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Coauthor: Charly Destombes
Resume Film PR - Netflix at @lpscinema | ex Film Coordinator at @TIFF_NET | ex Film PR at @MQueysanne | Co-director of CANICULE [ Exclusively on @Konbini 🔥 ]
Average rating - 7,9 / 10 Audience score - 47 vote UK 
Year - 2020 Sidney Flanigan. Update: February, 2018, the correct site the men had dug the hole was searched. The bones of a large animal. such as a cow or horse were found. It seemed promising. Unfortunately, yet another dead end in the search for the Beaumont children. Never Rarely Sometimes always happy. 
I would never let small children go on there own. 
Almost an hour with the mane man Afro on a Saturday night nothing more I could as for
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Never rarely sometimes always film. I even massinger u nd u dnt massinger me bck,jenifer. And who in their right mind would dig a hole that wide and that deep to bury a cow? this is all a cover up by influential people. Never rarely sometimes always showtimes. Part IV After the final scarecrow ordeal in early November, I slept for almost 26 straight hours. I took most of that following week off work to get back into a groove of physical and mental stability, spend time with Sasha, and reflect. I’d put Sasha, Dash, and ol’Dan in direct danger, and felt more worthless than I ever had. I wanted to move. I wanted to sell this place, quit my job, and never look back. Under the circumstances that accompany living here, I felt I couldn’t trust myself. My instincts were to try and kill danger, not learn its nuances and live in harmony with it. I wanted Sasha to make the final call. I needed it to be her decision. I told her how I felt, and I told her how much I truly do trust her instincts. I promised that if she wanted to say, I would commit to it entirely, and that we’d act decisively together, but that I’d let her be the quarterback of all this… “spirit” related decision-making. After I’d passed out that day, Dan called Joe over, and before I came to, Joe spent a long while talking with Sasha about the nature of this place and the spirit. That conversation gave Sasha a new confidence, and seemed to catalyze a deeper connection between her and this little 40-acre chunk of possessed, beautiful land. During the days that followed, Sasha listened to me, I listened to her, and she made it clear she wanted to stay, unless or until it’d make me miserable. I told her I’m in if she is, which I meant, and still do. I love this land, on the surface at least. In that week off I spent wallowing in self-reflection (and self-pity), I somehow managed to look under my own hood for the first real time to reflect on how I’d been wired. It took me a while to “get right” after falling back into civilian life, and a big part of that for me was revisiting trauma, digesting it, and shitting it out behind me on the road of life. The imminent prospect of having a reunion with some of that shit was making me a nervous wreck, so, naturally, I figured maybe chain smoking and reflecting on my own head was the right thing to do. On my 18th birthday—a clueless dipshit with zero life experience—I ditched high school calculus, hopped on a bus downtown, and sold my soul to an organization unmatched throughout human history in its ability to tear down and comprehensively redesign young men, from the ground up, into gorilla-brained warfighters. For the next six years, that was life, two-thirds of which was fluorescent-lit, sleep deprived monotony punctuated by training stints in fenced-off expanses of the American west. The other third, Afghanistan. Even though everything I did was decided for me, Afghanistan was the first time in my life I ever felt free. It’s where I first learned how I was unique, the first time I’d ever been valued by people above me, people I admired, first time I experienced being a real source of comfort to others. Also, the “experience of combat” between men fascinated me. It’s a defining and inveterate type of human interaction and utility. As old as feasting, dancing, monogamous romance, music, hunting, shit it’s older than farming. And I don’t mean war, all that macro-level strategy and geopolitical bullshit. I’m talkin about combat. There’s a simplicity to it. The fundamentals of combat still transcend time and culture, which creates a connection to something old, something that feels deeply, tragically human; I’m here in this cold, dusty valley to tear that man’s body apart with steel and fire… while he’ll be trying to do the same to me. The abject, terrifying clarity of it is intoxicating. However, most of my time there was still… frustrating. A Marine infantry battalion full of fast, strong, competitive, stupid ass 18-22 year-olds programmed to eat fuckin glass and do anything to protect each other is a terrifying thing capable of terrifying shit, that’s not the kind of tool you use for everything. Between bootcamp and ITB, you’re turned into a rifleman, an 0311, a grunt. You’re designed with the expressly-articulated