Moonlight dripped through the thick canopy above. Between blackened leaves it crept to fall upon the desolate bog. Under its glow, the lowland was terror benighted shadow, which moldered in its own putrescence. Above the muck was a ground fog, and carried the decay of tree and flesh. It was heavy, desolate but warm. This vapor crawled over the earth or skin like the feverish exhalation of a dying man. Sparks of bruised purple hid inside, flirted with yet evaded the eye. Each breath carried the base musk of the forest; yet, it left the taste of the grave on the tongue. Between lips it pried. Through the nose, it slithered. Somewhere the crow called as a lover lost. Around the woods it echoed, died. So pitiful a plea, this entreaty fell to whisper then silence. Though trees kept one company, indifferent but watchful, to all, he felt adrift in the sea of night. They drew closer in the darkness, in the silence. Down they peered with patient hate.

Kayden watched the stagnant pond through the duty glass. The errant drop of a leaf would send ripples out on the placid water. Waves carried silver slashes in perfect silence, until it struck the surrounding mud. Above calm waters a noose hung, which swung ever so slightly. It had held men and women, so they could dance out their last steps. Like a mirror, the water reflected it, and the reflection appeared ready to pull all into the blackness below.

He frowned, but everything before this moment was a haze of Cimmerian black. Eyes like beech wood, charred at the edges, roamed over the vintage car’s interior. Deep within forgotten memory the name slipped beyond his grasp. Kayden turned the radio’s nob, though it was silent. Red lines, thin as razors, traced the back of his hand, and he stared. No blood seeped from the wound, which sealed. Beneath the tattered, stained shirt, his heart began to race.

The radio flickered to life, and the nobs turned. A golden oldie station, the Buzz, played hits of the fifties and sixties. Words filled the cab of a great pretender, who lives in a world of make-believe. Kayden listened as tears filled his eyes, which most found uncomfortable. This song teased a sorrow that was buried in the fog of his mind. Another came, though not the one adorn with sorrow.

“Hooper’s Cherry,” he muttered to the fine, rich interior, though it was covered in a thin layer of dust.

The old car was a ghost story, although Kayden and his brother played in the 1964 Dodge. Old Hooper never had a new ride, until he’d save up money from years of overtime at the mill. Around town, all came to recognize the cherry-red paint, which dazzled in the brilliance of the sun. Every Sunday, he would drive about town, even gave children rides around the town square. Music poured from the limited edition coupe.

Hooper, as Kayden had heard, suffered the wrath of the Misses in good stride. When so much money went to his obsession, she made sure all knew of her displeasure. Her grousing turned to nagging, but Old Hooper still had his car. No matter his wife’s anger, he could always find peace in the smooth ride. Lovers, however, always knew where your weakness lies.

Kayden had found it next to the willow, just like the story. Misses Hooper had asked for a divorce, but when he had been content with the car, she had stolen it. Through the town he chased her with the wagon, and they drove out into the Blackberry Bog. Although everyone would’ve said it was impossible. She almost made it to the Witch’s Pond next to the Gallows Tree. They found Old Hooper’s abandoned wagon, but the police never found the car, him or the Misses.

Sometimes, when you were in the lowlands of Lear County, you would see headlights in the forest. Others had heard music, though never seen the source. Kayden recalled running away from his father, Isaac, and hearing the same song. Through the muck he’d followed it, until he found Hooper’s cherry-red 1964 Dodge. It waited for me, he mused, like it was on a showroom floor, instead of a bog.

I rushed home, so I could tell my brother. “Andre,” he whispered, fresh tears burst out, but again, the memory danced away in the fog laced with bruised purple light like arcs of lightning.

Deep in his mind, the name was shrouded, which was long hidden. When was the last time he’d thought of Andre? Kayden drew back against the seat. Beneath tattered clothes he shuddered. His brother had always been an odd child, he recalled, though only the sense of it surfaced. More comfortable with girls, Kayden thought. Though he tried to recall more of him, only clouds came to the fore, which revealed dead nebulas in lifeless realities.

Away from their home, rotted nearly black, they had roamed to unravel the mystery of Hooper’s Cherry. Andre was older, taller, but a frail boy with a delicate frame. Kayden smiled at his brother’s delight at seeing the legendary ghost car in all its banality. The radio would spark on, randomly almost, he thought with a troubled smile. Golden oldies from love songs to chart toppers would play over the old radio. Unsteady memory made it fresh off the assembly line, but it had set in a bog for decades.

Despite the decay and gloom, the bleak blackness seemed far away. Far from home, they were free to indulge innocence. Imagination feeds freedom to fly. Every fancy of their minds was played around the derelict car. Behind the meager joy, the specter of pain hid. Kayden frowned. A taint threaded through the light, which was a bruised purple. It was ugly, despite its alien beauty, which pulsed as a malignant heart. Tormented edge of night drew closer to this island of light.

“Why were we there?” he asked the shadows beyond the glow of moon light. From what did we hide?