding the young girl like a protective halo. 

Lisa, they sang with ethereal voices.  Lisa, there is no need to fear.

But Lisa felt that there was reason to fear.  A hell of a big reason. 

It doesn’t matter, Lisa.  You may have forgotten our friends, but they haven’t forgotten you.

The lights swirled faster, encircling the girl in the mirror.  She closed her eyes and raised her up-turned palms, like one in meditation.  Faster and faster the lights danced, becoming a soft blur, and as they danced, their song began to change.  It still spoke of trees and streams, and fields and flowers, but now the trees had become blighted and skeletal, clawing angrily at a gray sky that swam indifferently overhead.  The streams faded rapidly in Lisa’s mind to muddy, brown husks, where life was slowly choked from its former inhabitants.  The song now spoke of decay and loss, sorrow and death.

The green lights, her old friends, swirled inwards, towards the girl, and vanished.

Lisa’s child-reflection opened her eyes, where once there was pale blue, now flashed a vicious, putrid green glow.  The thing smiled, revealing teeth that were brown and cracked with years.  Its tongue swam behind like a gray, viscous worm.

Lisa, it crooned.  Do not fear, child.  We will make everything better...

The reflection stepped forward, coming to what would have been the surface of the mirror.  As Lisa watched, her reflection raised its filthy hand, and mud-encrusted fingers came through the mirror as if it were an open window.

As Lisa tried to do anything but sit idly by, the little girl stepped through the frame of the mirror and into the room.  Dark water, thick with silt puddled at her feet.  The heavy, pungent stink of the swamp hung about her in a thick cloud.  The girl stepped forward, and for one, horrible moment, Lisa thought that the little girl was coming for her.  Was going to touch her with those filthy, slimy fingers.  Would punish her for forgetting.

No!  No, God, I’ll go crazy if that thing touches me!  Please don’t let it!  Please!

The thing strode past her without a second glance, and went into the hall.  Unable to protest, Lisa followed dutifully.

The hall was dark, much more so than it had been five minutes before.  The scent of fresh paint seemed to be everywhere.  It flooded Lisa’s nostrils, making her light-headed.

As the thing leading her passed the staircase, Lisa realized with mounting terror that there was a light on in the bathroom…and the shower was running.

No!  No, I don’t want to see this!  Not again, please!

The apparition turned, and gave Lisa a skeletal grin that was full of malevolent mischief.  It resumed its course, and led Lisa into the bathroom.

Her feet squelched on the thick rug as she entered.  There was water on the floor, nearly an inch of it. 

Lisa looked up, and saw her father.

His face floated serenely below the surface of the bathtub, eyes closed.  The water had grown a cloudy pink, deepening in thickness and hue near his head, nearly obscuring it from view.  The little girl stood near the tub, looking down at the corpse and smiling.

Do you remember now?

In a flash, Lisa did.

She saw the girl, herself, entering the bathroom, tiptoeing on the linoleum, trying not to alert the shadowed figure who softly sang some unidentifiable tune behind the shower curtain.

She saw the girl reach the tub and fling the curtain open; saw her father’s eyes widen and the song (Scarborough Fair, she now knew) die on his lips as he gazed into the blank, green depths of the child’s eyes.

She saw him scream, lose his balance and fall, striking his head on the edge of the impeccably white tub rim. 

She saw the girl reach into the tub and place the rubber stopper over the drain, letting the basin fill.

She saw the bubbles coming from her father’s mouth and nose stop a few moments after his head went under, his hair floating about his head like a crown of seaweed.

She saw the child’s eyes glow brighter, pleased.

At this point, Lisa’s mind was finally able to break free.  It was either break free, or go mad.  Lisa screamed and fell backwards, thumping into the wall.  A flurry of dust, most likely filled with Asbestos, filtered down onto her head.  She scrambled to her feet and bolted for the door, not noticing that the shower was empty.  Not noticing that there was no steam, nor any fresh paint in the halls.  Not noticing that the cloudy mirror on the far side of her bedroom no longer displayed a pale, reaching entity.  It was, in fact, shattered and showed little at all.

