By Amir H.

The morning light spilled over the Chattahoochee River like melted gold, pouring through the glass balcony doors of Apartment 304 at The Rapids at Riverfront Place. Sgt. Jacqueline Williams stirred on the couch, half-buried under a fleece blanket and a half-eaten bowl of noodles and Cool Ranch Doritos from the night before. She’d fallen asleep watching anime again—lulled by the ending credits of Inuyasha whispering from the TV.

Her phone buzzed beside her ear.
0600 hours.
Time to get up. Time to get on post before 0700.

Her boots were already by the door—polished, waiting.

“Morning, Staff Sarge,” mumbled a voice from the kitchen.

Jacqueline cracked one eye open. “Don’t jinx me, Kira.”

Her roommate, Kira Simmons—Air Force intel, fast-talking and always five minutes late—grinned over her coffee mug, already in mismatched socks and a wrinkled flight suit.

“It’s not a jinx if it’s inevitable. I heard chatter yesterday. Your name’s all over the base.”

Jacqueline stretched, brushing chip crumbs from her BDU pants, which she had slept in again. “It’s probably nothing. Could be someone else.”

“Girl, please. No one else flipped that arms runner like a ragdoll behind the commissary dumpsters.”

Jacqueline laughed, rubbing sleep from her eyes. “He called me ‘ma’am’ while he was face-down in gravel. Almost felt bad for him.”

“Don’t. He had grenades in a gym bag.”

Private Jim Corwell. Just a kid from Remington, same as her. Barely twenty. Caught up chasing fast money, stealing military-grade weapons to sell on the streets to local gangs. Jacqueline, working her usual perimeter near the PX, had spotted him mid-deal. The buyer got away, but Jim didn’t.

They paused in the kitchen doorway, sharing a glance heavy with memory and caffeine.

Then Kira disappeared into her room, still muttering, “You owe me lunch when you make E6…”

Jacqueline stood, stretched again, and caught her reflection in the hallway mirror. Hair wrapped in a silk bonnet, face bare, but eyes alert. Ready.

She picked up her boots, pulled them on one at a time, and tied them tight.
Tighter than regret.
Tighter than memory.

Outside, the sky over Columbus stretched into soft pinks and peach. The river shimmered with promise.

But Jacqueline couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere behind that sunrise… something was coming for her.

---

That afternoon, Jacqueline stood at attention outside the company office on Fort Benning, the sun high and hot against her brow. First Sergeant Hollis motioned her inside.

“Williams,” he said without preamble, “Command reviewed your report on the apprehension of Private Jim Corwell. Intel confirmed your instincts were dead-on. Congratulations.”

He handed her the crisp set of promotion orders, the insignia patch folded neatly inside.

“You’re now Staff Sergeant.”

No music. No fireworks. But Jacqueline felt the world shift beneath her boots.

“Thank you, First Sergeant,” she said, her voice steady.

Outside, Morales and Davis were waiting like buzzards.

“Well, well,” Davis grinned. “Is that an extra stripe, or are you just happy to see us?”

“She’s buying drinks,” Morales added, looping an arm over her shoulder.

“You’re lucky I like y’all,” Jacqueline said, trying and failing not to smile.

“You love us,” Davis shot back.

They walked toward the motor pool together, the kind of stride you only have on a good day. Confidence in your step. Sun on your skin. Heart a little lighter.

---

Later that evening, Jacqueline sat on her apartment balcony overlooking the river, a cold ginger beer sweating in her hand. Her phone lay on the table beside her, screen dark. She picked it up and hesitated, thumb hovering.

Amber.

They hadn’t spoken in weeks. Not since Jacqueline asked if she was still doing magic shows, and if she had found a real job yet. Not since Amber sent one-word replies like fine and busy.

Still, today was different. Maybe Amber needed to hear it.

The text was short. Straight to the point.
She sent the same one to her mother, Sheriff Dominique Williams:

Got promoted today. Staff Sergeant. Just wanted you to know. Hope you’re okay.

Send.

She watched the message go through, that small flicker of hope catching in her chest. She glanced at Amber’s message again, hoping for a response.

Message: Received.
Reply: None.

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

Jacqueline stared out at the water, eyes tracing the ripple of current in the darkening blue.

Then the phone buzzed again.

MA.
A new message.

She didn’t move for a moment.

Not Congrats.
Not Proud of you.
Just a message heavy with everything unspoken:

Jackie, we need to talk. I need you and your sister home.

Jackie. The name only family and friends used.

Jacqueline locked the phone and sat back, the joy of the day dimming like the light on the river.

