It was well past witching hour. We huddled together, silent, as we tiptoed past tombstones and stumbled over crumbling stone walls, the moon our lone guiding light. When ghosts appeared we bolted back toward base, trying to avoid their ghastly flesh. We drank the sweet summer air in gulps. The man who lived in the nearby trailer threw his front door open, aimed his shotgun in our direction, and yelled wild whiskey curses into the night. By the time he fell silent, we had morphed into phantoms, shadows, creatures of the night – quiet as the dead beneath our quivering feet.
Justin Deming lives and teaches in the Hudson Valley region of New York. His work has appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, Spelk, and elsewhere. Find Justin at www.jdemingwriting.com or on Twitter @j_deming_.