Lisa reached the stairs and took them three at a time, missing the weak second step by sheer luck as she flew away from her old room, racing for the sunshine. 

III.

While his wife was being attacked by the tenacious memory of her eight-year old self, George was quite content at poking around the garage, where Lisa’s father had kept an impressive collection of imported liquors behind the tool bench.  So content was he that he didn’t even hear the horrified screams as his Lisa narrowly evaded either death or madness.

George plucked up a dusty bottle by the neck and examined the label.

“La Boheme…”

He wiped at the ancient paper, removing bits of decayed label along with the grime of decades that covered it.  At least it became slightly more readable.

“La Boheme…Absinthe…damn.  Well, dad, you sure had good taste.” 

He placed the bottle carefully aside, making a very large mental note to come back to it later.  For a moment, George wondered why Lisa’s father would have left such an impressive collection behind when they moved, but quickly placed that thought aside with its own mental note attached:  Don’t Ask.

“What else did you leave lying around here?”  He continued rummaging, and was just pulling out a new bottle (who knew?  Maybe pops kept some Dom Perignon for special occasions when tripping with the Green Fairy wouldn’t cut it) when he finally heard the screams.

The bottle slipped from his hand and smashed on the concrete floor, staining it the violent, dark red of blood that has begun to clot.  He straightened, nearly hitting his head on the top of the workbench, looking for the source of the screaming.  He had just enough time to mourn the lost bottle, who’s stinging, vinegar aroma now filled the shed, when his wife burst in, face the color of cottage cheese, mumbling cries still rising from her lips.  She leapt at her husband, and as she did, her arm caught the bottle of La Boheme and sent it crashing to the floor next to its fallen comrade.

George silently screamed in abject sorrow as he cradled Lisa’s head against his shoulder.
“Lis, are you alright?  What happened?”

Lisa was only able to stare at him, wide eyed, dimly aware of the incoherent mumbling that she was still spouting.  Her brain thudded in an unwavering rhythm that overrode the controls of her body with its simple, monotonous chorus:

Must get out!  Must get out now!

George was talking to her, trying to console her.  His lips moved in vague blurs that resembled speech, but Lisa couldn’t identify a bit of it.  It didn’t matter.  None of it mattered.  They just had to get out, and get out now!  Even if it hurt George’s feelings, Lisa’s instinct to protect herself and her family would trample over the part of her mind that deferred to “acting” without a second glance.

George was motioning slowly, as if underwater.  He seemed to want her to sit down. 

No!  Lisa tried to say, as unable to articulate her thoughts as when she had been forced to relive the forgotten memory of her father’s death.  I can’t sit down!  You don’t understand, we have to leave now!  They made me do it!  I thought that they were my friends, but they made me kill him!  We have to go, they’re still here!  They made me--

“They made me kill him!” Lisa shouted and burst into tears.

“What?  They made you…” George’s face had taken on a slack, distressed look, and Lisa realized through the blur of tears and the relentless (must get out!) screaming in her mind that George was truly concerned.  Something had finally broken through the laizes-faire demeanor to make him actually worry.  It was the first unfeigned emotion she’d seen from him in years.  And all it took was a complete mental breakdown brought on by mortal terror.

“You’re talking about your father, aren’t you, Lis?”

Lisa was so thunderstruck that the tears hitched in her throat and died all at once.  He knew.  How did he know?

George nodded and continued, already knowing the questions that loomed behind the silent O of shock that was his wife’s mouth.

“When I bought the house, I did some research on it.  Mostly just standard stuff, but since it was us buying it, I did a little extra, too.  I was curious why your family moved out so quickly, for one.  I didn’t really want to ask you because I wanted the whole thing to be a surprise.  Plus, you don’t really talk about your childhood a whole lot, anyway.”

George had removed a small, spotted handkerchief from his pocket, and was wiping his glistening brow with it.  He had a habit of sweating when he was nervous, but Lisa couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him like this.

“Lisa,” he continued, “I’m sorry about your dad.  Really, I am.  But it wasn’t your fault.  It was an accident.”

