The Dead Girls

They are right behind him.  The dead girls.  He can almost sense their glowing heat, their glistering light.  Ripples pass beneath the boat, making it rock.  His line bobs in the water.

Taking a sip of his sixth beer, the alcohol helps to fortify him, but he feels scared, and the fear is like a syrup traveling through his veins, making his blood pump slow.

The inevitable question: If they exist, then perhaps his father still exists.  Maybe he’s watching right now, to see if Chris will be cowed by an old legend, or if he’ll stick around to catch a fish.

Another ripple shakes the boat.  They must be close because he’s backlit, his shadow thrown out before him on the water.  Or is it because he’s drunk?

Is he drunk?  Not quite, but almost.  Drunk enough to have to piss again.

Suddenly, the girls begin speaking.  The hair on the back of his neck prickles.  Gooseflesh erupts on his arms.  Their voices, soft and warm, gel together, a conjoined effort of gibberish, a ghostly chorus.  Their words unfold like tendrils, creeping over his shoulders and over his head.





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This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)