By Rhona Spivak
Underground Mirror – Department of Haunted Truths & Toxic Realism
SYLVAN BEACH, TX — He materialized at dusk, in the waters near the broken pier, just past the bait shop, where the shoreline still half-remembers what it used to be.
A towering figure, six-foot-plus, hair braided with seaweed, eyes like wet stone, stood ankle-deep in the water near what used to be a shell midden and now serves as a concrete drainage labeled “No-Swimming! – Advisory In Effect.”
He said his name was Teoxu, but added, “You can call me… Ghost.”
We talked for over an hour, though time felt warped around him. The breeze died when he spoke. The seagulls went silent.
“This Was Paradise. Then You Built a Port in It.”
Q: What did the land and water look like in your time?
GHOST: The bay was clear. The fish were fat. Oysters, enough to feed a hundred families. Deer walked to the water’s edge. The wind brought salt, not plastic. You could see the stars without them trembling.
You call this ‘Sylvan Beach’. Sylvan means wooded. Where are the woods?
You built a channel through the heart of the swamp. Then you invited fire to live on the shore and light the night skies.
“We Watched Your ‘Progress’ Spread Like a Disease.”
Q: Were you aware of what would happen to the area?
GHOST: We saw your boats. Then your guns. Then your treaties. Then your trash. You call it development, we called it rot.
Your shrimpermen dragged nets and chains across the sea floor like plows, pulling up the grass. Your factories coughed into the sky and said it was steam. The fish fled, or died. The turtles fled, or died. Even the mosquitoes grew strange.
You murdered thousands of acres with greed. Then named your subdivisions and neighborhoods after the things you killed.
“Now You Sell the Sunsets Back to Yourselves.”
Q: What do you make of today’s La Porte?
GHOST: I watched a couple take engagement photos on a jetty made of broken culverts, concrete and oyster ghosts. I watched children play in foam that stank of benzene. I watched a man catch a drumfish with no eyes and say “Hell yeah!”
It is one thing to lie to others but you have the ability to lie to yourself… and believe it.
“We Don’t Haunt the Land. The Land Haunts Us.”
Q: Are there others like you?
GHOST: Oh yes. Karankawa. Akokisa. Tonkawa. We stand in the trees you forgot. We float in the marsh when the fog rolls in. We whisper through storm drains during hurricanes.
We watch your festivals. We watch your ball games. We cry when you name a luxury condo “Bay Spirit.”
“You Could Still Save It. But You Won’t.”
Q: What would you say to people now?
GHOST: You always say it’s too late. That it’s just the way things go. But the bay still remembers how to breathe. The marsh still sings if you listen beneath hum of leaf blowers. The water is sick, yes. But it dreams of healing.
Build less. Burn less. Listen more.
As he faded, Teoxu placed his hand into the water. It hissed slightly.
Then he looked at me and said:
“Tell them we’re still watching.”
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