Writhing

Not the exact image that inspired the story, but chillingly lovely, nonetheless. If her mother knew what she was doing, Kyra was sure she’d be forced to endure a lecture of epic proportions.  But it was late summer, on a Sunday night.  She didn’t make a habit of visiting bars or taverns down Broughton or River Street, but Kyra was relatively sure that the epicenter of downtown excitement was not on Sunday evenings.  It was cooler tonight—and she was profoundly grateful for it, even with the little bumps that lifted on her bare arms from the small breezes that filtered through the trees, weaving through the tendrils of grey moss.  It had been so far an exhaustingly, excruciatingly hot summer, even for Savannah.  But tonight seemed several months removed from the pattern of sticky, humid evenings.  Twilight had come swiftly, then darkness, near complete below the clouds of an approaching storm.  The moon was just nearing half, but it too was barely visible behind a thick veil of fog.  Alone, standing on the edge of Warren square, surrounded by the low-lying fog, Kyra wondered anew if she really wanted to test tonight whether some of the houses down here were actually haunted.  She glanced behind. There was no one else on the road.  Cars dotted the sides of the square, but there seemed less than usual.  The azalea bushes surrounding the decorative tabby benches seemed higher than normal too, as though shading some nefarious dealings from passerby. Or maybe the fog just made it seem that way. Continue reading

Advertisements