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I shrugged into my down jacket. I don't remember it fitting so snug around my middle. Maybe Desmond isn't the only one in the family picking up a few pounds.

I zipped it then checked for the third time that I had properly tied my hiking boots. I pat my pockets and verified that my gloves were there.

Enough stalling, I had to get this over with.

Ten minutes ago I had announced to Desmond and Harley Junior that we were going for a five-mile hike in White Clay Creek State Park. They were lounging on our coach, potatoes too active a word to describe their state. Over the caterwauling of a weak voiced pre-teen in a bad blond wig I made known my intention to take them outside the house for some physical activity.

Desmond, my eldest, reluctantly detached one suspicious eye from our plasma.

"Dad, you want us to walk?"  Past ten years old, I was Dad now, not Daddy, and clearly no longer his hero.

"We'll have fun, Des." He frowned. He thought Des was a baby's name.

"You want to go, Har, don't you?" 

Since when did I reduce my children's names to one syllable grunts?

My youngest boy, smile approximately half his body weight, leapt off the couch. His brother, four years older, shot him a look that could have been lethal if the younger one stood still long enough to notice. He raced out of our family room and into the mudroom. Soon we could hear him grunting into his boots.

Des rolled his ample body so that it again faced the screen fully. Out of patience I stalked over and shut off the television.

"Get up," I said.

He placed his feet on the floor, moving with the agility of an eighty year old.

"This is so unfair. You're a very mean person," he said. He got to his feet and I swear I could hear his joints pop.

"Just get your boots on, son," I answered.

We were in the car. We rode in blessed silence before my eldest spoke up.

"Why are you always taking us here?" he asked.

Because you're fat and you need to lose weight, I might have said if I was a cruel father. I may be a mean father, according to my oldest boy, but I wan not cruel.

"We could all use some fresh air and exercise, Des." He rolled his eyes again.

"Mommy says we go on these walks because Desmond is fat."  Out of the mouth of babes comes the truth.

"That's not a very nice word, Harley," I corrected.

"What word, Daddy?"  I was still Daddy to him and for some reason that made me feel good.

"Fat. Don't call your brother fat."

"His belly sits over his pants," the child said. I didn't think anyone noticed that but me.

"It's still not a very nice word, Harley, and I don't want you to use it."

He shrugged in my rear view and we both went back to our own thoughts. Desmond, fingers dancing over his PS2, had left us long ago.

I sat on a bench that marked the traditional mid point of our walks. The boys, as usual, climbed the hill that led to this picnic area with a skillful meander. I watched as the zigzagged from one side of the trail to the other, poking ice filled impressions with their improvised walking sticks or examining anything, dead or alive, that caught their fancy.

The picnic area was the center of a three-spoked wheel. Just ahead was the trail we usually took, unchallenging with a minimal number of distractions. To either side was the unknown.

Immediately in front of my bench was a circular metal rim buried in the ground. Its sides were about twelve inches above ground level, best to contain a campfire. The smell of a recent fire was strong from the pit and tiny wisps of smoke floated into the cold air.

I glanced back to the boys. They were just halfway to the top, attention focused on a tree whose twins numbered in the thousands in the surrounding acres.

I craned my eyes back to the three trails. As I did so a blue blur caught in my left eye and disappeared. I got off the bench and wandered over to the trail. This one had a name - the Mason Dixon Trail. Twenty feet down the trail my eyes caught the source of the blue - two men dressed as Union soldiers.

I didn't realize there was a reenactment here today. I considered myself a Civil War buff but I could not think of any battle that had taken place in Delaware. Perhaps there were some skirmishes between the residents of slave holding southern Delaware and the freedom-loving north but certainly nothing to reenact. My curiosity was peaked and I determined we would go down a different path today.

Mason Dixon Trail was a tight, barely discernable path, nearly claustrophobic with the densely packed trees to either side. The ground rose determinedly, steadily, rare in a state known for its flatness. The sun, so strong a moment ago, did not seem to reach this section of parkland. I walked at a steady clip, eyes searching for the re-enactors.