“You knew,” she whispered, her eyes narrowing to bare slits.

George took an instinctive step backwards, perhaps sensing the shift of momentum.  “I knew.  It wasn’t your fault, Lis!  It was an--“

“You knew and you brought me here anyway!”

“I didn’t think it was that big of a deal!”

Lisa’s mouth dropped.  “Not that big of a deal?  Christ, George, my father died here!  And whether you believe it or not, I killed him.”

George folded his arms over his chest protectively and drew himself up, preparing to pontificate his next point.  “You weren’t so upset when we first got here.”

Lisa paused.  She knew how this would sound.  “I had forgotten.”

“Ah,” George said with an unmistakable (and wholly despicable) air of victory.  “You forgot that you killed your father.”

“Look, I know how it sounds!  I must have made myself forget.  For God’s sake, I was only a kid, and they made me--“

“Whoa, wait.  They?”

“Never mind.  You wouldn’t understand.  Just, please, can we go?  Now?”  Before she could stop herself, she tagged on, “It’s still dangerous here.”

Boy, your mouth is going all sorts of places today, ain’t it toots?

“George,” she said, managing to bring her anger under control.  “Please.  Let’s go.”

George stood silently for a moment, appraising her with that arms-crossed-tough-guy-I’m-the-man-and-you’re-not look still dripping from his every pore.  After a moment, he replied simply enough:

“No.”

Lisa, who had every confidence that her husband would see the amount of distress she was in and act accordingly, could only stare for a moment. 

“What?!”

“No.  It’s a three-hour drive back to the city, and we just got here.  Besides, I think that confronting this will be good for you.  You’ve been running from this tragedy that you are not responsible for for too long.”

“What, are you a psychologist now?  This isn’t some Freudian crap here, George!  Something here made me kill my father, and it may still be here!”

George was smiling in a nervous, slightly knowing way.  Lisa could feel the anger rising; burning in its desire to wipe that smile right off of his face.

“Lis, would you listen to yourself?  You’re blaming, what?  Ghosts?  Demonic possession?  Help me out here, cause this whole “they” crap is pretty vague.”

Lisa stared at him, hating him and everything he was saying.  Her hands had closed into tight balls, manicured and painted nails biting crescents into the flesh of her palms.

“You know, baby,” George went on, placing an angry emphasis on the “baby”.  “If you have some issues to work on here, you can just tell me.  At least spare me this “crazy-bitch” routine--“

Lisa slapped him, the sound falling dead and muffled as if she’d been wearing a soft glove.  George stepped back into a shaft of hazy, yellow light, one hand at his cheek, eyes wide with shock.

“We’re leaving,” Lisa said, stepping forward.  A sense of overwhelming power surged through her body as George cowered before her.  It was unlike anything she’d ever felt before.  Except…  “Where’s Jessie?  She and I are leaving.”

George said nothing, barely even moved.  He simply stared at her with those wide eyes.  This didn’t deter Lisa a bit.  She’d put up with George for far too long, and the joy of her liberation was so great that she didn’t give a damn if he wanted to stand here all night.  Perhaps spending the night in this haunted place would give him some perspective. 

Lisa turned and went to the door.  George mumbled something, and she turned back.  When she saw her husband, she was unable to contain the scream.

George stood with his back to Lisa, bent over forward at the waist.  His entire upper frame was hidden from view by the lip of the barrel.  The barrel itself was about three feet tall, and had been painted lime-green before the rust took hold.  It had been filled to the brim with nearly thirty years of rain water and accumulated sludge, perhaps half of which had been disposed onto the cracked cement floor by the mass of George’s body. 

Lisa felt the strength wisp from her trembling legs, and she fell back against the wall of the shed, its dusty, cobwebbed surface preventing her from falling completely.

“No,” she whispered.