Somewhere deep inside, she felt it again—that slow ache in her chest. The kind that didn’t come from war or rank or duty.

The kind that came from Remington.

Sheriff Williams was carved from stone—rough as gravel, tender only in glimpses. After their father passed, she spoke more of monsters than mourning.

“The world’s full of shadows,” she once said. “And not all of ’em hide in closets.”

Amber, her younger sister, had escaped long ago—fled Remington like a ghost abandoning a grave. Jacqueline enlisted instead, trading one regimented life for another.

But tonight, none of it felt like enough.

She showered before bed. Needed to wash off the bad vibes. Clear her head before the past crept back in.

Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind like scripture:

“God, I ask for your protection over me and my loved ones…”

The water wasn’t hot enough to warm the chill left by that text.

Come home? To that cursed town?

It had taken her father. Shot and left bleeding in the street by some kid trying to earn his stripes. The funeral wasn’t any better—her mother didn’t even show. Claimed she had to work.

Hunting, that’s what Amber eventually called it. Said Ma started talking “Dolulu”—short for delusional, dressed up in childhood code.

Jacqueline finished her shower, made a few calls, and turned in for tomorrow.

Rain tapped gently against the window.

---

In her dreams, Jackie woke still in her sleepwear. Drawn outside like a sleepwalker, she stepped out of her apartment.

Her foot hit a puddle.

But instead of landing—
She fell.

The water swallowed her whole.

---

Jackie landed barefoot. Wet. She felt like she had just done a backflip. The world around her was hushed and heavy. Fog curled around her knees like smoke.

She was standing in the middle of an old town.
The buildings were familiar.

It was Remington—her Remington. But drained of color. Suspended in a dreamlike hush.

Dozens, maybe hundreds, of silent figures walked past her. All in the same direction. Their eyes were glassy. Expressions hollow. They were people from different eras—past, present, and future, colliding.

Walking among them was Private Jim Corwell.
Tranced. Silent. Moving with the crowd.

And then—
Jackie saw him.

Her father.

“Dad?” she called, voice breaking.

He didn’t turn, just kept walking, arms swaying gently to the rhythm of the music.

Miles Davis. “So What.”

She knew it instantly. Her father’s favorite. A man who couldn’t play an instrument to save his life, but who could name every note in a Miles, Parker, or Brubeck solo.

His jazz collection had been her lullaby.
She still had those records.

Drawn by the music, Jacqueline followed. The sound shifted—melted into a swing jazz number, warbled and slow, thick as honey. It came from an old riverboat docked along the Chattahoochee.

She descended the stone steps. Deeper than she remembered. Down and down into black water.

Her father was already onboard. Dancing. Laughing. Caught in the glow of the music.

But for Jacqueline, the sound had teeth. It clawed at her bones, guttural and ghostly. What once brought warmth now chilled her through.

At the dock stood the Riverman.

Black. Old. Wearing linen, suspenders, and time. A trumpet slung across his back like a rifle. He smelled of Black & Mild and memories.

“Ain’t no crossin’ these waters ‘less you got currency, sweetie,” he said, voice slow as a funeral dirge.

Jacqueline fumbled at her BDU pockets.
Empty.

“I… I’m broke,” she whispered. “But my father’s on that boat.”

The Riverman studied her face.

“Tsk, tsk… no gold, then down ya go.”

He reached for her.

And then—
Jacqueline saw it.

Her reflection.
In the water and the air behind her.

A mirror of herself.
Repeating infinitely.
Each one darker than the last.
Stretching into an obsidian void.

Louis Armstrong. “A Kiss to Build a Dream On.”
Played now. Softly. Like breath.

And then—

A familiar hand. Warm. Strong. Pulling her away.

“You’re not meant to be here, Kiddo. It’s not your time. Your mother needs ya.”

Her father’s voice was just as strong and compassionate as she remembered.

Her mother’s voice rose again. Clear. Commanding.

“God, I ask for your protection over me and my loved ones… May we always seek your guidance and discernment…”

The Riverman paused. His eyes dimmed.

“Then it ain’t ya time,” he said quietly. “Not yet.
Leave this place.”

The fog swelled.
A splash echoed like a warning bell.

Jacqueline turned—

She blinked.

Back in bed.
Heart racing.
Pillow damp.
Rain gone.

Outside, the world was still.

But in the mirror across the room—
Something flickered at the edge of her reflection.

Something dark.
And waiting.

Her phone buzzed.

It was Davis.
A breaking news link:

“BREAKING: Private Jim Corwell found dead in holding. Suspected suicide.”

For more Southern gothic stories woven in memory and myth, discover Rose Red Snow: A Southern Gothic Horror Novella