Where Lady Slippers Grow

In the dense woods of the Appalachian Mountains, Michael stepped lightly over deadfalls and snags. Even under the weight of a fully loaded pack, his footsteps were silent, and he left few traces of his passing. Keeping out of sight of any hikers, he paralleled the Appalachian Trail toward Springer Mountain. When he heard the group, he ducked into the shadows of a hemlock tree. Listen to those noisy fools, tramping through the woods with all that fancy gear, laughing and talking. They think they’re communing with nature, but they just don’t get it. By now, they’ve scared off every rabbit and deer for miles around. He heard a woman’s voice. “Wait up, ya’ll. I want to take a picture.” Michael shrank deeper into the shadows of the hemlock. The woman stepped carelessly through the ground pine, caught her toe on a low-lying branch of rhododendron, and almost tripped. She righted herself and pushed spirals of golden hair off her forehead. Michael got a good look at her face. Susan? He studied the movements as her fingers worked the settings on the digital camera. When she squatted beside a rotting log, Michael gasped and nearly stood up. There could be a copperhead lurking underneath that log. Her every move brought back memories of what he had done. Michael clutched his belly like he’d taken a knife to the gut. His heart pounded so loudly in his ears, he feared the sound would give him away. He squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head to clear the image, and then opened his eyes again. She was still there. That can’t be Susan. She’s dead; I killed her!