Tale of the Haunted Vinyard

Cooper had always been a merlot man, rich and red and velvet. The liquid flowed around him, hugging his body, like gentle caresses from the inside, as he floated beneath the night sky. The moon, almost full, hung low against the horizon, spilling light through mist, bringing with it the chill of autumn. The air hinted of late summer bugs, their hum a soft symphony nestled in the reeds by the grassy banks. And though he knew he did not quite belong here, in this goblet of earth, Cooper was in no rush to reach the shore.

So he floated, and drank, and tried to remember why he was on his back in a burgundy pond.

Her image came to him suddenly, like the tails of a dream you can’t catch. She slipped away, bobbed in the distance like a cork, then rose to the surface again. Up, up through the layers of fog and night, her glow a pale lunar mirror. And when she spoke it was not in words, not in touch, but in hushed tones of spice and vanilla. Her scent wafted toward him, blended with him in a swirl of champagne. She offered a dangerous come-hither glance.

He dared not move. He dared not breathe.

Then she was gone, hidden in the haze of the waxing moon. But she left hints of herself on the breeze—a sweetness that ended in smoky oak. And then he remembered. All at once it came rushing back. The smell of the grapes, the spice on her breath, infused with wood. Scent was the key that uncorked him, releasing his essence.

Cooper sank, deeper into the tide of red, falling to the depths of the pond, and through the earth to a time just beyond this place.

He had first seen her dancing among the grapevines, twirling in her sweater and sundress with a stemmed glass in hand. Her hair was like honey and her smile full of mischief. He followed her between the rows, weaving and bobbing to catch her. But she swirled to silent notes, hid among the fruit, led him down to the place where aged barrels held silent spirits. And then back up again, toward the winery’s main house, where laughter of tipsy patrons lingered.

It was a flirtatious game of hide-and-seek, but now Cooper had lost her. He huffed and sat by the pond at a lone table, poured his second glass, watched the red spill into the goblet. He swirled it, sniffed it, sipped. And all the while he watched for her. He stayed until the last rays of the setting sun reached through the oaks, painting the vines in gold.

It was in between day and night that he walked out onto the pier, a tongue reaching out into the mouth of the pond. It was half a bridge, ending at the center of the imperfect circle, a slice into heaven. At the edge, he peered over, seeing first a man with a glass of maroon, his mirror twin. But the surface of the water shimmered and bubbles began to rise. And then she was there, a mermaid with wild hair and chardonnay lips.

So caught was he by this apparition that he pitched forward—down, down into the depths of her, engulfed by the water and into her arms. They wrapped around him like vines, hugging, squeezing, strangling.

“Join me,” she said, but it wasn’t an invitation. Her vanilla breath reached into his throat. Cooper no longer had a choice. She was no mischievous bogle. She was not even chardonnay. She was a red—a bold, peppery red. A petite sirah. A Zinfindel. She was the shadow spirit of the vines and she was hungry.

Cooper remembered. He had been charmed, lured, romanced right out of his own skin. But he was transforming, too—fermenting, aging. Maybe this was better, to surrender to this perfect blend.

Cooper was already dead—a phantom of what he had been—a new haunting yet to arise. So he lay in the pond, staring up at the sky, breathing in her notes and singing his own. They slept together under a blanket of stars, his hand in hers, and waited for the day they would be poured into a cup and drunk.

***

Mary Leoson is a Pushcart Nominee and Affiliate Member of the Horror Writers Association who specializes in literary horror fiction. Her writing has been featured in the The Lost Librarian's Grave Anthology, Castabout's Halloween Anthology, Free Spirit Historic Tales Anthology (forthcoming), Twisted Vine Literary Journal, Coffin Bell Journal, Untoward Magazine, Underwood Press' Horror Journal ("Black Works"), GNU Journal, The Gyara Journal, Genre: Urban Arts, and Obra/Artifact. Leoson holds an MFA in Fiction, an MA in English, and an MS in Psychology. When she's not writing about ghosts, she teaches psychology and English at the college level. You can learn more at http://maryleoson.com/