Free Spook Lights: Southern Gothic Horror by Eden Royce Page B

coming home, ever. And now, finally, I didn’t want him to.
    Empty of spirit, I drove. For miles. Ended up at a hole in the wall fish shack on the outskirts of the city on the way out to Edisto Island. I hadn’t been down this way since I married Bill and we set up life in suburbia. The scent of frying peanut oil drew me inside and I dusted the seat near the door with a napkin before settling into it.
    Not many people were there—Sundays were days to eat at home with family, if you had it—so the young woman behind the counter wasn’t delayed in sauntering over to my table. She looked me over with heavy-lidded eyes. The crack of her chewing gum was like gunfire. “Yes, ma’am?”
    I had no idea why I was here. I didn’t want to go home to face an end to my devotion. What would life be like if I just let my son go? No more visits, no asking the congregation to pray for him. How do I give up on him? “What’s the special?” I let my Geechee show, ending consonants smeared to nothing and vowels stretched to their limits.
    If she was surprised, the waitress didn’t show it. “Whiting platter. Fried or baked. Two sides. Dinner roll.”
    My son’s favorite. I hadn’t fried fish for him since he was a child. Too messy. Too much grease. The smell clung to the curtains and the couch and the carpet and it wouldn’t come out. Only time faded the smell, not the aggressive effort of cleaners and air fresheners.
    “Two fried platters to go.”
    The meals were ready in minutes, packed up with plasticware and a surplus of napkins. When I got home, the bag was still searing hot and I removed it carefully from the floor of the car.
    “I’m so sorry to be late.” My apology to Bill I’d worked out in the car—I was hours late and I hadn’t called. It was so unlike me.  I’d tell him the truth about the baby and say I’d needed time to myself to get a handle on a new addition to the family. “But I picked up dinner.  I hope you didn’t cook…”
    Bill sat at the dining room table, head in his hands, cordless phone on top of the folded newspaper. No smells wafted from the kitchen. I placed the bag on the table and lowered myself into the chair across from him.
    “What is it?” The strength in my voice surprised me.
    “He’s gone.”
    I didn’t need to ask who. “When? How? I was just there.”
    “A few hours ago. Poison.” He shook his head. “From a cake some young woman brought to him. Where does a girl get cyanide?” Bill raised his eyes to me and I saw my emotion reflected. Pain, confusion and relief. “They said it was some kind of a wedding cake. Did he—”
    “He said he did, but I didn’t know before today. And I don’t know when it happened.” I plucked at the plastic tie on the bag. “What about the girl?” God answers prayer.
    “They shared a slice of the cake. He’s at the morgue. We’re supposed to go down there.”
    “We will.” I opened the bag and pulled out the Styrofoam containers of fried fish, potato salad and spicy collard greens, their scents entwining to make a soup of fragrance that would, in time, fade. “After dinner.”
     
     
     

With the Turn of a Key
     
    For the third time that day, James thought about drowning himself. He stood in front of his custom-built beachfront home on Daniel Island and didn’t want to go inside to its artificial coldness. Instead, he leaned against the hood of his car and closed his eyes. Salty breeze dampened his thinning hair and caressed his face. Ocean waves, with their rhythmic Zen-like lapping, called to him with promises he was finding harder and harder to resist. 
    He knew he would be able to rest beneath the endless sea. It would be the sanctuary he couldn’t find here on land. With his fortieth birthday now behind him, James felt he was beyond the spontaneous carefree acts of youth; adulthood came with a sense of commitment and duty. He’d made choices he would have to live with for the rest of his life. He shrugged off