Member-only story
Short fiction: “River of Tears Salt®”
I took a detour deep into the backwoods on the outskirts of Prussian Occupation, where every crossroads is a shrine to either the Virgin Mary or Christ crucified. Is this holy land, or are these shrines borne of a fear of the Evil One himself? Children around here talk of vampires in the hills, repeating stories handed down across generations, tales told often enough that they become true, even if they aren’t. Put just enough fear into the children to keep them safe.
The Holy Mother and/or the Son of God turn up in all directions. I had come here looking for old ghosts but found myself feeling like I was surrounded by angels, instead.
Anyways, never mind vampires — sometimes it’s humans we ought to fear. To ward against vampires (or so I am assuming), they build shrines, cross themselves three times, and maybe keep a few sharpened stakes on hand, because you can never really be too sure.
For humans, they send in helicopters with searchlights, and tactical units combing the ground.
Back on the highway, I traveled through hills and around tiny lakes until at last I saw the sign on the outskirts of town welcoming me to River of Tears, Ontario, Pop. 1000.
Almost every detail was as I had remembered it, as little houses, stores, gas stations, churches, and graveyards came into view…