purpose of storming beaches, sieging fortifications, spearheading invasions, or bleeding to death while trying. In my opinion, sending Marine grunts to LARP around as street cops in an area with lots of civilians, and a hostile insurgency dressed as civilians, is fantastically fucking stupid. Alas, that’s a lot of what we did. Checkpoints, searching cars, frisking old people, getting harassed by snipers, driving around, slaloming duct-taped bundles of 35-year-old explosives buried under the road. Fuck that noise. After over a year of that, my battalion joined a seven-country coalition force for the invasion of Marjah. That was my highpoint. That was a battle. We went from playing beat cop, to bangin it out against hardened Taliban warriors who’d cut their teeth against the Soviets when I was still shitting myself. These were bad dudes who’d come down from the Kush and tribal Pakistan openly, proudly self-branded as a religious inquisition. Guys who, if we killed, could no longer beat women and kids for wearing colors or singing in their own homes, or kill young men for learning the guitar or just talking back. It meant something. When that operation wrapped up, well, felt to me like we went back to squabbling with… normal assholes like myself; young dudes who were just fucking pissed. I was done. The spark was dead. I didn’t wanna be a fuckin cop. I had an opportunity to get out, and I jumped. But that meant I had to separate and integrate back into 21st century America, which, to my surprise, I ended up managing. Mostly because of meeting Sasha, but also some other friends who showed me one needn’t be surrounded by screaming, panic and death to “find themselves. ” Since then, I’ve grown gentler and more caring, and I’ve come to appreciate the immense value of experiences and relationships outside the fuckin Marine Corps. I don’t feel my purpose on earth is to fight. That being said, I’m not wired to think around a physical threat, I’m wired to spit in its eye, headbutt it, and heel-stomp its knuckles when it’s down. Thus, when it comes to gracefully navigating the bizarre, horrifying and violent manifestations of some ancient mother fuckin earth spirit that seems to have developed a uniquely individualized distaste for my well-being and sanity… it goes against everything in me. The prospect of this winter was a nightmare. The very people who I was programmed to confront with violence, then actually did confront with violence, were coming back to pay me a visit. I was fuckin terrified. But I promised Sash I’d try, and to tell her I needed to leave if I knew I couldn’t take it. So, life went on. We fell back into a healthy stride through November. I spent a lot of time grouse and pheasant hunting with Dash. Sash and I cooked every night. Once we knew we were off the hook after the third scarecrow, we hastily invited all of Sasha’s family to visit for Thanksgiving and finally see the place. Her parents, brother, sisters, and one of her sister’s two kids and husband all came out. A couple stayed at our tiny house, while the rest crashed at Dan and Lucy’s while they spent Thanksgiving with their kids in Boise. It was actually a great time, we hiked and cooked and drank. It showed us that if we got a grip on the timing of all this spirit bullshit, we could actually lead a relatively normal life. With “the ghost” season approaching, I also spent as much time with Dan as I could to prepare myself. I needed to be able to handle this one as calmly as possible, given how I’d escalated things over the summer. Dan and Joe said the earliest the ghosts have arrived is December 13, so between Thanksgiving and that date it was my objective to get as Zen about it all as I possibly could. I went over to Dan’s one evening for some beers and chat shortly after Sasha’s family left, and we sat out in his barn looking out over his pastures. “It’s hard Harry. I ain’t gonna lie to ya. It’s hard on Luce too, lord knows. Sash won’t be able to see em, but she’ll sure as shit know they’re there. That’s an easy way to mess with the head, ya know? Although, I will say…” Dan took a long pull off his beer and stared ahead blankly for a while before responding “I will say, Luce and Sasha are damn lucky they can’t see or hear em. ” – “Why? ” I asked, already kind of grasping the answer. “Well… the bastard ghosts are tryin to scare ya and unsettle ya the whole time they’re here, Harry. At least most of mine do. They’ll wait outside the door and jump at ya when you walk outside. They’ll pop into a window screaming when they can feel you’re looking outside. They’ll wait until you’re fast asleep and start screaming outside the bedroom. They’ll run around your roof at night. They’ll pound on the walls. It wears on ya. ” I felt a nauseous panic even hearing about this shit, but I needed to learn as much as I could. “Can I touch them? Can they touch me? Can they touch Sasha, or Dash, or my stuff, can they let the air outta my tires or some shit? ” Dan smiled, but a grim look slowly overtook his features as he responded: “If they’re