A Shadow beneath the Cypress
Written By
Martini Harkert

My dimming memories come and go, leaving me in distress — fear might be a better word. The images that flash through my mind are more than I can bear most days. However, even in my weakened state, I try to sift through them, year by endless year, and ghost by endless ghost. I sit here listening, trying to recall the tormented souls that have haunted me — haunted us — for so long. Somewhere deep inside me, I know that it will only be a matter of time before…
The memories of Evercrest, a place that then seemed so far away, now looms closer as each day passes. These memories seem to be the strongest. As the fog grows heavier, the darkness deepens. I hate the darkness. The old weathered and diminished headstones that hold the keys to the past wait in the darkness.
A sound, it comes from somewhere in the distance, a spine chilling shriek. It makes my body shudder, and then— it passes. It too has gone somewhere into the past, as has my mind. The strong sweet scent of perfume lays heavy in the air. Yet, somewhere beneath it, I can smell the sinfulness of Cypress Hills, and Evercrest. My eyes, still fixed on the rain outside, close.

The sharp scent of earth that he carried on his old work boots came from the muddy edge of Cypress Pond. The echoing thuds of our tiny feet, as we romped around the old wood floors, sounded joyful at first. I could smell sweat, and whiskey mingled in with school paste and disinfectant. Mister Miles, the school janitor, never minded if we played as long as we stayed on the opposite side of where he was working. He was a creepy sort of man with greasy hair, streaked grey from age, which was mostly covered by a dirty old baseball cap. Mr. Miles lived on the other side of town just a few yards from the train tracks. His shack, nearly hidden by weeds and overgrown trees, was barely considered a house. He always wore the same slate-blue colored uniform, and from the layers of dirt on it made it seem as if it were the only one he owned. It smelled that way as well. Mr. Miles wife passed away some years ago. There are rumors he has a daughter, but no one knows for sure. They say he keeps her locked away in his house making her do the things a wife would.
"You Girls stay over there, stay out of the way now… out of the way."
His voice traveled off as if he had gone into another room. He flashed us an odd smile, picked up the mop, sloshed it around in his bucket, and begin another pass across the floor mumbling. He stared at us, his one lazy eye half opened half closed. He seemed to be looking through us— rather than at us.
His mumbling made us girls giggle. We whispered things like retard, and dummy behind his back mocking the way he sloshed the mop around the floor; his one leg dragging behind him as if his foot was unattached. It made a strange sliding and thumping sound, swoosh, thud, as he crossed the old empty schoolroom....


As the memory fades, I turn to look into Madison’s eyes, but now, she too is staring out into the darkness and the rain. I can smell the scent of her strawberry shampoo as she leans her head a bit closer to mine. I inhale deeply absorbing as much of her as I can. I know I am her only salvation…, as she is mine.