There's nothing more to say, he thinks. It's simply time to go. I think we need to go some place else, he mutters, turning to face her, but she's gone. He blinks stupidly for a second, trying to remember what happened, but as far as he can recall, she should be standing next to him.
He sighs, running his hand along the stubble on his chin. He turns and looks out over the field, the black earth studded with the torn stalks of corn and rutted with the tracks on the combines trails as they had sliced through the field weeks ago. Turkeys mingle along the timberline near the creek in the distance, eyeing him warily before disappearing into the brush.
He stumbles as he walks along the dirt track next to the field, patting his shirt pocket until he finds the pack of cigarettes. Shaking one out, he puts it between his lips as he digs in his pants pockets for his lighter. The sky is an even slate grey, darker at the horizon. Is there a storm coming. The air is cold, and bites into his lungs as he lights the cigarette and takes the smoke deep into his lungs.
What was he going to tell her? He looks down at his brown boots as he stumbles along the road. She should be here. Why is it so hard to remember what happened to her? She should be here. There are few other places that she could be.
The house should be around the corner, around the bend in the trees. How does he know this. He can see it, how it should look, small white frame house, rambling front porch, small shed out back. A single farm light should sit above the gravel track that leads up into the trees. A battered blue Ford pickup rests against the pole holding the light, but it never moves. It always remains.
He pauses, looking over the house, trying to remember the last time he was here. Why does it look so familiar? At one point there was a girl who lived here, simple and pure of spirit, and maybe he had done something wrong to her. He scratches his chin. That's entirely possible that something like that happened. The cigarette burns his fingers and he flicks it away into the wet brush. Rage rose through him and his body reacted before his mind could really think through what he was doing. Whisky was involved, wasn't it.
He stares at the front door of the house and starts shivering. Why was he here? What brought him back? He looks over his shoulder, back down the dirt track towards the field, but there is no one there. Where is she? She was right next to him just a moment ago. He looks down the gravel track as it disappears into the dark forest, but he can see no movement.
The air is getting dimmer. The sun must be setting, somewhere behind the clouds. The wind rustles around his feet, nuzzling against his ankles. This thin jacket won't keep him too warm once it gets dark. He looks at the front door of the house, and swallowing deeply, steps forward towards it.
The knob of the door turns easily, and door creaks as it opens. He steps in, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. The house is quiet and still. He calls out, but no one answers. He reaches over and flips the switch next to the front door, but nothing happens. He pauses, listening, and the house has the quiet feel of something dead and sleeping. The wind rattles the glass in the windows, but the house remains silent.
The boards in the floor creak under his feet as he makes his way into the dark house. The living room is around the corner, he thinks, and there should be a large blue hutch, and in the drawer of the hutch should be some candles and some matches. The stove in the kitchen was wood-fired. Hopefully there is still wood in the bin.
The furniture in the living room is draped in sheets, lumpy ghosts huddled around a ghost coffee table, facing a ghost television set. He pulls the sheet off the hutch and tosses it to the floor. He pulls open the drawer and fumbles around until he finds a candle. He rattles around in the drawer some more but cannot find any matches. He pulls his lighter from his pocket and lights the candle.
The warm glow of the candle light fills the room, and suddenly the house feels more alive. The candle casts herky jerky shadows as he makes his way from the living room into dining room. The large long table is shrouded in sheets as well. The chairs are leaning against it. The large armoir in the corner stands uncovered, threatening in its presence