outside your home, they can’t touch ya, and you can’t touch them. Every once in a while, if one gets real worked up n’angry, they can knock somethin over, like a chair or somethin. That’s not common though, seems to take a lot out of em. You can hear em touchin your house though. Poundin on the walls, runnin on your roof, smackin the glass. They don’t do any damage, but you and I can hear it, and sometimes Lucy can too. Same thing with their screaming, once in a while, if one’s real angry, and they scream right into Lucy’s ear, she can hear it. ” Dan looked up and stared out at, well, nothing, and went on “the same guy likes to pick on Lucy too, year after year. I call him the Welp. He follows Luce everywhere when she goes outside. He’s one of the worst. Real scary for Luce too. It’s horrible. Makes me wanna kill the little bastard all over again. I've raged, taunted, even tried to befriend him, nothin changes. ” That’s the kinda shit that scared me, and would test my ability to keep it cool. I really hoped they’d leave Sasha be. I’d sleep outside in the -15 degree winters for a month if it meant keeping them away from her. Can I just leave? “Dan, can I just fuckin leave when they show up? ” Dan looked over at me and responded promptly. “No you can’t. I’ve tried, couple times. They’ll be there when you get back, and’ll make you suffer the 2-3 weeks of their presence, one way or another. My 3rd year here I was really losin it. Joe told me it wouldn’t work, but I lit out, paid my summer ranch hands to feed the cattle, packed Luce and my oldest boy in the camper, spent the winter with my brother in Montana. I got back that spring, and there they were. Lemme tell ya, you do not wanna have to deal with the ghosts and the lights at the same time. No, you’ve gotta suffer through, son. ” He looked at me with sympathy. “Harry, just be glad you’ve only got 4. Havin 12 of em is, well… it’s quite a goat rope. ” Dan looked over at me and looked inquisitive “how confident are you there’re only four, Har? ” I’d given the answer to his question lots of thought over the last few months. “I’m pretty confident... maybe 5-6, but unlikely. Before Marjah, I only fired my rifle maybe 4-5 times, and mostly just suppressing fire up into an empty hillside after having a pot shot or rocket whip in outta nowhere. Marjah was crazy, we were in firefights all the damn time, obviously there’s the possibility a stray bullet clipped someone, but those odds are slim. So yah, I’m confident it’s 4. ” Dan took another drink, set his beer down, turned his chair to face me more directly, leaned back, and nodded: “Tell me about em. ” I gave him an annoyed look. I’d never been squirmy talking about it, but given the prospect of an imminent reunion with the bastards, that’d changed lately. “Well…” I opened a new beer. “The first time I shot a man dead, I shot two men dead. Back to back. They were right next to each other. ” Dan nodded, “go on, son. Tell me about it. ” I gave him another annoyed look. “… It was during the first couple heavy days in the battle for Marjah. My fire team was hunkered into a berm at the end of a street waiting for orders. I was with my buddy Mike. All the sudden we see two guys, looked like they were in their mid-30s, running down a line of houses from our left. One had an AK and another was on a radio and had a big like… hockey bag fulla spent RPG tubes. ” I took a sip, then another. “We couldn’t believe it. I literally nudged my Mike and was like ‘are those fuckin Tali?! ’ I mean we knew they were but just couldn’t believe it. They got to the road in front of us, about 110 yards out, and crouched behind a car blocking the view from where they’d run, but exposed to us. We were so shocked we just sat there like idiots until the one closest looked up me, and I shot em both… they died right there. ” I sat there and remembered how, when I shot the first guy, he dumped forward onto his face, didn’t try to catch himself or anything, and the second guy looked down at him like ‘heck you doin dude? ’ and then I shot him in the chest. He dropped the radio as he planted his palms to catch himself from fallin backwards. He looked so confused before I shot again… Dan snapped me out of the recollection: “what’re you gonna name em? ” "…What? ” I asked. “It helps to give em names. Helps to keep track of em, describe em to Sasha, helps to talk about them. Naming them makes it easier, takes the edge off a bit. ” I guess that made sense. I shrugged “Pete and Hank? ” Dan slapped his knee “great names! Alright, number 3. ” I took another sip. “Number three was a couple days later. Old grizzled fella. 