Her knees buckled, and she slid down the wall to a sitting position, disrupting a large network of thick webbing where the baseboards met the floor, narrowly missing its eight-legged inhabitant.  The startled and now homeless spider clamored up Lisa’s bare arm in search of safety.  Lisa was deathly afraid of spiders, but her horror at the sight of her husband’s legs protruding from the barrel disconnected her from her body.  She could feel herself drifting slightly above her crumpled, dusty form, tethered by perhaps the thinnest strand of sanity.  If it broke…

Terrified, Lisa drove her hand up as fiercely as she could manage, and slapped her left cheek.  The force of the blow brought a flurry of bright, white dots racing across her eyes, and nearly toppled her.  The spider that had been clinging to her arm rocketed across the small shed and skidded under a work-bench.

Lisa’s hand and face throbbed like infected wounds, but at least the feeling of drifting was gone.  She stared ahead at George’s body, noticing that his new Saucony running shoes dangled limply a few inches above the damp concrete.  Lisa tried to breath, but choked as the mossy air filled her lungs, and abruptly broke into a sobbing cry that was not a word, but sounded vaguely like her late husband’s name.

“Why?” she asked between gasps.  “Why him?”

There was no answer, but for a moment, Lisa thought she heard a scattering of high-pitched laughter.  Lisa rubbed at her eyes, clearing them, and as she did, George’s foot twitched.  Lisa stopped abruptly and stared.  The sneaker twitched again, very lightly.

She drew in a sharp, hitched breath.  George?  Could he still be alive?  Her heart leaped at the possibility, even as her brain shook its proverbial head and told her not to be foolish.  The heart, ever the optimist, didn’t listen.

“George?” she asked, a hint of hope rising in her voice.

Silence.  Only the distant sounds of the swamp.

She was about to inquire again, when the laughter started.  It was a low, rumbling bass that sounded like a motor trying to pump through sludgy water.  Lisa’s eyes widened.  It was coming from the barrel.  George’s foot twitched again, as if to confirm this.  The horrid giggling rose; never stopping, never pausing for breath.

Huhuhuhuhuhuhuh…

George’s foot lashed out, kicking the side of the barrel and punctuating the unrelenting laughter with a dull, metallic thunk.  Lisa screamed, but her cry did not drown the inhuman cackling, nor the repeated kicks, as George’s feet began to violently drum the rusted, watery tomb.

Lisa tried to stand, but once again, she found that control of her body was impossible.  George continued kicking, and Lisa saw that the barrel had begun to rock slightly with each blow.  As if in response to her new knowledge, the laughter rose to a mad, fever pitch.  George’s body shifted, and the barrel tipped forward, spilling its contents onto the dirty concrete.  

The horribly warm, foul water rushed forward, soaking Lisa’s jeans.  The laughter ceased and George’s body lay still, torso still lodged in the barrel’s rusted mouth.

Lisa sat in the horrible, fetid water and stared at the corpse of her husband as the seconds spun out into minutes and the minutes into untold lost time. 

“He’s happier now.”

Lisa turned her head towards the voice.  The younger version of herself, replete with golden ribbons in her hair, stood in the doorway of the garage, silhouetted by fading sunlight.  There was a tinge of red in the warm glow, and Lisa judged that it had to be nearly seven.  The light played upon the edges of Lisa the younger like velvet drapes, but did not cause her to cast a shadow on the damp, concrete floor.

“He’s happier now,” the child repeated.  “And you will be too.”

She held out her small, doll-like hand, and beckoned to Lisa, who, once more felt propelled by an invisible impetus.  This time, she did not fight.  The struggle had gone out of her, whiffed out like a candle along with the life of her husband.

She gained her feet and took hold of the child’s hand.  It was like holding a small bundle of sea-weed, wet and cool.  The youth looked up and smiled at Lisa with teeth that were, for a moment, a brownish-green, the color of decayed plant matter.  Lisa felt herself smile back as the ghastly vision led her out of the garage and towards a path leading into the deepening dark of the forest.

As they entered, the dancing green lights returned, and along with them came their joyous song.  It swirled and looped, changing with the breeze, but underlying there ran a constant theme:  A welcoming.

