All Fall Down

Tanner

I don’t believe in ghosts.

At least, that’s what I tell myself as I linger in the backyard of the old Gregory place. The swamp stretches out before me, the ancient cypress trees cloaked in green haze beneath the overcast sky. From where I stand with the house rearing up behind me, I can almost taste the fetid stench of the mire. It’s the smell of decay and rotting things, a primal scent that sets my nerves on fire.

It reeks of danger and death.

But is there something more out there, lurking amidst the sunken tombstones? My mind drifts back to the figure I followed into the swamp and the face I saw in the mirror, and I have my answer.

“Stay the fuck away from us,” I mutter. Even though my voice is low, I have a feeling that the thing in the marsh will hear me anyway.

I turn away then and traverse across the brittle lawn back toward the house.

The structure is very nearly finished. The new materials of the exterior are pristine, though I know that nature will render them dull and