50-55 years old, at least. We were securing a canal crossing, L-shaped ambush type security formation, stayin behind cover. Two trucks fulla dudes with AKs rolled up and stopped behind a sedan we'd used to block the road. Someone kicked it off, and all the sudden our whole platoon was unloading into the cars. I was aiming at the rear passenger-side door of the second truck when someone tried to get out, I shot him. He died with his seat belt on. ” I thought back on that moment. The car door of that truck was stuck or something, so the guy reached out the window to open it from the outside and I shot his forearm. I remembered how shocked I was by how much blood came from that wound, how it cut bright red channels through the dust caked on the car door. He yanked his arm back in, then leaned out with his left hand, exposing his head, and I shot him in the jaw and then the eyebrow… Dan snapped me back to the present again: “What’ll you call him? ” “… He looked like a mountain man, I’ll call him Bridger. ” Dan nodded approvingly, “now number four. ” “It was after the heavy fighting in Marjah ended, still in Helmand but out in the country side. Poppy country. Dope country. ” Dan laughed. “We were on patrol and got ambushed by what sounded like 50 but ended up just bein 4 dudes... NCO in my platoon got hit and we all dropped. I crawled over to the side of the poppies along a ditch, and saw a dude running, real low, right toward me with an AK, scared the piss outta me, but I got the draw on him and that was that. ” In reality, that guy scared me so bad I emptied my whole mag into him, or… at him, barely aiming, missed half the shots I was shaking so bad, pretty sure I shot him in the foot, neck, and 10 other spots in between... I looked back at Dan. “I’ll call him Buck. ” Dan nodded slowly, “so what about the potential other two? ” I scratched my chin. “During the heavy fighting in Marjah, February, car fulla fighters tried to break through our sector and ran into our whole damn company. I wasn’t in a good position when we made contact, so by the time I moved past a little wall and started shootin into the guys in the back seat, I’m pretty sure they were dead. I mean at least 10-12 of our guys were already lighting up that rig, so chances are slim anyone was still alive, just don’t know for sure…” Dan and I sat quietly with our beers for a while. Cold was starting to bite my hands. I needed to head back for dinner soon but I had a couple more questions. “Dan, will we be able to see each other’s ghosts? ” Dan looked up at me: “No… at least, I can’t see Joe’s or his son's, and he can’t see mine, but we can each feel the other’s. ” Dan looked away, and sensing my impending question, spoke again without looking back “I’ll let Joe tell you about his if he chooses. ” I nodded. Sasha had been thinking a lot about Dan’s account of the one man he’d killed being respectful to him and Lucy during the ghost season; she thinks there may be way to make peace with them if we could learn more about who they were before they died, and have things around they liked, or figure out how to keep em occupied. “One more question… you said they maintain some of their ‘earthly personalities…’ What’s that mean? You told me that one guy who you comforted as he died remembers you and is pretty mellow, but like… are they pissed they’re here? Where are they coming from? Do they even know? Do they remember who they are? Their families? ” Dan put his hands up to cease my barrage. “Easy, easy pal, those all got different answers” he chuckled. “First of all, I got no idea where they’re coming from, or what happens after you get killed. Joe and I are pretty sure they don’t remember where they were before they get here. I don’t think they know why they get brought here, but they know one thing… you’re the reason they’re dead, and now they’re seeing you live your life, seeing you love, work, eat, and lemme tell ya… they sure get pissed, hot, and bothered about that. ” “On your other question… they remember parts of who they were, I think. There’s no way to communicate with them directly. I tried getting a Vietnamese interpreter to write some things in English and Vietnamese which I could try to read and show to them 12-15 years back, but it’s like they can’t hear, or read anything. It’s like direct communication is… prevented? Although, you can show them things. One of the guys I killed must’ve been a birder, a bird geek, ya know? Always checkin out birds. 2-3 years back, I pointed out an eagle to him, he watched it for a long while, and nodded to me, and since he’s been… a bit more civil. Another must’ve been a gardener, because when he ain’t harassin me, he’ll follow Lucy around our winter greenhouse just observing the gardening methods, spend hours checkin out seed packets, that kinda shit. Then there’s Wolf, the fella I have the, you know, connection with. My friend, I guess. He must’ve been a good man before I cut his life short… As I said, he hangs back, smiles, walks the land on his own, doesn’t harass me or Lucy. ” I couldn’t even begin to fathom how different I was as a person from the guys I’d killed, or how I'd connect with them on any level. There’s a chance some of those tribal fighters never even owned a world map, let alone knew where the hell Idaho was. Maybe some of the younger ones who had some schooling opportunities had gotten on the internet, but it was really rare for rural Afghani and Pakistani men to get schooling outside a local