THe Clearing Continued

Doc and Charly's house was built on a hillside some three quarters of a mile from their store. It sat on a two and a half acre plot and if you walked to the southern edge of the site you would find yourself standing over a steep drop that looked down on the town's principal two lane blacktop. Beyond that lay farmland and Navajo Lake, the reasons the town existed at all. Were it not for a stand of trees directly before the store and of course the darkness of night, Old Doc would have been able to see the building ostensibly being cleared of its entrenched deceased as he leaned on the fence at cliff side and rattled the ice in his third scotch and, uh, ice. What in the world are they doing? was the first part of his wondering, for nearly two hours had passed since he had packed up and gone home.. Trying to talk the spooks away? was the rest.

Inside the store as Doc imagined it, the atmosphere was electric, charged, crackling like bits of small lightning everywhere. There were flashes of images, hazy and indistinct, the ghosts perhaps, blipping in and out like distant white neon. There were sounds like radio static being turned up sharply and abruptly and then receding slowly to the shadowy corners. The air smelled of burning leaves and old rags, dry, smoky, scratchy to inhale. All four of the living felt mindless fear, adrenaline, the urge to run. Their hair prickled, they sweat profusely and they fidgeted crazily, but they did not leave. They held fast and even though each could be heard to moan and at the end when tension tightened and peaked, to scream, they clung fiercely to each other and as if on cue, when each could stand no more, they pulled themselves into their own circle. And in that moment, that brief second of time when they locked onto each other in a frightened group hug, there was a sound like the soft pop of an air gun magnified tenfold and the room... the room... was suddenly emptied.

They remained linked there for a time after, breathing deeply and exhaling long sighs onto each others ears. When at last they moved separately again about the store's cans and boxes and bottles they laughed and chuckled and made small jokes, not knowing exactly what they had done, but feeling successful, a little pumped even. It was Sharman, the most sensitive, who remained still and said nothing. It was as if she was hearing something beyond the sound of her companion's voices. "We are not done" she finally said. "There is still more to do."

Slowly, reluctantly, the four moved to the center of the room and rejoined their hands.