The Haunted Traveler December 2017 Edition

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the road that leads down to the river. Amelie yells to Annie to find Dad and flies down
the hill. She skids into the ditch, water flying up to her knees, soaking through Micah’s
sweatpants instantly. She splashes towards Riri, frantic, arms already outstretched. Riri’s
head goes underwater, her mouth filling with water. Amelie gets closer to her, wading
downstream as fast as she can, trying to lift her feet higher than the water to keep her
balance. The current is strong, so strong; three hills all running into this one drainage
ditch. Riri resurfaces, submerges again. She’s fighting, hard, but the tunnel is closing
in and Amelie stumbles in the water. Her hand brushes the tip of Riri’s nose, cold and
wet but nonresponsive, and then the puppy whines once, sadly, and her head dips under
water again. The drainage ditch approaches, and Amelie doesn’t know whether to try
to fit through it or scurry up the side of the bank and try to catch Riri on the other side.
Anne sits in the front seat of her car, shivering under her wet clothes. She is thoroughly
soaked through, through the layers of work clothes through the layers of skin down
to her very bones, she feels. It is springtime in the Illinois Valley, and the rain will not
let up any time soon. It is May, but the vents in her car are blasting hot air, and all the
windows are fogged up. Anne doesn’t like the rain. She doesn’t like how it coats her
skin and drips through her clothes, she doesn’t like how it leaves footprints on the floor
and gathers in muddy puddles and quick moving streams. She hates when it covers
the road and her car sends it flying upwards towards her face, like it’s trying to drown
her. She hates seeing it run through the front yard, hates watching it run through the
drainage ditch, hates remembering seeing Micah coming over the hill from the other
side of the road, holding something small and ragged and unmoving in his arms. She
doesn’t remember Riri herself, but she’s seen photographs and she remembers that day.
She remembers her Mom holding out a handful of dirt, offering Annie the first toss
into the hole in the ground Micah dug. She doesn’t remember much about Micah either.
He didn’t blame her Mom, exactly, but he couldn’t forgive her either. She couldn’t tell
if Mom had never gotten over him, or Riri. There were lots of pictures of her with
Micah, and the two of them with Riri, and all four of them together. She used to pull
out the shoebox underneath Mom’s bed to look at them, but she hasn’t for years now.
The rain is still pounding down, each drop on the roof of the car reminding her
warmth and dryness is fleeting and temporary. She can’t hide in here all day. She glares
outside, disgruntled, and steels herself for the dash to the door. There is a heavy sigh,
and she retrieves her keys from the ignition. Kicking the door open with her boot,
Anne heaves herself upward, and takes off towards the front door, cursing madly. She
shakes just inside the entryway. Everything is wet and clingy and gross and sticking to
her skin and she hates it. She peels everything off that she can, handling her wet jeans
with only her fingertips. She tiptoes across the floor in bare feet and a tee-shirt. Her
mom won’t be home for at least an hour. Reaching her bedroom at the end of the
hallway, Anne bundles herself back up in several layers and glares upwards at the sky.