Islamic madrasa/school. It’s like we’re from different planets. I had a few more chats like that with Dan as Thanksgiving rolled into December, all of which he'd end with "just don't let those candles go out before sunrise, if you do, fight, you can't get away in time. " I could tell he was getting apprehensive too, and getting shook up after 40 years of experience, that made me nervous as hell. Lucy had given Sasha some pointers as well. I can’t imagine it’s much easier for Sash and Luce. At least I can see the fuckers, for them, it’s just like the place is haunted as hell. Lucy seemed to handle it well though, saying while they're here, she mostly just tries to keep Dan calm. She said a few times a season they really scare her, screaming in her ear or knockin things over when she’s outside alone, but she said you kinda get used to it. Lucy said no matter how many winters pass, she still finds Dan up in the middle of the night while they’re here, sitting in the kitchen with his rifle, watching the candles, making sure they stay lit… Sasha seemed almost excited with anticipation as December 13 got closer. I was a nervous wreck the closer it got, and trying to keep that from Sasha made it even worse. She found some big ass 24hr-burning candles online too, and we ordered every last one of em. Figured if we lit 6-7 of those on the kitchen island every night where they stood no risk of getting put out by a breeze, we could feel confident we’d have 4 going all night and I could get some sleep. But I knew damn well I’d not be sleeping much while they were here. Shit, my anxiety got so bad after Thanksgiving, I’d barely been sleeping anyway. I woke up on the morning of December 13 emotionally exhausted. I was almost praying they’d arrive, I needed it to start. The waiting was maddening. But, they didn’t show up that day. Or the next, or the next. Since the 13th, I’d spent every daylight hour on my land with binoculars, scanning the tree lines. I woke up on the morning of December 21, and—as I had for a week—sat up, turned around, and immediately looked out the window into the pastures. Nothing. It was snowing pretty hard. My wake-up panic eased, then I realized Sasha wasn’t in bed, which cranked it right back up. I never slept through her getting out of bed, especially over the last week when I’d wake up on the verge of pissing myself if the dog farted or the furnace kicked on. “Sash? ” I said loudly, seeing if she was in the bathroom. I got up and almost ran into the living room toward the kitchen. “Sash? ” “I’m in the kitchen babe! ” she said. I could hear her smiling in her voice, it made me calm down immediately. I walked in and saw her sitting at the kitchen table with coffee and a book. Dash was at her feet and trotted over to greet me. “Shit, sorry I didn’t notice you get up, I, ugh…” I shook my head and leaned down to kiss her, and as I stood back up, she gave me a smile but something subtle in it betrayed... I couldn’t tell what, but I knew this woman well. “What? ” I asked her. The second the word left my mouth, she let the emotion slip through her smile again. “Babe what is it? ” I asked again, seriousness in my tone. She closed her book, and took a deep breath. What the fuck, is she about to tell me she’s pregnant? She stood up, took my hands, and looked at me in the eye. She had so much strength in that gaze, she had so much faith. I was floored. Then she spoke. “Harry… It woke me up an hour ago, at sunrise, but I wanted you to sleep. I can feel it. It might be the ghosts, or not, but I’ll tell you right now, the spirit is here… I know it. ” Her demeanor of strength didn’t change at all, while my entire stomach shot into my throat and adrenaline surged into my hands and legs. I couldn’t think of what to say, but wasn’t sure I could talk if I did. I thought I was prepared for this, thought I’d seen and felt all the ambient dread the spirit could cause, but I’d been wrong. She was right. I felt it. The spirit. Standing there in that kitchen feeling like I was about to vomit, looking at my wife’s beautiful, strong face, I felt the spirit in the air pressure, saw it in the light, tasted it at the back of my throat. In that moment, I don’t know that I’d ever felt more childlike horror in my life. Felt like I was in a nightmare, stuck in a dark room as something I felt wanted me came slowly, giggling down a hallway. I could feel them. I could feel five. I knew I’d killed five people, five men. I knew without seeing them. More than them, I could feel the spirit. My peripheral vision started to go dark. My ears were rumbling and I could feel my heartbeat in my face. