by Christina Rosso
The words “Tragedy Ends Pigeon Hunt” jumped from the screen of Matt’s tablet. My hands gripped its smooth, rounded edges. The faded 1969 newspaper article glowed gray on the screen of the sleek piece of technology. Tommy Downs’ small eyes looked out from sloped eyebrows. His lips were upturned slightly, as though he was about to smile when the photographer snapped the photo. Did he smile in the seconds following? I wondered. Did he know what awaited him on the roof of the abandoned Savannah house?
I handed the tablet to the person beside me. When it had made its way back to our tour guide, Matt said, “Would you like to see where Tommy died? We can go look at the spike that he landed on.” He said this in a laid back way, as if he was asking whether or not we’d like to grab a drink of water at the nearest water fountain.
I swallowed, phlegm sour on my tongue from dinner’s barbecue. Maybe I shouldn’t go look at the site of the nine-year-old boy’s impalement. Maybe some ghost stories are meant to remain fuzzy and ephemeral. Before I could take a step forward to follow the others, shooting pains in my stomach sent my hands to my knees. White, misshapen stars flitted before my eyeline before everything went dark. A tangy, earthy scent floated to my nostrils, as my temples, neck, and armpits perspired. My cheeks and throat buzzed with heat. Would I lose consciousness? Would my vision return?
“I can’t see,” I called out to my friend, Jess. “I can’t see anything.”
A moment later, someone grabbed my right arm and led me forward. “Let’s go sit down,” Jess said. Both her voice and hands were steady. My feet shuffled along the concrete ground as we walked, the moist flesh sliding in my leather sandals, creating a light suction sound.
With both hands, Jess guided me to a seated position. Cold metal pressed into my back. I leaned into it, inviting the coolness to my clammy skin. I tried to push the stabbing pains in my stomach to the periphery of my consciousness, placing all of my energy into willing my sight to return. I stared forward, my eyelids pulled wide.
For what seemed like hours, my friend and I sat there in stillness and silence until the white stars began to pop in front of me and the pain in my stomach lessened to a small knot. Suddenly, the William-Mercer house appeared before me, an apparition of red brick, columns, and filigree. I inhaled the fresh fragrance of flowers and dew. Then I tilted my head back to look at the roof where Tommy Downs fell to his death. A small white figure stood there, a slingshot in hand. He began to waver, his body convulsing as he moved closer to the edge. I looked away before he toppled over, already knowing how the story would end.
Christina Rosso is a writer and bookstore owner living in South Philadelphia with her bearded husband and two rescue pups. Her debut collection, SHE IS A BEAST, is forthcoming from APEP Publications. Her writing has been featured in FIVE:2:ONE Magazine, Digging Through the Fat, Ellipsis Zine, and more. Visit christina-rosso.com or find her on Twitter @Rosso_Christina.
