A Haunting on the Hill

by Elizabeth Hand

Squinting, he saw them, then, within the whorl: tiny human shapes—children, and larger figures in navy blue and white. A reddish slash that was a tablecloth on a patch of emerald-green lawn freckled with daffodil yellow, tiger lily orange. He drew closer to the doorway, pressing his face into it, longing to be closer to them, until he felt a warmth like the summer sun. He wasn’t imagining it. The tiny figures were real, they were alive—he saw them as through the wrong end of a telescope. One child wore red. The other was too faint for him to make out. A yellow shirt? A lively speck raced between them. Another child? But a child that small wouldn’t be able to move that fast. A dog, he thought. It was like one of his paper theaters come to life. An irresistible urge overwhelmed him, to grasp the magical panorama and hold it.

A picnic again