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I don’t believe in ghosts.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as I linger in the backyard of the old Gregory place. The swamp stretches out before me, the ancient cypress trees cloaked in green haze beneath the overcast sky. From where I stand with the house rearing up behind me, I can almost taste the fetid stench of the mire. It’s the smell of decay and rotting things, a primal scent that sets my nerves on fire.
It reeks of danger and death.
But is there something more out there, lurking amidst the sunken tombstones? My mind drifts back to the figure I followed into the swamp and the face I saw in the mirror, and I have my answer.
“Stay the fuck away from us,” I mutter. Even though my voice is low, I have a feeling that the thing in the marsh will hear me anyway.
I turn away then and traverse across the brittle lawn back toward the house.
The structure is very nearly finished. The new materials of the exterior are pristine, though I know that nature will render them dull and mossy with time. Clear windows line the walls, a dozen vacant eyes staring emptily into the swamp. The sounds of power tools and chatter drift out through the open ones, and I can hear a radio playing somewhere deep in the belly of the beast. On the surface, it seems like just another normal job.
So why do I have the terrible sense that something evil is about to happen?
Maybe it’s because of the argument Bailey and I had this morning. Although we’ve had our fair share of disagreements throughout our relationship, this was the first time we had ever really fought.
Bailey asked to come to the job site with me this morning. I said no. It should’ve been case closed.
And yet, Bailey pushed back. I’ve always admired her for her stubbornness and perseverance, but this was the first time it had been turned on me.
“Why not?” she asked, her hands on her hips and a challenge in her tone.
“You know why,” I responded. “It’s not safe, not with that thing out there.”
“Maybe we have to face it,” she argued.
I rolled my eyes then. “I don’t think this is the sort of thing that’ll just leave us be if we ask it nicely.”
“Well, we have to try something,” she insisted. “Do you really just want to sit here and wait for it to fuck with us again?”
I shrugged in response. “I’d rather you stay as far away from that house as possible.”
“While you go to work there every day?”
“That’s different,” I protested.
“How? How is that any different?” she threw back at me.
The argument went in circles from there until frustrations on both sides reached a boiling point. I raised my voice to her, and was shocked to see tears welling in Bailey’s eyes.
“I’m going out,” she said, grabbing her purse and slamming the door behind her. I had no idea where she went, and she hasn’t responded to any of my texts since.
I didn’t mean to snap at her like that. It was as though my mind had been stacked with kindling. The spark of our argument flared until the flame was raging out of control, an inferno of emotion. I can’t even remember the last time I was that angry.
Shame surges through me as I step through the back door and into the relative coolness of the house.
“You okay, boss?” Jose asks, peering up at me from where he’s crouched near a baseboard working on installing some molding.
“Yeah,” I reply gruffly. “Where are we at?”
Jose glances over his shoulder. “The guys are papering the bedrooms upstairs, and the plumber should be finished with the baths by the end of the day. Still waiting for the HVAC people to show up, though.”
“What else is new?” I sigh. The AC hasn’t been working for the last few weeks, and I’ve been trying to get the HVAC crew to take a look at it, but they always cancel on me at the last minute. I’m hoping they actually show up today or else I might have to look into working with a different company. Even with our industrial fans humming away in several of the bigger rooms and most of the windows open to encourage ventilation, the heat of the Louisiana summer is still brutal. My boys deserve better working conditions, and the new homeowners, however uppity, should get what they’ve paid for.
“I’ll be glad when this place is done, and I don’t have to smell that damn swamp all the time,” Jose remarks. “I swear I can shower for an hour and still walk out stinking like this place.”
I nod. I’ve noticed the same thing, like the stench of it clings wherever I go. “Soon,” I assure him. “What else needs to be done?”
The foreman considers my question for a moment before listing off several projects that still need to get completed. Most of it’s finishing work, and I’m glad to hear that we really are almost ready to wrap this thing up. At the end of the survey, Jose adds, “Oh, we’ve still got to fix that spot of drywall in the kitchen. You know, the one that got all torn up?”
I did know, better than anybody. Truthfully, I’ve been procrastinating on fixing that one. Even though I keep insisting that I’ll do it myself, every time I go to start the project I get this cold feeling in my chest as though my heart is turning to ice. I keep revisiting the memory of that stormy night, that song, and that figure out in the swamp.
Speaking of storms, a low rumble of thunder rolls before either of us can say anything more. Almost immediately after, a burst of rain unleashes from the heavens, slamming against the brand new shingles of the roof like the drumming of a thousand fingers.
