THE SPIRIT OF CATHERINE

Excitement had me by the throat as I skidded along the mossy rocks bordering the headwaters of Five Mile Brook. Although I had left my car well before noon, I was now just nearing my destination. I had been so immersed in fishing for scrappy native brook trout that my exploration had taken far longer than I had anticipated. When I disassembled my fly rod and hightailed it upstream, the evening shadows had already begun creeping out from beneath the hemlocks.
The scabby cherry trees seemed blacker than I had ever before seen them. The wind also began acting like the plaything of a perverse magician. Although I was an experienced woodsman, I had difficulty pinpointing from which direction it came. Its howling seemed almost cyclonic in nature and was rising fast. In the fading light only my stubbornness pushed me onward. Finally, without warning, I stumbled through an orange screen of beech leaves and skidded to a halt on the shore of the blighted swamp I had been seeking.
Having no brothers or sisters to accompany me, I had hiked alone in the woods since I was twelve. Yet, even I couldn’t help but shrink from the vile sea of muck and stagnant water that stretched before me in the twilight. Great bleached tree trunks reached finger-like from the fringes of this mire, while ghostly beaver huts glowed in the mist now forming over the deeper pools. The distant chant of the whippoorwill made my face grow cold beneath my beard. If only I had asked a friend to come along. If only I had a friend to ask!
So this is where Catherine perished. No wonder the old Swedes wouldn’t venture out here at night. According to legend, the girl had wandered off to pick Christmas ground pine and got caught in a driving blizzard. It wasn’t until the following spring that her corpse was discovered by trappers near this very spot. Neighboring farmers swear that her cries for help can be heard echoing from these dark swamps even today. My grandmother said she was a winsome lass, wild as a colt and always out walking alone.
How strong the wind has grown. Yet, the mist, if anything, is swirling thicker. I must leave this blighted place before my imagination gets the better of me. I must turn and take one. . .step. . .at. . .a. . .time. Just one step. Oh, God! I’m sinking. . .sinking!
Catherine? Is that you? My, your skin is so cold and smooth. You are a winsome lass. Now, we shall never again have to walk through this swamp alone. . .