By Mark Felps
Read by Cayenne Chris Conroy
Eddie had the little .22 semi-automatic that we used for shooting rabbit and squirrel, and I had Daddy’s .30-06. It was his favorite deer gun, and he would have tanned my hide if he knew I had it. That day wasn’t the first time we’d come down to the creek to shoot. We didn’t do it all the time, because sometimes the guns cracked so loud that our neighbor across the creek, Mr. Davenport, would hear and call up Momma. Most times, we shot on the bank of the creek, setting up dirty beer bottles – leftovers from teenage parties. It was our land, and we kept it fenced, but a fence never did mean much to a kid of any age.
When we got to the ghost house, Eddie didn’t want to go any further. He didn’t start fussing, but he started dragging his feet, covering his Keds with dust. I wasn’t in the mood to fight with him, so I just kept walking. Faced with being alone in the woods, or with his big brother at the ghost house, Eddie came on along. I wonder, sometimes, if he knew something. If he had some sort of feeling about what was going to happen. It’s the kind of thing that can drive you crazy. If you let it.