As I expected the boys complained; as the walk grew more difficult, the casual stroll that they were used to having been replaced with an actual hike. They once again faded behind me, this time not from distraction but from exhaustion.

The path snaked to the right, and I took the opportunity to hide myself behind a bush. So used to the boys falling behind, I had made a game out of it. Periodically I would hide and try to scare them into keeping up.

I craned my head around the corner to spy their location. They were about twenty yards away, blissfully unaware as they meandered down the trail.

I turned my face straight ahead and looked forward. Directly in front of me were two legs dressed in coarse blue pants. The pants were dirty and a strong order emitted from the fabric. I looked up and one of the re-enactors was looking down into my face.

"Hello," I said.

He continued to look at me. He had dirty brown hair and a barely there mustache, the kind worn by an older boy who is yet to shave. But he was not a boy, not when I looked into his eyes. His eyes were those of a man who had seen hard times.

"I'm hiding from my sons," I explained.

He nodded in the direction of my children. Their sound was louder now, a patter of words full of joy and life.

"One must die," the fake soldier said.

I smiled.

"One must die," he repeated. He looked at me then in the direction of my sons.

What he said finally registered. I looked at his hands, checking for weapons, assessing his threat. His small, dirty hands were empty.

"Excuse me," I said. The man lowered a hand and he helped me to my feet.

"One must die so that others may live."

"Listen buddy, I think you need to move on. Have you and your re-enactor buddies been drinking?"

He looked at me strangely. I could smell his breath and it was foul.

Didn't meth addicts have bad teeth and bad breath?

I looked in the direction of the boys and took a couple steps toward them. I feared that this nut had a partner somewhere.

"I think you better get away from me."  The man did the opposite, standing uncomfortably close.

I wasn't a violent man but any man, afraid for his loved ones, is capable of great violence. I could hear distinctly what the boys were saying now. They were speculating what their mother had prepared for lunch.

"I'll say it one more time, get away from me." The man did not budge.

I hadn't fought anyone since I body slammed Jeff Biggs in the back of fifth period chemistry at Bartram High. I wasn't a violent man but this re-enactor was maybe five and a half feet tall and perhaps one fifty. I could take him.

I reached out to shove him, push him to make known that I'm serious about him clearing out.

My hand hit air and I stumbled to the ground just in time for my sons to see.

Their laughter disturbed the dense quiet of the forest.

"Daddy is silly," Harley Junior announced, his smile now three quarters of his body.

While standing I looked around. The 'soldier' was nowhere to be seen.

I set off again and in less than a minute I was thirty yards in front of the boys. One minute after that I had the dirty brown haired soldier walking stride for stride next to me. I didn't know how he got next to me, as he seemed to appear out of nowhere.

He must have followed us and emerged from the dense trees or brush while I was looking back at the boys, I explained to conscious myself.

"I told you to leave us alone," I said in as menacing a tone as an overweight, overdrawn, stressed out suburban dad can muster.

"One must die," he said.

"That's it ************."  I wheeled on the man and gave him my best right hand. This time I did not fall to the ground. I stood flat footed and watched as my fist traveled from one side of the 'man' and back out again.

I staggered as if I was hit.

"****, ****, ****," I said. My mind went blank for a second, unwilling or unable to process what I had just seen. The man stared at me with his cold eyes.

I took off in the pell-mell sprint of a frightened animal, heading in the direction of my boys.

I reached my sons and twirled them around in the opposite direction. The dirty haired ghost was at my side and evidently I was the only one who could see him as the children did not react to his presence.

"We have to go," I told the children. I started pushing them in the opposite direction.

"The captain says deserters will be shot. Every last one of them," the ghost said.

I stopped pushing the boys and stood still. The boys, motivated finally, fast walked ahead of me.

"Major Hartnell says we need to man this picket."

"Picket?"

The man nodded and presented a grim smile.

"Aye. We on the look out for Johnny Reb."

"We?" I asked but the word caught in my throat as I saw another blue coat just ahead of my boys. A long rifle sat perched in his hands.

"Oh God," I said as I rushed off. The ghost kept pace with me easily, his feet 'running' inches above the soil.

I reached the boys and gathered them in my arms. I hugged them, producing a smile from the youngest and a scowl from the eldest.

