The first night I saw him, the moon hung in the stars like a massive eye, and the wind crooned at my window like the voice of a lost lover.

     I woke with a rumbling stomach and stumbled through the curtain separating my room from the kitchen. He stood by the window, the light forming a halo around his dark blue uniform and hat, golden buttons glittering in the shadows. Dark stains covered the outfit, like shadows bleeding into his clothes, and one of his legs was torn off at the shin. However, he looked unconcerned, as if a phantom pegleg were holding him up.

     He’d been frowning at the digital clock on my oven, but he raised an eyebrow as I entered the room. Even on my worst days, I’d never smoked enough to start hallucinating, but I figured there was a first time for everything. I turned and collapsed in my bed, having lost my appetite.

     He was back the next day. After falling asleep to a James Bond marathon on one of the last cable channels, I awoke to find him standing in front of me, curiously watching a laser edge closer to the secret agent’s crotch.

     He stared gravely at me. “Is this how you speak with the Lord?” 

     My voice bubbled like molasses. “Dude, what—”

     “Moses had a burning bush,” the man fiddled with a tassel on his belt. “A talking, fiery stone would be a natural evolution. However, I’m not certain what He’s trying to tell you.”

     I turned to the screen just as Goldfinger told Bond he expected him to die. Not a message I wanted to hear from any deity, but my guest nodded as if it held great significance.

     “I’ve done a fine job of that, Lord,” he muttered. “I only pray you’d tell me what to do next.”

     I finally noticed the long, sheathed knife on his belt. That woke me up real quick. I tossed my blanket to the ground and ran to my room, emerging with the loaded shotgun I kept by my bed.

     “That’s it! You better get out of my house in five seconds, or I’ll blow your other leg off!”

     He stared unconcerned down the barrel of my gun, a milky haze over his eyes.

     “I’m sorry, friend, but I’m stuck here,” he said. “And you won’t get rid of me with that kind of weapon.”

     That was all the convincing I needed that this man was crazy and probably dangerous. I mashed the trigger and got a few pathetic clicks for my troubles. I’d forgotten to load the stupid thing.

     I shook my head and stepped forward, aiming the butt of the gun at the intruder’s head. The gun passed clean through, and his face rippled like I’d thrown a rock in a pond. I toppled through him with the force of my swing, feeling a deathly chill like a blizzard around my heart, before landing face-first on the floor.

     The man looked down on me as I regained my bearings.

     “I’d offer a hand,” he said. “But you can see it won’t help you.”

     I saw now how the moonlight cut through him, shining like a spotlight through his eyes and a few tiny holes in his stomach. Something ancient had burst from the mountain soil, and it was only by its will that I remained alive.

     “What are you?” I stammered.

     “I’m Corporal Samuel Brown,” he frowned. “And I’m a man same as you. Least I was, until the cannon hit me.”

     “Corporal?” I stammered. “I didn’t think folks like you served the Confederacy. That’s not racist to say, right?”

     Samuel narrowed his eyes and fingered the badge on his lapel with the two fingers left on his right hand.

     “This is a Union uniform,” he said. “I fought with the 54^th Massachusetts.”

     I realized I should have paid more attention in middle school history.

     “Then I salute your service,” I slowly got to my feet. “Lord knows I’m glad your opponent’s got their asses whooped. But why the hell are you in my house?”

     “Common vernacular has really matured since I’ve been gone,” Samuel mumbled. “In any case, I’m here because I’ve got nowhere else to go. You could say I’m homeless.”

     It turned out the Corporal and a few of his comrades were left in a mass grave after a battle late in the war. The spot was unmarked, so he’d stayed there undisturbed for decades. But as the land around them changed, more people moved in and built houses. Then the developers came. No one realized the site had historical significance until the diggers churned up the earth and struck bone.

     “I couldn’t live there anymore,” Samuel said. “Graveyards have a special solemnity that sustains us. Once the living came, that was disrupted, so my soul was forced to travel far and wide looking for somewhere to stay.”

     “And you landed here?” 

     “We can only live in homes steeped with regret,” Samuel glanced around the trailer. “Usually, that means centuries of death and decay. I’m not sure why I can live here.”

     I stared at the floor, littered with empty bottles and overdue bills. I must have fit all the decay I needed into one decade.  

     “If it isn’t any trouble, I’d like to stay here,” Samuel continued. “I need to rest my soul.”

     I should have been more freaked out having a ghost in my room, but I couldn’t deny what stood in front of me. I’ve always been one to adapt quickly to disruptions, whether it be parking tickets, divorce papers, or restless spirits, so I sat down and nodded at him. 

“Mi casa es su casa,” I said. “But I gotta know—what did they build over your old home?”

