Free Call of Shadows: A Fearless Series Short Story (The Fearless Book 0) by Terry Maggert

It peeped fretfully from the roadside tangle of weeds that streak skyward without fanfare each June. Less than two feet high, of a simple design, the roadside monument was like the thousands of others that dot the rural South and elicit a sympathetic what a shame or intemperate thoughts of just desserts for rowdy youth. A car accident, a life, or lives lost, honored with a folk art cross so crude it could only be made by the hand of a relative gone heavy with regret, or shame, or the paralytic sadness that only the death of a child can bring. The scrawled name was accompanied by no date, no prayers, and nothing of distinction. Even the location was indeterminate, being roughly equidistant from no less than six small towns connected by rolling cornfields and pockmarked county roads, consistent in their need for attention from road crews who turned their efforts to more important places.
     Few of the cars that hurtled past would take note of the cross due to the lack of torn brush, or gouged roadside shoulder, or even the odd bit of metal that said there was a body here, once; you should have seen the blood !  There are certain details needed in order to wake the ghoulish undertones of the curious, but that was not what we designed for our bit of roadside theater. Without the lingering hint of a violent death, there was no reason to take interest in another open air tomb at the side of a meaningless road, so each observer puzzled over the name for an instant, shrugged, and then turned back to the song on the radio, their lives, and the nest stretch of asphalt. Soon, the shadows of Queen Anne’s lace and thistles hid the cross altogether, and it was forgotten by all who had seen it. For the moment.
    I arrived in the oven of August, tired from waiting for her appearance. Where she slept, I never knew, but the smell of her skin betrayed a history of quartering in haylofts, ditches, even the sweet tang of an abattoir once saturated her rags. My close cropped hair and bland clothes were a reflection of exactly what I wanted the world to see, and in this instance they allowed me to blend as well as was possible in the scrutiny of rural culture. I make it my business to be forgettable, for the most part, and dodge the probing questions of busybodies with the practiced ease of an old hand at the art of avoidance. 
    I drove to where I knew the cross would be and pulled over, stepping out into the hot breeze that was free from any whisper of relief, as if comfort was a sin that I could not be allowed to enjoy. The listless buzz of unseen insects tapered off lazily as I knelt to the side of the bait, careful not to crush the weeds brittle by the savage prairie summer. Sammy Ridgeway, read the cross. Just right . It was plain, but personal. 
    Believable.
     I wrote those folksy letters with the intent that the name would fit in somewhere, if not here, and that was all that counted. I know my business, and I have honed my message over years of trial and error and in so many nights spent on graveled moonwash, waiting, waiting. Always waiting for her, and for what comes next, until we can move on, sated and giddy under a sky barely dark enough to hide hide my furtive smile, as I veer to the horizon, bloody and reeking of her secrets.
     I circled in place carefully marking the nooks and rises of the surrounding field, now waving in dry cornstalks, fighting mightily not to lose their purchase in the chalky soil. The entire field whispered in brittle protest at my presence, an endless chatter of thirst and resistance to the unending wind, carrying dust and the fortunes of some family one gritty moment at a time.  Soon, I would return, and I wanted to know exactly where I stood on the killing ground when I answered her call. A diligent Helper knows where to be when the blood spills.
    I only recently lost the ability to pass as a high school student, causing me to get creative while building my own evolving personal history. Aging, even