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Chill man. Breath. You are not gonna pass out without even seeing the bastards. “Harrison. ” I snapped out of it, and looked back into Sasha’s eyes, still holding her hands. “Harrison, you’ve got this. We’ve got this. Ok? ” I nodded and took another breath. “There are five. I killed five men, they’re here. I can feel them. I know the four, not sure who the fifth is. ” A brief, thin fear flushed into Sasha’s face at my response, but she forced it away and replaced it with strength, took a deep breath herself, and said “well then, there are five. We’ve got this, ok? ” My reflexive antidote to panic showed up like a deranged sidekick; the white-hot desire to fight, pleading in shrieks for me to get angry. It grounded me, but I reasoned it away. Nope, tried that, didn’t go so hot ya fuckin idiot. I went to the sink and chugged some water. I looked down at Dash, looking up at me, our eye contact activating the motion in his plumed tail. Then I looked back to Sasha. Sweet christ how did I get so lucky to find these two. I felt like weeping in gratitude, terror, shame, and joy all at once. Breath dude. “Sash… I needa go find them. I needa go find them by myself. I won’t do anything, or go more than a few feet from the fence, I swear to you, I just need to see them alone, this first time. ” She looked at me with challenge in her eyes, a ‘you better be fuckin sure about this’ look, then nodded. “Only if you bring Dash, and I’m coming out there in 10 minutes, ok? ” I nodded “yah, of course. ” I felt like explaining my need to confront them for the first time alone, but it was something I think we could both feel, without the need for more words. I got dressed, grabbed my binoculars, and followed Dash out into the yard. I’d stop and look out into the property every 10 steps. I got to the gate and still didn’t see anything. Dash and I walked a short way into the pasture, to where I could get a view down into one of the corners of the property, and ice shot into my veins as I could feel the blood leaving my face. I didn’t need the binoculars. Even though they were about 250 yards away, I could clearly see five men standing a few feet apart from one another in a row, defined by the snow like shadows. My heart was pounding. The man in the middle stood out, even at this distance. He was the tallest. His perahan tunban, poncho-sized scarf, pakol hat, all jet black. I raised my binoculars. He was staring directly into my eyes. Bridger. The man I’d killed in the ambush, scrambling to get out of the dusty truck. This isn’t fuckin real, I thought. I looked up into the white sky, then back to the house, rubbed my eyes, and looked back into the binoculars. He hadn’t moved. I looked at the others. None were looking at me, just gazing around, up at the trees, mountains, they looked confused. I immediately recognized the two men I’d killed first (Hank and Pete), and the guy I’d shot on the edge of the poppy field (Buck), and then the other… Fuck me. I guess I’d killed one of those guys after all, in the back of the truck as they tried to break through our line. He was young, maybe 20-21. He had fierce, wild eyes, even as he stood calmly, gazing up toward the mountain. I looked back to Bridger, the old warrior. Right as I saw he was still staring right at me, sporting a look of focus and an almost parental judgment, he took one step directly toward me, and stopped. It made my mouth run dry, my hands go numb. The other four looked at him, almost with confusion, then all of them—at the same time—looked up at me, straight into my binoculars, and I could see it, recognition in their eyes. Subtle disbelief chased by anger. But the youngest, the “surprise, ” he looked different. He lowered his head slightly but held my gaze with an expression of calm, collected, murderous hatred. As I took my next breath, those five men’s fury, their fear, their grief, pain, confusion, it all seemed to turn into a noxious gas that rushed into my lungs, where it twisted and weaved into a throbbing, screaming hot cist that ruptured in my gut and washed through my nervous system as I exhaled. It made me shudder and start to cough, the last of which was a gag. That was the spirit, not the ghosts. I knew it, not sure how, but I did, and I took a deep breath trying to focus. There’s nothing actually inside of you, relax, that was just part of this wicked fuckery. I realized Dash was pawing my leg, I patted his head, “it’s alright buddy, it’s alright. ” I thought about Joe. Follow the methods, and Sasha will be safe. I got a grip and looked back down at the ghosts, who hadn’t moved or taken their gaze from me. As we stared across the pasture at each other, I got a shockingly nostalgic sensation from my childhood—one I’d get as I’d walk along the chainlink fence around the junkyard between my house and the bus stop, staring down in fascinated terror at the furious, snarling guard dog that would rage alongside me in a frenzied storm of frothy drool and kicked-up dust every time I’d pass by, knowing the fence was the only thing keeping the beast from ripping and tearing into my 11 year old body. I felt the same old physical sensation too; the coiled, wet-knots of tension in my muscles as I subconsciously prepared to explode into a sprint. I felt angry. It was initially directed at these men, but was refocused, almost forcefully like a meat hook in the muzzle of my anger being hauled toward the spirit; like it wanted