     “I’m not certain,” Samuel said. “It looked like several grey buildings lined up like children’s blocks, with a large empty field in front.”

     A fucking strip mall.

     I shook my head and stared at him. “One more thing. What did they do with the bodies?”

     Samuel only smiled, the moonlight waning in his exhausted eyes, and I realized he wasn’t dangerous. It was the creatures walking above the earth I had to fear.

---

     I tried. I really did. But after only a week, I gained a new appreciation for our Constitution’s 3^rd Amendment. 

     Samuel usually only came out after night fell, and considering he couldn’t eat my food or move my TV remote around, he was an excellent roommate. I even enjoyed hearing his war stories, which beat the hell out of any Ken Burns documentary. But there’s a difference between having a ghost who drops by every blood moon and one who’s always breathing down your neck.

     I tried twice to get a girl back to my place. First time I was too drunk to remember Samuel, so when I threw open the door, she saw my one-legged guest in front of the window rubbing a cloth over his bayonet, which stayed bloody no matter how many years passed. She screamed and ran off to her car, leaving Samuel to watch with a confused frown.

     Next time, I found a goth chick and tried to use Samuel as a selling point. Unfortunately, she seemed disappointed the ghost was more Dr. Facilier than Edward Cullen. When she let me know in no uncertain terms, I softened right up and kicked her out.

     “Sorry, man,” I collapsed on the couch and cracked open a beer. “But this ain’t working.”

     “I don’t understand how people find love nowadays,” Samuel said. “But could you suggest visiting her home next time?”

     “It ain’t just that,” I said. “How am I supposed to explain you to my friends or family? Hell, if my grandma came, she’d probably drag in an exorcist behind her.”

     “If I could leave, I would,” Samuel said. “Or even just pass on.”

     I raised my eyebrow. “Thought you already did?”

     “There’s a second way of leaving this world,” Samuel sat beside me, though he levitated slightly above the couch. “Some of my comrades have gone that way, but others remain tied to this world. Apparently, I’m the same, though I’m not sure why. Even after watching my regiment torn apart at Ford Wagner, I fought on, and thanks to my toil my people were set free. And yet, here I remain.” 

     Samuel shook his head, his image flickering like the display of my cable TV. I wished I could pass him my beer or a blunt, or at least give him a hug.

     “Was it worth it?” Samuel looked up at me. “Has my blood secured equality for all men?”

     I could almost cry, but I refused to. He had suffered enough for this country. He didn’t need to know the work that remained. 

     “Of course it was worth it.”

     Samuel smiled and straightened his back, proud to be wearing his uniform still after so many years. I slouched in my chair, staring at the floor.

     “Now you’ve seen my life,” I said. “What about you? Did you find love?”

     “I was married two years before war broke out,” he smiled. “Her name was Letty. I still watch the moon every night, cause it’s the only thing that comes close to her beauty.”

     My head perked up. “Then ain’t it obvious? That’s why you haven’t left this world yet. You need to be with her again!”

     “Oh, how I’ve dreamed of it,” Samuel said. “But I have no way of getting there. I was trapped in my grave, and now I’m trapped in my haunts. And she, far away up North…there’s no way I could reach her.”

     “You came all the way here,” I said. “Why can’t you head up North?”

     “That was only because my old home was destroyed, and I had no control over where I ended up afterward. This must have been the closest place I could comfortably live.”

     “So you’re trapped in this building?” I asked.

     He nodded. “And only the Lord can move the ground beneath my feet.”

     I took another swig and started to laugh, then I tossed the bottle to the side. I stood and turned to him with eyes that bled madness.

     “Corporal, I’m about to show you something that’ll flip your lid.”

     He watched as I launched from the door over the dusty yard and into my truck. I hooked my bumper to the end of the trailer and hit the accelerator. The house started off with a creak, creeping through a patch of mud, and I saw the Corporal through the window, eyes wide as if he watched a ghost of his own.

     “What are you?” he stammered. “How can you move the Earth?”

     I lowered my window and smiled manically.

     “I’m just some asshole,” I shouted. “But I’m the asshole that’s bringing you home!” 

---

     Samuel made an even better road trip partner than roommate. We traced the footsteps of his regiment, back into South Carolina onto the shore by Fort Wagner and up to Boston. Every night we sat in the moonlight, and he pointed at spots where his comrades had died or made heroic stands, narrating the land’s history in a way only its dead could.

     We were just out of Boston when I had a brilliant idea. I sat him on the sofa and started my TV.

     “What are you doing?” he asked.

     “Playing a movie,” I said. “But you can call it a special message from God.”

     I knew the four bucks to rent Glory was money well spent when Matthew Broderick came on-screen. Samuel leaned forward, letting the flashing colors shine through him, brows twisted in confusion.