The black trunks of gnarled oaks closed in and choked the shoulder-wide path down to a single line, no wider than a child’s limited gait.  Darkness was quickly claiming dominion, and the thick forest canopy provided no reprieve, but Lisa never faltered from the path.  She had treaded it daily in her youth and had her old friend’s sweet singing and iridescent presence to guide her.

The trail twisted suddenly, nearly forming a ninety-degree angle around a massive tree, and ahead lay the pond.

It was exactly as Lisa remembered it.  The glassy, crystalline waters shimmered with an ethereal splendor.  Hanging inches above the surface was a fine mist, like that which accompanies a warm shower or bath, and in its comfort danced hundreds of Lisa’s green lights; cavorting and singing amongst the picturesque lily pads and cat tails.

Lisa’s hands flew to her cheeks in a child’s gesture of supreme glee.  She was home.  At long last she had returned to her family.  The lights swirled closer and closer, blurring and becoming a single field of blindingly gorgeous green.  Lisa smiled and welcomed her friends with open arms.

IV.

Illustration by Mark Fults

Jessica was lost.  There was no use denying it any longer.  It was dark, and she was hungry, and the woods made curious noises.  It humbled her. 

Why the hell had she gone wandering in the woods, anyway?  The Nikon camera hung around her neck like a proverbial albatross.  Its counter said that there were only two shots remaining on the current roll.  Jessica hoped to hell that the few pictures she’d taken were worth this.

“Hello?” she called, cupping her hand at her mouth.

The forest gave no reply, save the continued chatter of the thousands of alien creatures that it harbored.  Jessica shrank away from the noise and bumped into a tree, nearly provoking a scream.  She tried to tell herself that getting so worked up was ridiculous.  She wasn’t a child, for God’s sake.  So she got a little turned around, no big deal.  This is America.  People don’t get lost in America anymore.  There’s roads and houses and crap everywhere.  Jessica nervously fingered the silver ankh that hung around her neck.  Her optimistic rationalization almost made her feel better.  Almost.

“Mom?” she ventured.  “Dad?”

She swallowed hard, dreading the vocalization of her next thought, as if the words themselves had the power to further escalate the situation that she’d found herself in.  She breathed deep and cried out:

“I’m lost!”

Dreaded admission revealed, Jessica strained to hear any aural changes.  There were none.  The creatures around her continued their nightly errands shrouded in the darkness.  A small sob escaped Jessica’s black-stained lips.  Her eyes darted between scenes of shadowed tree trunks that were identical in the dying light.  Panic was beginning to creep its icy fingers across the nape of her neck when she saw a light.

It was faint, and Jessica had no idea of its source, but at this point, a beacon was a beacon.  It wavered slightly, bobbing like the beam of a flashlight.  Her parents!  It had to be!

“Mom!  Dad!”

She crashed ahead through the thick underbrush, uprooting plant and prowling animals alike while defying all laws of convention and not falling flat on her face.

The light drew closer, and Jessica could make out its source:  It was the moon, bright and gibbous, dancing upon the surface of a small body of water.  There was a moment of slight dismay, but Jessica was happy to have a bit of light, and didn’t really care.  She stopped at the edge of the clearing and surveyed the area.  It was a swamp, and not a particularly pleasant one.  From its muddy depths rose a noxious stink that was so sharp and foul that Jessica gagged and brought her hand to her mouth.  Hanging inches above the bog’s slimy surface was a cloud of gas that contained a faint, green glow, the color of sickness.  Jessica was about to attempt another route back to the house and turn away from the accursed mire, when she saw her mother.

Lisa stood at the far end of the water’s edge, waving at her daughter.

“Mom?”

Relief flooded into Jessica so violently that it overcame her senses.  She began circling the water’s edge, aiming for where her mother was standing and beckoning.

So relieved was she, that she didn’t notice the foul water that had soaked her mother’s clothing.  Didn’t notice the grey, repulsive weeds that were twined in her hair like ribbons, or the similarly grey cast that reflected in her vacant eyes.

She didn’t notice the swirling green lights that moved like an elaborate dance above the stinking, fetid water.  Didn’t notice the choir of unearthly, bubbling voices to which her mother’s voice was now company.

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