The Twitching Bunting

The tour had ended hours ago, but the weight of the battlefield still pressed on my chest. I sat on the edge of the hotel bed, thumbing through static channels, my mind replaying the guide’s hollow voice recounting the slaughter. Sleep was a distant promise. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw it—the little Confederate flag I’d bought at a roadside stand, propped beside the Union one on the nightstand. It twitched. Not from a draft—the AC was off, the windows sealed, the room as still as a tomb. I watched it for a full minute, my breath held, waiting for it to stop. It didn’t. It rippled, as if caught in a wind only it could feel, and then it bent, the cloth folding inward like a hand curling into a fist. I laughed nervously and reached out to straighten it, but my fingers stopped an inch from the fabric. The flag was cold. Not cool—cold, like it had been sitting in a freezer. I pulled my hand back and told myself it was a trick of the light, a lingering fatigue from the long day. But when I turned away, I heard a faint rustle behind me, like dry leaves skittering across pavement. I spun around. The flag was now hanging limp, but the stand had shifted an inch toward the edge of the table. I stared at it for a long moment, then decided I needed a drink. I went to the minibar, my back to the nightstand, and that’s when I heard it again—a low, guttural sound, like a man clearing phlegm from his throat, coming from directly behind me. I froze, the mini bottle of whiskey sweating in my hand. Slowly, I turned. The flags were both standing straight out, as if glued to a wall of wind, and the Confederate one was pointing directly at me. The sound came again, and this time I could make out a word, dragged out like a groan: ‘Help.’ I dropped the bottle and ran to the door, but my hand wouldn’t work the lock. My fingers were shaking too much. I forced myself to breathe, to focus, and finally got the door open. I stumbled into the hallway, but the corridor was empty, the lights flickering. I looked back into the room. The flags were still now, but on the nightstand, in the space between them, there was a small pile of dark, grainy soil, like the kind I’d seen on the battlefield tour. And on the Union flag, a single word was written, as if by a finger dipped in mud: ‘Stay.’ I didn’t stay. I went to the front desk and demanded a different room, but the clerk just stared at me with a strange smile and said, ‘Sir, you’ve been in that room for three days. You’re not scheduled to check out until tomorrow.’ I looked at my key card—it was for room 217. I had been on the battlefield tour yesterday, but the clerk’s words made my blood run cold. I went back to my room, because I had no choice, and when I opened the door, the flags were gone. In their place was a photograph, lying face-down on the nightstand. I picked it up. It was a picture of a man in a Confederate uniform, his face gaunt and hollow, his eyes sunken. On the back, in pencil, was a name: ‘J.W. Pemberton.’ I dropped the photo and backed away, but the air in the room had turned thick, and I felt a presence behind me, heavy and expectant. From the empty nightstand, the voice spoke again, clearer this time, almost pleading: ‘Help me find my grave.’ I didn’t sleep that night. I sat in the corner, knees to my chest, watching the shadows stretch and twist across the floor. When dawn finally broke, I called the museum and asked about the photograph. The curator’s voice went quiet when I described it. ‘That man,’ she said, ‘was a deserter. He was hanged by his own troops in the woods just beyond the battlefield. They say he still walks there, trying to find his way home.’ I hung up. I packed my bags. I left the hotel without looking back. But as I drove away, I saw in my rearview mirror a figure standing at the edge of the parking lot, wearing a tattered gray coat, its arm raised, not waving, but pointing toward the woods. And I knew that no matter how far I drove, I would always be carrying that flag with me, folded inside my suitcase, twitching even now.