my rage and contempt. It hit me then, a realization. This thing wanted me to give it a reason. It wanted me to rage. I’d thought on that earlier, after the scarecrow, but I felt it for the first time. I wasn’t going to give it that. I couldn’t give it that. Staring down at them, standing on my land posing a threat to my family, I felt… guilt. It wasn’t really guilt for killing them, but more because they got killed fighting at home, or at least relatively close to home, by dudes from across the god damn planet. I'd known years before, but never like in that moment; there’s no amount of those strenuously cobbled-together musings about “serving your country” or the “inveterate nature of men in war” that can rebut these five men’s unalienable right to absolutely fucking hate me. I turned and went back into the yard. As I went to shut the gate, Dash looked back behind him, tilting his head as he does when he smells a grouse, and looked back at me with urgency. “I know buddy, let’s go inside. ” I sat with Sasha and told her about what I’d seen and who the 5th man was. We'd both taken all the days off through New Years, and the prospect of this being day 1 of an uninterrupted 12-day stint here made me feel like ripping my hair out, totally trapped. The rest of the day Sasha tried to be as jolly as possible. We weren’t religious but Sash loved “Christmasing” out a house so we hung lights and wreathes, drank hot toddies, and played holiday music. Every chance I got I’d peek out a window into the pasture to see if they were starting to move closer. We’d picked out a little spruce out at the bottom of the driveway to cut down to decorate, which Sash asked if I wanted to go get with her. I didn’t need to respond for her to pick up what my vibe was putting down. “Harry, we can’t let them dictate our lives. If we follow the methods, we’ll be safe. I think we should make it known that we’re going to go about our lives unafraid. I don’t want to push you if you don’t want to, I can’t see em, but that’s how I feel we should handle this. ” I just wanted to sit inside and drink more whisky for the next 2-3 weeks, but she was trying to be strong for me, I could tell, and I didn’t want to leave that unappreciated. “Let’s do it. ” We grabbed the handsaw and walked down the driveway cutting fresh tracks into the snow, with Dash bounding ahead, his red-golden coat standing out against the snow like a warm flame. I could feel Sasha watching my gaze as I looked out into the meadow. “Can you see them? ” Four of them had moved a bit closer to the pond out in the pasture, and were staring at us. Bridger and three others, couldn’t tell which. “Four of em, not sure where the 5th is. ” Sash squeezed my hand affectionately. “I wish I could see them too babe, I’m sorry I can’t…” I kissed her cheek. “I’m glad you can’t. ” We got to the little spruce tree at the bottom of the driveway. “This the one? ” I asked. Sash responded with a bit of added gusto “it’s perfect, don’t you love it Dash!? ” I smiled. She was trying so hard it gave me a wasp sting of guilt and affection. I took a knee and started to saw at the little trunk. About halfway through, I gripped the tree with my free hand pulled to open the cut a bit for the blade, and shook snow off the limbs that snuck in the back of my jacket, startling me as the ice hit my neck and went down my shirt. “Ah shit! ” I laughed, and heard Sasha laugh back at me “nice move there babe! ” I turned around to throw a handful of snow at her, and what I saw scared me so bad an electric burst of terror-wrapped adrenaline tore through my body so fast I let out a half-scream half-grunt. My shock yanked Sasha’s smile away and replaced it with a look of dread, and she immediately shot her hands up to her face “Babe what!? ” One of the ghosts, the young one, the “surprise, ” was standing right next to Sasha, facing her, hands clenched in fists at his sides, leaning forward into the side of her face. I started to stand up, and Sasha took one step toward me, while turning her head to follow my gaze, when he screamed. Mouth as wide as a human's ever should be, putting what looked like every part of his body into it, he blasted out a raspy shriek that was low and high in pitch. I winced as the noise smashed into my eardrums like a truck hitting a deer without even tapping the breaks. With ripples of heat distortion pouring from his mouth like a furnace, the scream had such force it knocked off Sasha’s wool hat, blowing her hair and the snow falling around her head sideways. She jumped in terror and lost her footing, stumbling to land hard on her side. I surged up and dove toward her. Dash went berserk, teeth-barred, snarling and snapping his fangs at the noise, unsure where to direct the savage attack you could see he was ready to dedicate every muscle to. It was over in 3 seconds. “Are you ok?! Sash are you ok!? ” She had tears welling in her eyes and was staring in shock into, for her, the snowflakes and air where the scream had erupted from. She blinked her shock away then nodded, looking at