Running Away

    The Oregon Coast has secrets. Of that Anna was sure. As she drove along the endless miles of twisted, one-lane roads, she couldn’t help but peer into the impenetrable forest of evergreens and wonder what they were hiding.
    She was headed towards a dumpy, wind worn, two-bedroom beach house that sat 50 yards off of the rocky shore. She had found it on craigslist, posted by an elderly couple whose only child had moved herself and their grandchild to the east coast, leaving them with a family beach house and no family. With no desire to live on the Oregon Coast in the frigid Northwest winter, they had posted a desperate ad describing the house as a “cozy, bright, lived in beach cottage, fully furnished, with two bedrooms, one bathroom and a studio loft. Perfect for a winter getaway from the hustle and bustle of city life!”
     Anna should have asked what "lived in" meant, or exactly how "fully furnished" the house was. But, to be honest, she had stopped reading and started packing when she read "studio loft". 
       She had not told her boyfriend, Jon, about her plan to flee to the coast. He wouldn’t understand, she was sure. Anna was sure about many things, actually. She was sure that Jon didn’t really love her. That her one eyed blue heeler mix, Tanya, had a kindness greater than any human being. She was sure that she had been followed by a ghost since she was five.  She was sure that smelling lavender could cure headaches, insomnia and impotence and that painting the spirits she saw at night was her greatest calling in life.  
    The night before her lease began, Anna slid out of the bed she shared with Jon in Beaverton. The city was an industrial suburb of Portland that grew like a malignant tumor, eating up fields and pastures and spitting out Taco Bells and dirty beige apartment buildings that sickened Anna and made it hard for her to breathe. She quietly collected her few things from his apartment, packed them into her small lavender suitcase, clipped Tanya to her leash, and slipped out the door. She left no note, no explanation, only whispering a sad goodbye to the spirits she had met there.
    The night air bit through Anna’s pajamas and she shivered as she opened the door of her 1990 convertible Chevy Lebaron. Tanya hopped in the back obediently, giving Anna’s face a singular comforting lick before she shut the door again. Without a glance back toward the apartment and her sleeping boyfriend; she, Tanya and the ghost fled to the coast.