Two men wearing plaid jackets watched the moon creeping up even while the sun had not yet set. Red shadows on one side of the moon resembled rabbit ears. “We got to get inside,” said Fleury, holding the jug on his forearm, raising his elbow, swigging.
“Next time we wait for the corn to ripen longer,” he said. “It’s not very sweet.”
“Whiskey ain’t meant to be sweet,” Horace slapped Fleury’s back so he sputtered. “Pass it over.”
“You really were dropped on your head as an infant, weren’t ya,” Fleury swiped his mouth, lifted the jug.
“Just cos you’re from a family of aristocrats, don’t mean you know everything,” Horace sniped.
“Aristocratic thieves, sent to the colonies, for my sins. I know how to make darn good hooch,” Fleury stood. “Moon’s higher, rabbit ears now half a rabbit.”
“Got a smoky tinge to it, I’d say, pip pip, eh what,” laughed Horace.
“That’s the wood smoke. We’ll use apple wood next time. Come on,” as shadows lengthened. “Getting dark. Living off the grid, seems darker.”
“You ain’t afraid of old wives’ tales, are you?”
“People who disappeared during blood moons? Sure am. Purcell Haynes, Prudence Riley, never seen again,” said Fleury, his rocking chair rocking itself on the sagging wooden porch.
“See that?” His hand stilled the rocker.
“DTs already?”
“Look,” Fleury pointed. A small white shadow appeared out of the maples and loblolly pines.
“Holy bejesus.” Clutching the jug, Horace rocketed out his rocking chair so fast it spat across the porch, hit the wooden cabin walls.
The white shadow seemed to float towards them, took shape.
“It’s a little girl,” Fleury said in wonder. “Are you lost?”
“It’s a dang ghost, I’m getting inside,” Horace spun around, grabbed the iron door latch, shook it. “It’s locked! Why’d you lock it?”
“I didn’t,” answered Fleury, walking down sagging wooden steps he kept meaning to fix.
“Looking for my sister,” said the little girl. “Mama said she’s not supposed to be out after dark. She’ll get a whupping.”
“No whupping for you?”
“I’m not lost. I know where I am,” she twirled the end of one of her long black braids, her long pinafore dress swishing noiselessly.
“Even so, we should get you home; getting dark, blood moon too. Come on. I’ll walk you home.”
“I ain’t walking home no ghost,” hissed Horace, sidling down the steps, alongside the house, scrambling in a window.
Maples leaves frittered around the girl. “Let’s put a light on the subject,” said Fleury, pulling out a flashlight from his pocket, turning it on. The arc of light shone through the girl; he could see trees behind her, as a cloud blocked some of the moonlight, now an orange blood-red.
“Always getting myself in trouble. In for a penny, in for a pound.” He knew where he was at least. He could find his way back.
The girl walked ahead of him, turned right, meager moonlight shining through her, making no shadow.
“What’s your name?”
“Peony. My sister’s name is Poppet.” She entered through an opening in the trees he hadn’t noticed before. “It’s over there,” Peony pointed to a hillock, her lace-up boots silent as Fleury’s boots crackled pine needles and twigs, though he prided himself on moving silently.
On top the wooded hillock, she pointed. “There’s my house.” A moss-covered cabin glowed in the meager moonlight, its door open, only one step up. He heard the gurgling of a stream, ribboned near the cabin. “Come on. Maybe Poppet made it back.”
Tasting bile, Fleury stepped forward, tripping on bunch of stones. Looking down, he saw a skeleton, hand gripping a bucket, strips of gingham clothing, coiled black braids dried like straw.
“That’s Mama. She’s been getting water from the stream, waiting for Poppet. Everyone was so hot, and sweatin’, she washed their faces to cool them down.
“You’ll like Papa, my brother Calvin,” Peony neared the door. “After Papa came back from town, paying the taxes, he got sick, turned purple, turrible nosebleed, his head hurt so bad. It was such a long walk.”
“Sounds like Spanish flu. I can’t go inside, Peony. I’ll shine my light through the door.”
“I can’t go inside either, that’s why I’m stuck out here. Mama said I couldn’t go back in, everyone was so sick, I’d get sick too. She didn’t know why I wasn’t sick, said I was touched by God’s Grace. I don’t like being God’s Grace, it’s so lonely. She told me to find Poppet; she wandered off, touched by fever.”
Stone sober now, Fleury shone his flashlight on a skeleton on the bed holding an infant’s skeleton, a child’s skeleton on the floor by the table. “Maybe Poppet’s nearby, Peony. See if I can shine my light on her,” casting his flashlight to the side of the cabin. He saw what looked like a pile of white stones covered with scraps of cloth, scraps of braid.
“Did she have black hair too?”
“Yes. You found her?” Peony silently moved next to him, looked down.
“Don’t know why I couldn’t find her, was looking too far away.”
“It’s alright. What’s your surname?”
“Doherty.”
“Your dad’s name?”
“Samuel.”
“Now we’ve found all of you.”
“Thank you, Mister,” Peony smiled up at him, her eyes cornflower blue.
“No whuppings for you then.” Fleury reached out, patted her shoulder, solid beneath his hand briefly, then she dissolved in swirling mist.