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Footsteps of a ghost
It was a hypnotizingly peaceful afternoon. I shuffled along the banks of Little River, head down, searching intently for a pottery shard, an arrowhead — anything that the area’s first inhabitants might have left behind.
The sun’s rays felt good on my back, but the air still had a cold nip to it from a front that had passed the day before.
The sound of dogs barking in the distance echoed through the bare trees. The occasional cawing of crows seemed especially sharp in the dry air.
Otherwise, there was silence.
I felt rather than heard something behind me on the riverbank. I turned but saw nothing. It happened again. The third time, I barely turned my head and peeked out of one corner of my eye. […]
