The Haunted Traveler Vol. 1 Issue 1

73
That spring was cruel to many families in the hollow. Influenza
had descended heavy as a smiting hand, snatching up
young and old, healthy and infirm, in its merciless grip. Norman
had taken ill only the week before. Within three days
fluid filled his lungs, and each breath he drew sounded thick
and wet. Soon afterward, his breathing ceased altogether.
Irene’s father sat in the corner of the room away from the
family. He rested his forearms on his thighs, his hands held
together between his knees and his head hung low. Irene
wondered if he had dozed off and waited for him to pitch
forward onto the floor, but then he rolled his shoulders in a
shrug, and she knew he was awake.
It was just after midnight when her mother released a
short scream. Irene started at the sound. Her sisters froze,
staring at their mother with trepidation, and Russell rushed
in from the porch, still reeking of cigarette smoke.
Irene’s father leapt from his chair, hands clenched at his
sides. “What’s the matter with you, woman?” he demanded.
Irene’s mother struggled to her feet. She hadn’t slept since
Norman had first become sick, and Irene knew she hadn’t
eaten in days. Irene hurried to wrap an arm around her waist.
“Mama, what’s wrong?” she asked.
“Look at him,” her mother said, leaning over Norman’s
body. “He’s still alive!” She turned to Irene’s father. “Milton,
don’t you see? He’s sweating!” Her voice was shrill, edged
with hysteria.
Irene stared down at Norman. She didn’t see any change in
him, but still she hesitated to reach out and touch the body
she had helped wash and prepare for burial.
“You’re talking nonsense,” Irene’s father said. “You need
to keep your wits about you, Harriet. The doctor’s come and
gone, and he said the boy’s dead.”
“Would you just look!” her mother wailed, holding out her
hands.
Irene’s sisters stared at Norman, their eyes wide with terror.
Agnes began to sob. She tried to scramble to her feet, but