The Gallberry Light

They say there’s no real darkness left in Alabama—not with satellites blinking and porch lights burning—but they ain’t stepped off the blacktop west of Dothan. Past the last rust‑eaten mailbox, through gallberry thickets slick with dew, the night is thick enough to chew. That’s where I lost Jake.

We’d driven out after supper, just the two of us and his hounds, aiming to shake loose a coon or two. Moon riding high, split pine in the bed, a jug of cheap rye between us. Jake’s daddy swore these woods remember things: Confederate dead, Choctaw trails, drifters who disappeared like summer rain. Jake always laughed—until he saw the light.

It slipped between the pines like a lantern on an invisible arm—too low for a plane, too pale for fireflies, too patient to be headlights. I hissed for him to stay close. He grinned and stepped toward it.

“Prob’ly some farmer checking fence,” he said.

No farmer posts NO TRESPASSING in six‑inch letters and chains the gate shut.

The glow floated on, steady as a heartbeat. Jake followed, boots crunching needles. I called once, twice. The wind didn’t carry it—it just stopped, like the trees held their breath. Then the light blinked out, and the forest fell flat—no frogs, no dogs, just that coffin‑quiet hush.

I found a single boot‑print pressed in red clay; the next stride ended in air. I walked till the lantern guttered, shouting myself raw. The pines crowded tighter the farther I pushed, trunks aligned like prison bars.

Near dawn I drifted back to the truck and the world of engines and radio static. Sheriff Sutton listened polite, promised a patrol, eyes already filing me under “liquor and tall tales.” Folks in town say it’s swamp gas, or headlights refracted off river fog. Headlights don’t glide against the wind. Swamp gas don’t steal grown men.

I returned later that morning. Jake’s cap hung on a briar as though someone had placed it there deliberate. No blood, no drag marks—just a second trail beside his prints: barefoot, long‑toed, pointing back the way we’d come.

Tonight I’m here again, lantern lit, shotgun across my knees, heart banging like a screen door in a storm. I don’t know what I’ll do if the Gallberry Light returns.

But if Jake steps out from those trees, wearing that loose grin and calling my name?

I’ll blow out the lantern, turn, and walk away.

Because whatever’s wearing Jake’s smile won’t be looking to talk.