"What's going on Dad?" Desmond demanded. I released them.

I looked at the soldier who once again flanked me and he looked back.

"One must die," he said.

I pointed in the direction of the ghost.

"Tell me you see him."

"Who?" Desmond asked.

"Daddy is silly," the youngest crowed and he started off in our original direction. After a lingering look of disappointment or disgust, Desmond followed.

"One must die," the man said again.

"Why are you doing this to us?" I said. Desmond looked back at me. I forced myself to smile and waved him on. Once he had rounded a curve in the trail I spoke again, lower now.

"Why us?  Why my boys?"

"Why me and my mates?" he asked. For the first time I heard a faint Scottish accent.

"What are you and your 'mates' doing here?  There were no Civil War battles fought in Delaware?  There were none this far North except for Gettysburg."

"Gettysburg?"

"Pennsylvania, July 1863."

The ghost nodded thoughtfully.

"Shells must have made you daft," he said with a grin.

"What?"

"Shells must have exploded near your head above the creek."

The White Clay Creek snaked in a valley below us. "Nothing exploded near me anywhere, not near White Clay Creek or anywhere else."

"Nay, Antietam Creek, mate."

I searched my memories of Civil War history. The name Antietam struck a chord as one of the bloodiest battles of a very bloody war.

"What is today's date?" I asked.

"October 1, 1862," he replied.

"And you fought at Antietam?"

"Aye. You were there too."

I decided to let that pass. "Clearly my boys weren't there. They're just young children."

"Plenty of children fought on both sides. You know that."

I struggled to remember more about the Battle of Antietam. It was a Union victory, one that prompted Lincoln to issue the Emancipation Proclamation.

"Antietam is in Maryland - what are you doing in Delaware?  Why are you watching out for rebels this far north?"

The soldier grinned. "This all is over a lady, mate."

"A lady?"

"Aye. Major Hartnell came away from Antietam with only half his troop but he had a singular prize."

"A woman?"

"A fair woman, one he knew before the war."

"I still don't understand."

"Let me tell you."  He nodded to another soldier, a tall one with dark hair. This soldier had materialized to my left and slightly behind me. His pace matched ours exactly and I wondered what meaning his presence had.

"We're part of the 51^st Pennsylvania brigade. Our commander is Major Thomas Hartnell. Major Hartnell led us against the rebels in a battle to take a small bridge that spanned the creek. While we fought he took a liking to a woman who lived in the farmhouse that acted as his headquarters. The feeling was not quite equal on her part but she came north with the troop nonetheless."

"He kidnapped her?"

"Aye."

"Your hundreds of miles from Antietam. What are you doing here?"

"The young woman is the sister of a rebel - a captain."

"They've chased you this far?"

He nodded. "They are determined to have her back."

"And you and the other soldiers are dying so that your Major can keep the woman?"

"You have to die for something, friend," the dark haired soldier said.

"I still don't understand what you're doing in White Clay Creek."

"Major Hartnell is from Philadelphia. He's taking his bride home to meet his mother. He's convinced the rebels won't follow him there."

Philadelphia is still forty miles north and west of where we walked.

"He told us that he was setting up a rear line of defense," the soldier to my left said. "He knows that the rebels have to cross this creek in order to maintain their pursuit. He expects us to meet them."

"Giving him time to escape to Philadelphia," I said. I thought for a moment. The creek ran below us, its icy water rushing over prominent stones.

"He's sacrificing you," I said.

"Men must die so others may live."

"Is that what he told you?"

"Aye. He told you, too. That's why you be here."

I stopped walking and the two ghosts stopped also. I took a deep breath of cold air and let the lung warmed air out slowly.

"I'm not a soldier and neither are my sons. We weren't at Antietam - we weren't alive then. My name is Harley Slocomb and I was born in London, England on May 22, 1965. My parents were Beth and John. I immigrated to America to work as a chemist for SmithKline. My sons and I are out for a walk. My eldest son is overweight and I'm trying to help him get in shape."

"One must die," the soldiers said in unison.

Two hunters were approaching in the opposite direction. I ran to them.

