Seneca Hill Ghost

You’re driving. You see a running woman towing hard by hand a running girl, maybe six. Both barefoot. They’re in old nightdresses. They don’t respond to your shouting. They run with one mind up a long hill. The road is lit by the moon like the sheeny side of a ribbon. The woman looks once at you, her terror past language. At the crest of the hill, they both wink out of view like a switched- off light. You’ll never see either again. It’s the tamest of ghost stories. Bloodless, yet none more saturated, seeping in fronds up flannel hems,…

Subscribe to get access to all online articles