Searching for Annie

There wasn’t a living soul for miles. 

Snow sifted down, muffling all sounds except their breathing and the occasional squeak of the snow underfoot. 

“Do you think she’s still there?”

He rolled his eyes. He couldn’t believe they were doing this. It was freezing—freezing—and it was going to be dark soon. The things you do to impress a girl. This was dumb. “Probably.”

“Probably? I don’t appreciate your sarcasm.” A pause. Her voice faltered. “You really think so?”

He shrugged. “Why not? Just because they moved her grave doesn’t mean they moved her soul.”

“Why are you so mean?”

“You’re the one who insisted we go ghost hunting in the middle of nowhere in a snowstorm.”

“What else were we going to do?” she asked, as if the internet did not exist. 

 “There. See? That tree. With the stone wall.” In the distance, the tree stood dark against the graying sky.

“At least turn on the flashlight. It’s getting hard to see.”

It was just like Old Man Larson had said. A lone tree surrounded by a low stone wall. They got closer. 100 yards. 50 yards. The wind came up; snow blew into their faces. When they opened their eyes, the flashlight was out.

“Knock it off,” she said. “It’s not funny.”

He toggled the switch. “The batteries are dead.”

“I said it’s not funny.”

He toggled faster. “I’m serious. They’re dead.”

“What was that?” She sounded scared. “Did you see that?”

He dropped the flashlight. “Yes.”