Two Old Friends and a Ghost Walk into the Woods by Anna Vangala Jones
In “Two Old Friends and a Ghost Walk into the Woods,” author Anna Vangala Jones explores how friendships may resuscitate after experiencing loss, specifically how a former trio can survive after losing its center. The story is set in the woods of the author’s Pennsylvanian youth—a setting that “act[s] almost as another character”—making tangible the ghostly presence of the narrator’s lost friend in every gust of wind. As Jones explains in her author’s note, “places sometimes have as powerful a hold on our memories as people.” For the two friends now left without the unifying presence of their treasured third, the wildness of the woods is alive with opportunities for recollection, closure, and coming together. Rather than shy away from the complexities of female friendships, Jones focuses on her characters’ unconventional relationships. In this story, we explore the bond between two surviving friends who preferred their deceased companion to each other. Despite their differences, their time in the woods is regenerative. In these familiarly unfamiliar shadows, something strong may grow from the ghost of their beloved trio. —CRAFT
We’d agreed to never come back to this place yet here we are. The wind whispers through the trees and unsettles our hair, trying to remind us to leave. Why would we return to these woods?
“I don’t care what she said. I still hate it.” Jaya shivers. “Feels morbid for her to bring us here.”
“You read it. Same as me. She wants her ashes scattered here and she wants you and me to do it.”
“You act like she can see us. Like she’ll have any way of knowing where we take her,” Jaya says. She kicks a few rocks at her feet and starts tracing shapes in the dirt.
“Who knows? Maybe she can.” I grip the urn tighter, hold it closer to my chest, so that Leela can hear the vibrations of my voice, so that she can feel my heart beating against the hard fragile vase that now holds all we have left of her. I don’t dare disobey her wishes when she’s right there with us, cradled in my arms.
“I didn’t know you believe in ghosts, Mina.”
“She’s not a ghost,” I say. “She’s our best friend.”
Jaya looks hurt now. I feel bad. I know she doesn’t mean anything by her thoughtlessness. She barely listens to what she’s saying half the time. I know she doesn’t love Leela any less than I do. She’s just scared. So am I but we each prioritize different emotions in hard times. We always have. We misunderstand as often as we enjoy each other. Leela is our common ground. We’ve been a trio since childhood and I refuse to think of us as a duo plus a ghost. Watching Jaya’s expression darken, I’ve never been more certain we need Leela in whatever form we can get her if we’re to stay together. She used to smash us into a reluctant hug after letting us fight and be stubborn for a while. Then she’d come up with something fun or dangerous to do so that we’d forget whatever we’d been so mad about seconds earlier. I did worry sometimes that Jaya never forgot or moved on as easily as me. Without Leela as our buffer, I wonder if Jaya will take the out.
“I’m sorry. I’m just sad.” I touch her arm and, to my surprise, she doesn’t pull away.
“I know. Me, too. Come on. Let’s keep going or we’ll still be here when it gets dark.”
She looks around like she thinks the three of us are not alone. For a second, I fear the same. “I know she specified sunset,” Jaya says, “but I want to be back in the car before we need moonlight to see.”
Leela sending us out here feels like her forcing us into an irritable hug one last time.
When we were sixteen and Jaya had just gotten her driver’s license, Leela asked us to meet her at this spot in the woods, claiming there was a cabin where she’d hidden beer and cigarettes for us. When we arrived, we had to walk for miles with no cabin in sight. Only endless trees and the snapping of twigs and crisp leaves underfoot. We grew worried about Leela and wished we’d all gone together, or better still, not taken this journey at all. Night fell and we’d already decided to turn back for help when a small, cloaked figure approached us. As the figure came closer, we remained rooted to the spot until it started shrieking and chasing us. It wasn’t until Jaya stumbled and crashed to the ground, crying, that Leela revealed herself and promised to never scare us like that again. When she had to tell us about her stage IV cancer diagnosis over a decade later, she broke that promise. It is just like her to make us wander here at night with her remains. I think it’s kind of funny but I get why Jaya doesn’t.
We pick a lovely patch of mossy earth. It’s the perfect place for our imperfect girl. We stay there waiting for her to emerge and scare us but of course she never comes. As we walk back to the car, the wind picks up and sounds like a long scream. We run like Leela’s ghost is chasing us.
I pull into an empty space at our local diner and park but leave the car running so the song that’s playing won’t end. It’s Leela’s favorite Bob Dylan farewell.
“You know, I always liked her better than you,” Jaya says. She looks guilty like she’s divulged her best kept secret. I want to laugh and tell her that is the most obvious thing I’ve ever heard. But I don’t. I hear the ache in her voice, the longing, and it matches the pain thumping in my chest.
I almost suggest we turn around, run back deep into the woods, collect Leela’s ashes, bring them home with us, and rebuild her into a smoky hazy shadow of our best friend. Instead I turn the music up and shift in my seat so I can rest my head on Jaya’s shoulder. She lets me and I feel her breath, slow and cool on the back of my neck. Leela is probably laughing at how easy it is to manipulate our movements like puppets.
They’ll love each other if it’s the last thing I do. I imagine her swearing it on her deathbed like a cartoon villain on a mission. It almost makes me sit back up in defiance. But Jaya’s head drops heavy onto mine and I stay completely still so I don’t scare her off. No sudden movements. I can hear Leela singing and mimicking a harmonica in my head and somehow I know Jaya hears her, too. We close our eyes and listen
ANNA VANGALA JONES is the author of the short story collection Turmeric & Sugar (Thirty West, 2021). Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Wigleaf; Terrazzo Editions; Berkeley Fiction Review; Short Story, Long; Necessary Fiction; X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine; and AAWW’s The Margins, among others. Her stories have been selected for Longform Fiction’s Best of 2018 and nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best Small Fictions, and Best of the Net anthologies. Find her at annavangalajones.com, @anniejowrites.bsky.social on Bluesky, @anniejowrites on Instagram, and @anniejo_17 on Twitter.
Featured Image by Maarten Deckers, courtesy of Unsplash.
