The Dead Girls



by Aaron J. French

Chris Evans has heard the rumor of the two dead girls.  But he thought it was only a superstition.  He’s fished this section of Lake Erie since he was a boy, since back in the seventies when the water deterioration was so bad it spawned an article in Time Magazine and the subsequent Clean Water Act of 1972.

His father used to bring him here at dawn, when the sky was lit up with pink and the waters swirled a dark, uninviting gray.  They’d sit in his dented boat and wait patiently for fish to bite.  A peaceful experience, a time for father and son to be alone.

But now Chris is sitting alone on the lake in the middle of the night.  In the same boat, the one his father bequeathed to him; a beer cooler at his feet, the sprawling tackle box on the bench.  His pole leaning out.  A Styrofoam cup filled with dirt on his lap.

It’s the smell that gets him, that earthy fresh aroma.  Nothing fuels nostalgia like soil and worms and fat grubs.

When the pair of luminescent shapes first appeared over the water, he’d assumed it was a trick of light.  But that was more than three hours ago.  They’ve moved over time, drifting slowly across the lake, going up and down the shoreline.





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