"I need your help, " I said. "These men are trying to kill me and my boys."  I pointed to the specters at each of my elbows.

The men were dressed in army camouflage fatigues and each had a shotgun. They wore matching dark sunglasses and orange safety vests.

Strange, I thought, that they would wear clothing to hide themselves and a vest that makes them more visible.

"Who is trying to kill you, mister?" one asked.

I realized that they did not see the soldiers, either. I had to change my story.

"They were right behind me," I lied.

The men locked and loaded their weapons.

"Jimmy, you stay with this gentleman. I'll climb up in the blind and take a look."

I called out for my boys to stop their meandering. They acknowledged me and took sudden interest in a collection of boulders near the path.

After several minutes the first hunter returned.

"I don't see a thing, mister," he said. "There's no one around."

"They were right behind me," I explained, praying that they would believe me.

Jimmy added his two cents. "They were right behind you and trying to kill you but your sons look like they're taking a walk in the park. You didn't tell them?"

"I didn't want to panic them!"

"About someone who's trying to kill you?!" No Name shouted. His breath smelled of smokeless tobacco and Jack Daniel's.

"Jimmy, I think what we have here is a practical joker."

"No, you have to believe me!  They want to kill me and my sons!"  I grabbed the nameless one by the collar. He was a short beefy man and he easily shrugged out of my grip.

"I don't know what you've been drinking or sniffing fella but you better just walk out of these woods and get those boys home."

"And sleep it off!" Jimmy shouted in my ear.

They started walking away.

"You have to help me!"

"God helps those who help themselves, buddy," No Name said.

Help. I needed help. I reached for my cell phone. I could dial 911 - if I claimed an accident they would send a helicopter and they could airlift us out of this nightmare.

I flipped open the phone and was greeted by the words No Service. In frustration I tossed the phone into the bushes. Thinking better of that, I veered off the path to retrieve my phone. My escorts, there were now three of them, patiently waited as I searched for the phone.

Phone back on my belt, I continued my walk.

They seem to be asking me to choose which son will die. How do I do that?  How does a father choose which son to kill?

Desmond was my eldest. His had his mother's personality - quiet, self-contained - but my curiosity and creativity. What kind of man would he grow up to be?  Would he do great things?

My namesake was entirely different - outgoing with a linear, exceptional intellect. He may become a scientist like his father. His personality and brains may lead him to the heights of any field that captures his interest. In terms of impact on the political, technological or legal foundations of this planet Harley would likely leave the biggest footprint.

But Desmond had something that is rare in this world - compassion. Underneath the tween hostility, he cares profoundly about others. Could he, with his greater capacity to love, leave a bigger footprint on the planet?

We were nearing the end of the trail. I could hear car traffic ahead - we were almost to the border of the park.

I had to make a choice but realized that I could do no such thing.

God helps those who help themselves, one of the hunters said.

How do I get out of this?  How do I get my boys out of this?

I tried the cell phone again. There was still no coverage. As I placed the cell phone back in my pocket I recalled how the soldiers seemed reluctant to follow me off the path as I retrieved the phone. They had followed me everywhere else, why not off the path?  Could they step off the path?

Perhaps not and I thought I knew why. They were following orders, even now the Major's words had a hold on them.

"Are the rebels close?" I asked the blond haired soldier.

"Aye, just across the bridge."  He pointed ahead to a wooden bridge that spanned the creek.

"And the major told you not to leave the path?"

"We are not to leave the picket line, the Major told us," the dark haired man said.

I walked fast trying to catch up with my sons. There were two sentries directly in front of them, guarding what I assumed to be the trail's end. I had to do something now.

I stopped Des with a hand to his shoulder. I bent down and whispered to them that a bad dog was behind us and that we needed to run to the bridge and cross it. "On three," I said.

At the count of three we took off. I did not bother to look behind me to determine if we were followed. My boys were ahead of me, their speed increased by panic and the downward slope of the land toward the creek.

I had conjured the image of a bad dog since both were deathly afraid of dogs.

"Hurry," shouted to their backs. "I hear it coming."

Poor Harley let out a small yelp.