“Shit, the windows!” I exclaim, realizing that most of them are currently open. The last thing we need is for the rain to get in and waterlog the gorgeous new flooring and wallpaper.
Jose springs into action at the same time I do. “You take the upper floors,” I call to him as he dashes further into the house. Within seconds, I hear him bellowing for everybody to start closing the windows. I do the same on the lower level, and a small army of workers disperses to complete the task at my direction.
But when the next peal of thunder hits, all hell breaks loose.
There’s a loud thump outside, followed quickly by frenzied yelling from the upper floors. I sprint toward the stairs in time to catch Jose tearing down them, his face ashen and his eyes wide.
“What’s going on?” I bark.
At the same time, he shouts, “Henri fell! He fucking fell!”
Before the words have time to sink in, Jose grabs me by the arm and hauls me toward the front door. Most of the crew isn’t far behind as we burst out into the rain.
There’s a lump on the ground a few feet away. For a moment, I don’t understand what I’m looking at. But then the shape groans, and I realize with blossoming horror that I’m staring at a person.
My mind is still reeling to catch up to the terrible reality of the situation, but luckily my training kicks in, and my system shifts into autopilot. All of Hahnville’s firefighters, including me, are licensed EMTs. I’m used to being the first on the scene and providing aid until an ambulance can respond.
Barely aware of the rain soaking through my clothes, I run over to the man on the ground. He’s moaning in pain, but his body isn’t moving. Jose follows me. He’s talking quickly into his phone, already on the line with the 911 operator.
“Is he alive?” the foreman asks quickly, distress clinging to his features as he braces for the worst.
I nod, crouching down next to the man. It’s Henri, all right, one of the kids who came to work for me right out of high school. His eyes are open and filled with terror as I try to assess the damage.
“Henri, can you hear me?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he croaks, his voice strained as though it’s costing him all his strength just to speak. “Am I gonna die?” he whispers.
“Not today,” I tell him firmly, though I’m not sure yet if that’s the truth. “You took a hell of a fall though.” My eyes slide over him. I don’t see anything obviously broken, and there’s no blood. I glance up and note that the third story window is still open. He must have fallen from there.
“Ambulance is fifteen minutes out,” Jose murmurs.
Fifteen minutes may not sound that long, but if somebody is bleeding internally, it can determine whether a patient lives or dies. I don’t have any supplies with me, and I have no way of checking, so I can only hope that his injuries aren’t that severe.
“Can you wiggle your fingers for me?” I ask. Relief surges through me as the kid obeys. “Now your toes,” I tell him.
But Henri’s booted feet don’t move.
“I…I can’t….” Henri breathes, staring up at me with horror dripping from his eyes.
“Hey, it’s okay,” I tell him, hoping that my voice doesn’t portray my own panic. “Don’t try to move. Lie as still as you can. The ambulance will be here soon.”
There’s not much more I can do for him after that except for stay crouched by his side, assuring him that he’s going to be okay. The rain continues to hammer down as streaks of lightning jitter across the sky and thunder blossoms from the heavens.
At long last, I hear sirens in the distance.
I stay with Henri as a host of fire trucks, ambulances, and police cars congregate in the driveway. Emergency personnel swarm the area, and I do my best to keep my composure as I quietly tell the EMTs that I think the kid’s back might be broken. The rest of my crew watches somberly as Henri is transferred onto a backboard and then a stretcher before finally disappearing into the back of an ambulance.
As soon as the ambulance tears down the driveway, sirens wailing, I turn to address my crew. Everybody is clearly spooked.
“I don’t even know what to say,” I begin in a shaky voice. “This is just… horrible. Jose, I want you to follow the ambulance to the hospital. I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’m going to try to get ahold of Henri’s dad. Everybody else, go home.”
Moving like zombies, my crew follows my directions. I’m scrolling through my phone to find Henri’s emergency contact information when I realize that one of the guys is lingering nearby, his eyes fixed to the open window above us.
“Boss?” the man asks tentatively, his gaze shifting down to meet mine.
“Yeah, Mike,” I reply. I know he’s buddies with Henri. This must be hitting him pretty hard.
“I was there when it happened,” Mike says softly, his voice nearly drowned out by the pounding of the rain.
“It must have been terrible, seeing him fall like that,” I sigh.
“Fall?” Mike shakes his head. “He didn’t fall.”
Fear sours in the pit of my stomach as Mike once again turns his wild gaze onto the window.
“He didn’t fall,” he repeats. “He was pushed.”