     “That’s not Colonel Shaw,” he said. “He looks like a child! What is this?”

     “This is how we remember stories like yours,” I said. “It’s like a play someone took a bunch of pictures of. These are actors. A lot of them are still alive, and they were each inspired by the bravery of folks like you.”

     Samuel seemed to find the experience frustrating more than anything. Every few minutes, he would point at the screen and say, “He never said that!” or “That’s not what our camp looked like.” But over time, he fell silent and watched in rapt attention, as if truly hearing a divine message.

     I didn’t know ghosts could cry. For some reason, I assumed they just made lights flicker or walls bleed when they were sad. However, when Shaw’s troops lined up at Fort Wagner, I saw the tears come down his face. Slick and translucent as a mountain mist, they vanished when they dropped off his chin.

     “We can stop here,” I said. “I think you get the picture.”

     “No,” Samuel shook his head. “There are too many that I never saw die.”

     The gunshots burst from my shitty speaker. Soldiers twisted and whirled on my screen in a gruesome dance. Samuel knew each character’s name—their true name, not the one made up for the film. He even recognized the extras. When Private Trip raised the flag, he stood and saluted, and he didn’t stop even as they lined up the bodies.

     We were silent after the credits rolled. Samuel turned to me, his milky eyes cutting through my chest, and nodded in gratitude. I reminded him that I was the one who needed to thank him.

---

     The next day, we began searching for Letty’s burial site. Samuel no longer recognized Boston and was hopeless at navigation, so I found myself stumbling into several libraries looking for records. We didn’t know if Letty had ever remarried, so she might have been under a different name. The best I got was a map of every historic graveyard in the city. 

     We decided to visit every site we could. I discovered at the library which sites had a black population, so I figured it wouldn’t take long. We settled into a routine, driving up to graveyards at midnight and parking close as we could. I never saw activity over the headstones, but Samuel would stare through the window as if picking through faces before finally shaking his head. Then it was on to the next one. 

     I should have gone to Copp’s Hill first, but part of me didn’t want Samuel to see it. The first sites we visited were segregated, but there was at least some dignity. You could read the faded names on the headstones and know who rested beneath your feet. But Copp’s was a burial site—a barren plot with about five headstones for 10,000 people, as if the city were trying to forget it once held the first African American community in the States. Eventually, I couldn’t ignore it any longer.

     The moment I drove up to Copp’s that night, I knew something was different. Samuel perked up, as if rising from a long sleep. He looked out the window and smiled.

     “I think I can step outside,” he whispered.

     My jaw dropped. “You don’t mean—”

     “She’s here.”

     I laughed and opened the door. Samuel placed a foot uncertainly on the ground, but it held his weight. He turned to me expectantly. 

     “I don’t want to get in the way,” I said.

     “It’s thanks to you that I’m standing here,” Samuel said. “You deserve to be beside me.”

     Though overwhelmed with emotion, I managed to move my feet enough to follow him. We swam through the sea of chirping crickets, stepped beyond an abolitionist’s monument—then everything changed.

     They were all here, young and old, men and women, spinning and weaving over the grass. I heard chatters of English and other languages I couldn’t recognize, perhaps dialects that no longer existed. Samuel was the only one in uniform. They wore dresses and working clothes in faded cloth. I clenched my fists when I saw some in shackles.

     “What are they doing?” I stammered.

     “Dancing,” Samuel smiled. “What more can you do with a big open field and nothing but time?”

     I watched the bodies whirl under the moonlight. Samuel brushed some errant ash off his chest, straightened his collar, and walked into the fray.

The dancers parted, seeming to know where we were going. I saw an old woman wearing a bonnet in the center, her face as wrinkled as it was the day she died. 

I stopped in my tracks. Samuel stepped forward and grabbed her hands. They held each other like they were still a young couple. I saw their lips moving, but the words weren’t meant for me. They were for each other and for the blood of the nation.

Then, light came in from somewhere, and Samuel and Letty’s feet left the ground. They stayed in each other’s arms as their images became one with the sky, scattered on the wind like a swarm of fireflies. Free from their bodies, from history, from everything.

And finally, like windows blinking out at nightfall, the ghosts vanished one by one, but I still felt the familiar chill as a hidden dancer passed through me. Eventually, the only one left was a small boy holding a collapsing teddy bear, whose gaze lingered on mine. Then I blinked, and he was gone.

Stephen M. Pierce is a technical writer living in Asheville, NC, who previously served as head editor of his university's undergraduate literary magazine The Nomad. In addition to publications in The Nomad, his work has appeared in Bridge, Glass Mountain, Waves of Words, and Sundown, a Gordon Lightfoot Anthology. Links to his stories and his fiction blog can be found at https://stephenmpierce.wordpress.com/.