I ventured a look behind me. Several soldiers, at least a dozen, stood on the trail watching us.

Des and Harley reached the bridge. After they were halfway across I could hear a moan coming from the structure then the sudden rupture of wood.

In seconds, my sons and pieces of the bridge fell away into the icy creek.

When I reached them, each had a hold of the wood. They were on opposite sides of the bridge and their hold was tenuous.

I could only reach one at a time. By which time, the other surely would be gone.

"One must die."

The soldiers knew and that's why they did not follow.

"One must die."  I replayed the phrase again and again in my brain as I struggled for what to do.

One. Could I be that one?

I leaped into the water. I went under but struggled to come up. The fast current pushed me past the bridge. I struggled to keep my head above water and to look behind me at the bridge.

The soldiers, joined by a woman in a flowing white dress, were on the bridge now. They were helping my sons, reaching down and pulling them out of the water.

Blankets materialized from nowhere and were wrapped around my sons. Harley Junior, wrapped in wool, waved to me. I wanted to wave back but I was too cold and weak to lift my arms.

My body felt heavy and I struggled to stay afloat. I pivoted my head, looking for some way to get out of this frigid water. There was a sand bar ahead. I willed my arms and legs to move and surprisingly I was able to maneuver to the deposit.

I climbed onto the small clump of land and shivered in the suddenly cold air. The bridge was not in sight but I felt that I had won, that I had cheated death. All I had to do was wait a few minutes, gather my strength, then swim to shore, no more than ten yards away.

I removed my water soaked coat and my boots. I tossed each to shore, confident that I would soon join them. I dove into the water and quickly surfaced.  The water was calm and I easily made it to shore.

I shivered uncontrollably. I needed to get warm quickly or else I would still die. I looked around to gain my bearings. I didn't know the fastest way back to civilization.

Which way do I go?  As I thought the hint of smoke reached my nose. I scanned the wilderness and a small speck of light reached my eyes. I left my coat and boots and walked as fast as I could toward the yellow light.

I was quickly upon the source of the light, a campfire. A group of men sat around the fire. They did not pay any attention as I approached.

I stepped to the fire and it's warmth felt very good. My hands and feet started to regain feeling. I took that moment to look at my saviors.

Each wore the uniform of the Confederate States of America. One of them, a older man with gray hair and a black mustache, spoke.

"You took my daughter, Lilly. I want her."

I backed away from the fire.

"I..I didn't take your daughter," I attempted.

"Liar," the man said softly. He stood and pulled out a long barreled pistol.

I ran toward the water. I made it to the water's edge and I pitched into the water. I swam toward the sand bar.

Suddenly, as I reached the deep water, I could fell hands pulling me under. Head below the surface I looked wide eyed into the muddy water, directly into the face of the old man and his soldiers. It was their hands reaching for me, attempting to keep me underwater.

I struggled to break free, my hands clawing at theirs, air escaping from my lungs in a panic.

Then, I felt calm and all went black.

I woke up, laying on my back, on the Mason Dixon Trail. My clothes were dry and my boots were back on my feet. Above me was the dark haired soldier.

He lowered his hand and helped me to my feet. He handed me his carbine and I took it, suddenly familiar with the weapon and its contours.

"Some must die so others may live," he said.

I nodded my understanding.

The two hunters from before were approaching. As they passed I walked besides the one named Jimmy and spoke in his ear.

"One must die," I said.

Keyword: Ghosts horror

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Comments (3)

Posted by Dirkin 2008-03-27 18:56:21 .... This was interesting... I found the end a little strange. So he joined with the ghosts? If the kids couldnt see the ghosts and hands pass through them, how did the ghosts pull them off the bridge? Those were my fisrt thoughts after I read this. An entertaining read, good job + Report this comment
Posted by celtic1888 2008-03-28 04:44:44 ... Good story but it seemed to fall away slightly at the end. It felt a bit muddled but still fun to read and even although i know nothing of your civil war that was explained quite well. Well done. + Report this comment
Posted by ferfie27277 2008-04-01 08:39:38 .... I really liked it. It was very interesting and it kept me on the edge of my seat...very nice... =) + Report this comment

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