The Haint of Blue Heron Creek

Nate stirred the soup even though it didn’t need stirring. The can said “hearty beef,” but it was thin as brown ditchwater. The floating bits of gristle reminded Nate of drowning insects, bobbing in the creek. Behind him, Ty sat on the kitchen floor, coloring. The waxy scrape of crayon on paper grated on Nate’s nerves.

Mama had left for her shift at the county hospital half an hour ago. Kissed Ty on the forehead, told Nate to keep the doors locked, the dog fed, and the phone line clear. Pop hadn’t come home. Again. Nate hadn’t asked why, the calendar told him everything he needed to know.

“Set the table,” Nate said without turning.

“I don’t know where the bowls are.”

“You do when Mama’s home.” Nate snapped, his voice much sharper than he meant. He guiltily chewed his cheek, Mama’s pet peeve. It wasn’t Ty’s fault. He was just… tired. Tired of microwaved dinners, tired of holding everything together, tired of feeling alone.

Ty didn’t answer. Just kept coloring.

Through the kitchen window, Nate could see the ridge was almost swallowed by fog. On clear days, Nate could spot the mine’s rusting old tipple, jutting into the sky like a broken tooth. Not today. This fog was thick, damp, and it pressed against the glass, leaving teardrop streaks behind. Past the murk, the town of Blue Heron Creek seemed to dissolve, its clapboard houses and shuttered storefronts ghostly outlines of their former lives.

Ty scratched harder with his crayon. “Is Pop coming back tonight?”

“He might.” Nate said, “Maybe after Mama gets home.”

Behind them, the house clicked and settled. A vent snapped open upstairs. The ceiling fan ticked, and the lights in the kitchen flickered.

Ty looked up. “Is today the day?”

Nate stirred the soup again. “What day?” He tried to sound like he didn’t know. He hated that he still circled the date in his mind.

Ty didn’t look away. “You know… the day...”

Nate didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Everyone in town remembered. Four men dead, a dozen injured.

That winter, the church hung four lanterns in its steeple, one for each man lost, their glow flickered through the snow until spring. Folks still left flowers at the mine’s entrance, petals wilting against the chain link fence. Nate passed them daily on his walk to school, their colors fading like the town’s hope. The mine’s closure had bled the town dry, leaving debts unpaid and families scattered like dandelion seeds.

Their dad came home quiet the night of the accident, covered in soot, coughing up thick black mucous. The ichor smeared across his blue overalls, staining them. They were still in the closet, tucked behind old jackets and the family’s boxes of photo albums. He hadn’t said much since. He just drank more. Stayed gone longer. Got… angrier.

“He said he’d be home for dinner,” Ty clutched the crayon tighter, remembering how Pop used to carve tiny wooden frogs from cedar scraps, their eyes winking under porch light as he’d make them hop across Ty’s palm. “For my tadpole,” he’d say.

Now, Dad’s hands shook too much for carving and the frogs had disappeared, lost in the clutter of a house that felt too big without him.

“He says a lot of things.” Nate spat.

Ty squinted, looking toward the window. “You can’t even see the trees.”

Nate ladled soup into Mama’s mismatched rooster bowls. He gave Ty the whole one and placed the chipped one, the one Pop hurled last week, in front of his place.

Ty moved to the window, wiped crayon off his hands, careful not to meet Nate’s eyes. “It wasn’t like that earlier.” He pressed his fingers to the cold glass. “It’s moving kinda funny. Don’t you think Nate?”

Nate slammed the pot back on the stove, splashing broth across the burners. Ty jumped. “It’s just weather!”

Last week, Nate had chucked a baseball at the school’s busted window. It felt good. Stupid, but good. He felt the same way now after scaring Ty.

“Granny used to say haints ride in on fog like that.”

Nate froze, just for a second.

“She said they wear people’s voices. Said if you open the door for the wrong one, it can come inside and live here.” Ty’s voice was soft now, reverent.

“Jesus, Ty! Enough with the ghost stories1 Granny also said buried onions kept the measles away.”

“But she was right sometimes.”

Nate turned to him. “She also thought you could tell if someone was lying by whether their dog looked nervous.”

Ty pointed under the table. The dog had his nose buried in his paws, ears flat, tail curled under. Nate didn’t respond, just took a bite of the flavorless soup.

They ate in silence, the TV muted, its glow flickering across the kitchen. By now the fog blurred the porch swing where Mama and Pop used to sit, laughing over mason jars of moonshine from Old Man Greer’s still. Only the warm gold of the kitchen lit the window now, turning the glass into a mirror, reflecting Nate’s sunken eyes and Ty’s slight frame hunched over his bowl.