me with a forced smile. “I’m fine, I’m fine, I just fell over, won’t even be a bruise ok? ” I helped her up and turned her up the driveway, as we both yelled for Dash to follow us. I glanced at the other four ghosts, who hadn't moved. “Could you see it before it screamed at me? ” Sash asked. “Yah, for a split second, he came out of nowhere. ” I looked back to call for Dash again who hadn’t let up on his feral snarling. The ghost of the young man was smiling at me with provocation and malice in his eyes. Although, to my surprise, he did actually seem a bit uneasy about the dog, like he was trying to hold his ground, flinching very subtly when Dash would lunge with a bark, switching his gaze from me to the dog, like looking away from Dash for too long might give him an opening. “Which one was it Harry? Is he still there? ” Sash asked. “Yah, still there…” His apparent fear of the dog made my rage boil up behind my eyes more than his cocky little smile did, like it was a weakness I needed to exploit, a broken nose I needed to keep landing punches into. As though sensing my ire, Sasha grabbed me by the chin and forced my eyes to hers. “Harry – it’s ok. Babe, it’s ok, the guy just scared me, screw him, right? Let’s go start dinner. ” She still had tears in her eyes, one ran down her frost-reddened cheek, and while she was forcing a smile, there was sincerity in it as well. The volume of Dash’s barking was amplified by the oppressive silence of a snowy afternoon in the mountains. I took a deep breath. “You’re right. " I looked back at the ghost. “But fuck him, let’s get our tree, yah? ” When I looked back at her she gave me smile and an approving nod, “let’s get our tree. ” I turned back down the driveway, but I froze before taking a step as my heart lept into my throat and it felt like my stomach flipped upside down. The other four ghosts were all on our side of the pond now, 50-60 yards away, standing, staring at me, spread out in new positions normal men couldn't have possibly reached in such a short time, nor without leaving any tracks in the snow as they'd managed. “What!? ” Sasha asked as she grabbed my hand. I took a breath and looked back to her and forced a smile. “Nothin babe. ” I stomped over to the saw, and as if sensing our plan to finish what we’d started, Dash calmed, looked at me, wagged his tail, then bounded up to Sasha and planted himself, head low, between her and the ghost. I picked up the saw and looked at the young man, his smile was fading, being replaced by anger, which made me smile. "More of a cat guy eh? " I asked him as I bent down and sawed the last inch or so of the tree. I gripped the sappy, cold trunk, hoisted the little tree over my shoulder, and turned to the young man. His face, all condescension gone, was twisted into a rictus of hate. Looking at these ghosts wasn’t quite the same as looking at a living person, but the difference was small. They weren’t translucent, I could see pores and scars in his skin, but it’s still kinda like looking at something when you’re having a migraine. Their legs, arms, torso, and head are all there, but you can only clearly see whatever you’re looking at directly. Their periphery is just elusive, hard to describe. We stared at each other for a few long moments. He looked to be about my age when we last met... I remembered him then; seeing a guy in my rifle company drag his body by the ankle to a row of the other fighters he'd been killed with, the friction of the road pulling his shirt up over his head, exposing the bullet holes and coagulated blood covering his stomach and sternum. Then the image of him screaming into Sasha's face flooded in. I pointed at him with my saw and nodded, “slick move hombre, for real, top notch spook maneuver. I’ll call you Creeps. ” Disgust joined the hate in his glower. As I turned back toward Sash, my heart skipped a beat again as adrenaline shot into my face. The other four ghosts were all clustered now, only 20 yards away in the meadow, with Bridger in the front. He looked at me with a fiery judgment. My ears popped and my hands started shaking. As we locked eyes my mind dredged up long forgotten details; apprehensively searching his body for a suicide vest, smelling smokey pine in his clothes, leaning across him to unbuckle his seatbelt, the soft tinking of the dying engine, unceremoniously pulling him out of that smoking, blood riddled truck down onto the road; seeing shattered glass under him and almost reflexively reaching down to move his head so he wouldn’t cut himself, the brief lance of shock at my even having that trace of humanity left in me, which I remembered almost feeling proud of myself for… “Harry what is it? ” I snapped out of my strange recall and looked at Sasha, who looked concerned. I shook my head “nothin darlin. ” I turned back to Bridger, closed my eyes and bowed my head toward him. When I looked back up, his expression hadn’t changed. That was very long night, but far easier than those that followed. Part VI - Finale.
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