City Park, New Orleans (Photo: en.wikipedia.org)
They always met in the park. There were spirits there, too, of course: The drowned. The lost. The desperate. The abandoned young. However, these tended to be the milder spirits, mellowed by moss and rain and the freedom to roam on whispery winds. House spirits were harsher, meaner, and angrier. They carried histories of rape and whippings and the smaller everyday murders that chip at a soul until there is nothing left but agony and bitterness.
It was better to meet in the park, on a bridge between this world and the other, chiseled by masons, anchored by time.
She lowered herself onto the top stair and waited. She’d hear him come, but she would not turn. He did not bear to be looked upon.
“I will take him across,” he’d said when they last met. And he had. It was a gentle death.
Now it was her mother’s time.
For What Pegman Saw