Nate caught Ty glancing at the door again. “You ever think,” Ty said, quietly, “that sometimes when you’re waiting for someone to come home, it’s not really them you’re waiting for?”

Nate didn’t know what to say to that. Ty could say strange things sometimes. Like Granny. Like Pop, before the accident.

The dog stood suddenly, ears pinned. He growled once, then darted from the room just before a knock sounded at the front door.

Ty stood. “Dad?”

Nate grabbed his wrist.

Something felt off. “Ty. Why would dad need to knock?”

A second knock sounded and a voice called through the door.

“Boys? “It’sme. Let..... me’n.”

They both froze. The voice was their dad’s, but…wrong. It was slow, slurred. Warped, like one of the vinyl records mama used to sing to while cleaning. Nate’s stomach flipped. He stared at the door and didn’t move.

Ty whispered, “It’s him!”

“I don’t know.”

“But!”

“Just—” Nate swallowed. “Don’t.”

Ty took a step toward the door. Nate tightened his grip. “Let go!” Ty hissed, yanking against Nate.

Nate felt the hair on his arms rise. Something brushed against the door—scritch, scritch.

Fingertips testing wood.

“It’s a haint.” Ty whispered, his voice barely above a breath.

Nate turned toward him. “Don’t say that!”

But Ty was already moving, bolting for the kitchen, socks skidding against the linoleum.

“Granny used to say—” he yanked open the cabinet under the sink, hands flying “you gotta salt the door!”

Nate didn’t stop him. He couldn’t.

Ty scattered the salt like a kid feeding chickens. Quick messy lines across the threshold, the corners, the base of the door.

“Use the whole box,” Nate whispered. “Then come on.”

From the other side of the door, the voice spoke again.

“Boys. Openn…nnup. It’sss cold ….ou’here.”

Nate grabbed Ty’s arm. Looking for somewhere the two could hide. “Pantry! Now!”

They ran.

The dog was already inside, curled tight in the corner. Nate pulled the pantry door shut and turned the old iron latch. It clicked home. Then everything went still.

In the dark, Ty whispered, “What if it gets in?”

Outside, the front doorknob jiggled. Then stopped. The boys listened. Held their breath.

Nothing moved.

“I think it’s gone.” Ty whispered.

“Maybe… We’ll just stay here a little longer, then we’ll—“ The back door creaked open. Then slammed shut.

“We didn’t salt the back door.” Ty’s voice cracked as he looked at Nate with tears in his eyes.

“It’ll be okay,” Nate lied, pulling Ty against him.

They huddled there, between mason jars of canned beans and dusty boxes of hamburger helper. Listening as the… thing dragged itself across the linoleum floor.

From the kitchen, bottles clinked. A drawer slid open, slammed shut. The old cabinet beneath the sink bumped closed.

Then, the smell.

It slipped in under the door, sweet and sharp, like rotting apples and Mama’s nail polish remover.

Ty’s eyes were wide. “That smell—”

“Shhh!” Nate shushed his brother.

The footsteps came closer. Just on the other side of the pantry door now.

Ty sniffled. “That’s Pop’s coat…It always smells like that.” Nate didn’t answer. His heart was pounding against Ty’s shoulder. Outside the pantry, the thing stopped walking.

Then, it spoke. “Tadpole.” The voice hesitated. “Sorry I been gone s’long.”

Ty sobbed into Nate’s sleeve.

“Didn’t mean t’scare you. Jus fergot my way home…. ‘s all.” The dog whined low, teeth bared but silent. “Let me in now. ’S cold ou’ere. I’ll be…. better. You’ll see.”

The voice cracked. Right at the end. It sounded almost perfectly like their father. But it collapsed, deflated, like lungs too tired to carry sound any further.

A pause.

Then, a hand touched the pantry door. Fingers dragging softly down the wood, tracing the grain, as if trying to feel their way back in.

Nate didn’t breathe.

Ty held his hand so tight it hurt.

Then… nothing.

The hand left the wood. The kitchen quieted. They didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just curled up against the dog and listened until sleep finally took them.

In the morning, the fog had lifted. The front and back doors were both shut. The line of salt at the front door lay undisturbed.

Nothing broken. Nothing taken.

But when Nate crept back into the kitchen, there it was. On the pantry door.

A large, coal black handprint.

Nate touched it.

He could almost feel a warmth. But something was… off…

The fingers were the right shape. But the fingerprints were too long, smudged and dragged across the woodgrain. He found a towel and wiped it away before Ty saw.

Later that day while serving breakfast, he couldn’t help but notice…

Coal dust.

Trapped just under his nails.