THE DANCING LIGHTS - Flash Fiction Story By Paul Benkendorfer

 

THE DANCING LIGHTS

Flash Fiction Story

By Paul Benkendorfer

 

The air hung heavy on the oppressive summer night. Darkness loomed over the horizon, as the sun was beginning its descent behind the veil of the endless canopy of the trees.

We walked down the narrow path that cut through the woods, just me and my younger sister Mara. She was a sweet girl of twelve. I myself reached my seventeenth last year. She had begged to accompany me on my trip to deliver one of our cows to town to be sold.

The trip took longer than I had anticipated since old man Fetcher insisted on bartering beyond the previously agreed upon price. He knew we needed the money. We were practically starving as the harvest was thin this year.

The wood was dangerous at night. It would be too dark to see and easy to get lost. My thoughts drifted to the nearby bog. We could cut through it and be home before it got too late.

We could make it, I thought. I would just need to keep a close eye on Mara. Make sure she doesn't stray too far off.

We neared the bog and night began its slow descent upon us.

“Look at the beautiful fireflies,” Mara said, staring in wonder as the two of us walked down the path.

“Those aren’t fireflies,” I said, turning towards where she is looking.

A dozen or so golden, orange, and green lights flickered and danced and swirled in the rays of moonlight above the bog.

“What are they, then?” she asks.

She is young and curious.  Not quite old enough to be an adult.  Not quite young enough for a child.

“Lost souls. The damned,” I say. “This is a cursed place. Stay away from the lights.”

The lights stop for a moment, as if they are staring at us. They waver and buzz and twirl towards us and zip back as if beckoning us to approach.  Mara takes a step.

“No,” I say, grabbing her elbow.

“Do you hear them?” she asks.

“Hear what?”

“The singing,” she says, taking a step forward, breaking free of my grip. “And do you smell that? It smells so good!”

A light flashes past us, startling me back.  Mara giggles and chases after it.

“Mara, no!” I reach for her but tumble over a patch of peat.  My face lands in the cold, dew-laden grass.  I look up and Mara is farther from me now.

“Don’t you hear them singing?” she asks again.  I can barely hear her, she’s so far away.

There is no singing.  Only the chirping of the crickets in the night air.  Then I do hear it.  The sound of singing.  In a language I cannot understand.  Like the soft voices of children.  I know this.  This siren’s call that allures the naive.

Mara is over the bog now, a fog beginning to consume her.  The lights swirling and dancing around her.  She twirls along with them, giggling as she does so.  One of the lights takes the shape of a handsomely dressed man, his golden aurora almost blinding.  He bows his head and dances with her, farther and farther into the fog.  The singing grows louder.  The lights twinkle and swirl.

Then it was as if a giant banquet of pure golden light emerged. Fountains of champagne erupted and cascaded into towers of wine glasses over tables of the most delectable food my eyes ever laid on.

I follow after her. 

“Mara!” I cry. 

It’s strange.  It’s as if she is gliding across the water now. The mist suffuses the bog, ensnaring her.  I can still see her figure in the veil.  The lights dance around her.  The song of the voices starts to fade.

“Mara!” I shout again.

I hear a splash.  A frigid cold wet wraps itself around my ankle. I look down. There I see a body lying in the water, its wraith-like figure shimmering, the hair and body swaying as if made of algae.  Large eyes as pale and luminescent as the moon stare back at me.  A bony hand reaches and I jerk back my foot from the bog and fall onto the grass.

“Mara!” I yell.  I see an orange glow emanate from her silhouette.  It fades into the fog and the fog slowly disappears along with it.  Then the fog is gone and the singing stops.  And Mara is gone. 

I rise back to my feet, calling out her name.  Warm tears fill my eyes. Not my sister. Not my Mara.

I yell for Mara again. But I hear nothing. I see nothing.  I only see the lights, dancing in their rhythm.

I creep up to the bog and look back down. The eyes are still there, the wraith opens its mouth.  “Alasdair,” I hear it say my name.  It’s Mara’s voice.  “Alasdair.”

I step back.  My heart racing.  I turn and run away from the bog.  The voice following after me.  I turn to see an orange light among the others, shaped like Mara. 

It reaches for me. I shut my eyes and pray. When I open them again the light is gone. 

Mara is gone.

Paul Benkendorfer is a a PhD candidate and GAT at the University of Arizona where he teaches Rhetoric and Composition. He recently obtained his MFA in Fiction at Drexel University and holds a MA in Teaching Writing from Johns Hopkins University. Paul has published several short stories, essays, and poems in publications such as Backroads Literary Review, Dark Poet's Club, The Write Launch, Eerie River Publishing, and many more. When not writing he spends his time at the park with his rescue pup.