My Secret Life
By
Rebecca Anna Coleman
Sequel To
Magnolia Blooms & Sakura Petals

-3-
Friendship Request Denied!

The dramatics of the afternoon did not stop me from writing. I still wanted to write something for Shojo Kaiden. The Delta was filled with ghost stories after all. We even had our own version of the Aokigahara Forest. Now I'm sure you're asking yourself what is the Aokigahara Forest ? Well it is a massive forest in Jan that is located at the base of Mount Fuji. Only the forest was not called the Aokigahara Forest, it was called the Delta National Forest.

Now, I'm sure you're asking what makes the Aokigahara Forest so special? Well according to Japanese urban legend the forest was supposed to be haunted by Yurei. Those are Japanese ghosts. The forest is also famous because it something of a suicide hot spots. People in Japan often visit the spot just to commit suicide Hence the supposed haunted nature of the forest.

Anyway, nobody went into the Delta National Forest to kill themselves. Well at least not that I'm aware of. But every few years an out of state hunter would get themselves lost in the forest and come out babbling about having encountered goblins, demons, and witches. Now, personally I've never stepped one toe into the Delta National Forest. Mostly because I have no business going inside there. I don't hunt nor do I fish. But my older brother, the one who enlisted into the army the moment my dad walked out on us, loved nothing more than to spend all his free time, sometimes hours sometimes days at a time wandering the many trails of the Delta National Forest.

It was from him that I learned the dark folklore behind the forest and it was the memory of his stories, stories that were told to me around the dying embers of a once roaring campfire. Long after the hot-dogs had been roasted and eaten, the ice cold RC Cola drank and the cans washed out and crushed to be handed over to the can-man who would pay a bounty of five cents a pound. And just after the s'mores had been fixed and our fingers were sticky with toasted marshmallows and tiny pieces of graham crackers.

Then and only then would the older teenagers gather us younger kids around the dying embers of the fire and one by one they would take turns telling us ghost stories, urban legends and personal encounters with the supernatural. Those stories, stories about phantom warriors creeping from one tree to the other, or hunters encountering the ghost of deer hunters who had walked into the woods but never had walked out. Or the always classic story that a deep, undergrowth held goblins that loved to snatch boy-scouts and girl-scouts who had wandered from the trails. Not only would they snatch them, but they would butcher them and boil the remains in large iron kettles filled with water taken from the Sunflower River and once the remains were tender and had been cooked long and slow they would feast on them. And use the bones to make crude weapons or armor. 

I knew I could squeeze at least three or four good stories from all those memories. I was hoping each story would be around five hundred to a thousand words long. Something I could write in one possible seating. Of course I would need to go back and proofread and edit them before sending them to Shojo Kaiden. But still a five hundred to a thousand word ghost story was still a pretty good payday right?
I mean I could write a few dozen of them over the course of several lazy afternoons. Edit them while watching Adult Swim and while I was working those I could flesh out longer pieces to send off to Shojo Beat. Plus I hoped by diving head first into these stories I could forget about the weird letter my dad sent me and forget about the two weirdos who had snapped a photo of me sunbathing.

And so I started to write. The first story I decided to write about was  supposed to be a ghost encounter my older brother had on his first hunt. Which going on the old tradition happened shortly after his twelfth birthday.  According to him, he was on his first hunt. It was late December, and winter had finally decided to come to Mississippi. A sudden snow storm had blown in from the north and had dumped around three or four inches of snow on us. Now any sensible person would be at home, curled up under a woolen blanket and parked in front of a heater with their fingers wrapped in a hot, steaming mug of either coffee or hot chocolate.

Not my brother, he was out in the woods with Robert and his two brothers trying to kill his first deer, when according to him he slipped up on a boy around his age, the boy was dressed in vintage hunting gear and was sitting on an old tree stump.

His face had turned blue, and he was trembling like a leaf. I could still hear the echo of my brothers coming to me across space and time. He wore an old hunting jacket. Which was not that odd, considered I was wearing dad's hunting jacket. But what was odd was his jacket looked almost brand new, like he'd just brought it from the racks of 'The Greenville Hunters Outfitter' that Saturday morning. And his hunting rifle, old as mine, but still brand new, like it had just been unboxed. His eyes, I will never forget his eyes, eyes that seemed far older than he was. His boots, despite the muddy and snowy condition. We're free of mud or anything. Mine were caked in mud.

The words flowed like a river, it was like my brother was standing in the same room as me. Like he was standing only a few feet from me. And then he looked up. I noticed his lips had turned blue and his round, oval face seemed reddish and then he slowly started to vanish. Not all at once, but little by little, first his boots, then his legs, then his fingers, and then his chest then his shotgun and till the only thing looking at me was this floating head with trembling blue lips, snow white eyes and glowing red cheeks and then that too vanished.

I then pressed the little floppy disc icon at the top of the tool bar of the word doc. I was working on it and took a deep breath. I knew in my bones I had a winner. I just had to sit on the story a bit. Part of me wanted to click on “Tools” and scroll down to the “Word Count” tap and see how many words I'd written. But I thought better of it. I could count the words after I'd edited them. After all, you never count your words sitting at your desk, there is always time to count them when the writing is done.

Instead I decided to check my MySpace profile.. I'd decided, come hell or high water, I was going to change my name there from “William Croft” to “Heather Croft” or I was going to delete it and start again with a brand new email address. Anyway I logged on and noticed I had a pending friend request. I paused and moved my mouse over to the request and I felt my heart jump into my throat. There flashing on the screen was a simple message. “Friend request! From: Robert John Croft Sr.”

“Dad..” I muttered. I clicked on the name just to see what kind of hell awaited me. His profile made me cringe. His profile picture showed him holding a rifle in one hand, while kneeling down and holding the horns of a new slain buck with the other. The pink tongue of the deer was sticking out and a tickle of blood was running from the corner of the deer mouth.

Under his bio he had written the following.

“I am a simple, humble, God fearing American. I was born and raised in the Southern states. I am a proud and active member of the Sons of the Confederacy. I support the Republican Party. I'm married to a lovely southern belle. I have two, white children. I am a senior deacon at First Southern United Baptist. I believe in God, The United States, The Republican Party and family.”

Yep that was enough for me. Without thinking I blocked him and rejected his friend request. I also noticed he said he had two children, he must not have counted my older brother, older sister and I. Then again I doubt he would count the children from his first marriage. Anyway I wanted nothing to do with him. And I sure as hell did not want him in my new life.

End of Chapter 3.