Spiritus, a Paranormal Romance (Spiritus Series, Book #1) (12 page)

“He said it gave him the willies the way that she would just start screaming. My granddaddy was a brave man, fought with Mr. Sinclair in the war, but this was something entirely different. He said she’d yell into thin air ‘Go away Alastor’, ‘You’re too late’, and other such nonsense. The last night that my granddaddy saw her alive she was on the floor in the corner of her cell, she was turning her face away from her imagined tormentor, and all of a sudden she just yells out ‘Leave me alone. I will never forgive you’. Granddaddy found her dead they next morning.”

“Now, I’m not one to say that I believe in ghosts or any other nonsense, but don’t you find it strange that it’s always the ghost of Mr. Sinclair that people claim to see and never Mrs. Sinclair? I think he drove her to hang herself. That was his revenge. At least that’s what I would think if I believed in ghosts.”

I had seen enough. Instead of answers, I was only finding more questions without answers. I gathered the photos I printed, thanked the librarian, and left the library. I stood on the sidewalk looking around, unsure what to do next.

It was late afternoon, hot and miserably muggy. Blocks away, I could see the leafy tops of the oaks in my front yard, but I wasn’t ready to go home yet. I looked up the tree lined sidewalk, shady and welcoming, all the way up Capitol Avenue, past my house, to Oak Street where Cedar Hill Cemetery waited.

I held the photographs against my chest as I walked along. It was a little easier to believe I was being haunted by a hundred year old ghost when walking down the sidewalks of Corydon. Nothing much had changed along the streets in the last century. Corydon was a place where the past wasn’t forgotten, it was alive and well and part of daily life.

I tried to focus on the two most important questions that my research brought up, no matter how complicated the answers might be.

First, was I
that
Rebecca?

Logically the answer would be no. It was silly and childish to even consider such a possibility. But if not, then what other explanation could there be?

I looked down at the photographs as I walked along, arguing with the rational part of myself. This woman did look exactly like me, we had the same name, and we both lived in that house. And even more important—the images that would flash into my memory of that other me in another time had to mean something. What was that if it wasn’t me as that other Rebecca? And then there was him, appearing to me of all people.

Was that the connection between me and this spirit?

Well, there was
something
between us. There was some sort of bond between us that crossed the sea of death. Maybe I was
that
Rebecca, and Alastor was back—

Why was he back?

And that brought me to the most important question of all. What did it mean if it all was true?

If I was that Rebecca—an idea that still seemed ridiculous—was Alastor back because of me like he said? And what did he mean by that?

As I stepped through the gate of Cedar Hill Cemetery, I knew none of this changed anything. I couldn’t tell anyone about this. I could scarcely accept the idea myself; anyone that I told about this would have me in a straitjacket by dinnertime.

I couldn’t do anything, not really. Besides, if this spirit was here to harm me in some way, he had done nothing evil or sinister yet. Actually, he seemed to be trying to save me at the quarry. If he wanted to harm me, why wouldn’t he have just let me drown?

I didn’t know what I was doing. One minute I’m walking across grassy paths and the next I was staring down at a headstone.

ALASTOR SINCLAIR

1840-1878

The stone was really there, gray and mossy, sticking up out of the ground like a bony knuckle. I read the name aloud, noticing the way the afternoon became silent as if even the birds above were waiting to see what I would do.

I was trying to comprehend the fact that right under my feet was the physical body of the ghost. He wasn’t part of my imagination. I could read his name. If I dug down in the earth, I could touch his bones.

That other Rebecca was not buried next to him and I didn’t seek her out. Me or not, I had no desire to see her grave.

Reading his name again, I knew that none of it mattered. If I was that Rebecca, I obviously couldn’t escape him. Because when I thought of the spirit, of his handsome face, his luminous eyes, the very feeling of his presence, I wanted nothing more than to contact him again. I reached my hand out and touched the name with my fingertip.

I turned and walked out of the cemetery with my mind made up. I wouldn’t be afraid of him anymore. After all, he wasn’t a nameless spirit anymore. He had a history and for whatever reason I was now part of it.

The house was squatting behind the oaks when I walked up. The afternoon was fading a twilight was creeping in from the shadows of the yard. I heard the chirping of crickets welcoming me home as I stepped up on the front porch and went through the front door.

Inside, the house was dim in the fading day. The only light came from the living room and poured out into the hall. I stepped through the doorway and there was Dad asleep on the couch as the television echoed the day’s events across the world.

I left him sleeping there with a peaceful half smile on his face, perhaps he was even dreaming of my mother. It seemed cruel to wake him.

As I was walking out of the living room, my hand touched the door casing and I stopped. I looked at the carved frame, coated in many layers of paint. Was this something Alastor touched at one time?

It was suddenly very crucial I touch something he had touched. I had to know if I would be able to feel it when it happened. I wanted to feel some sort of connection to him, but all I felt was the carved moldings under my fingertips.

I left the living room then crossed to the other side of the house, running my fingers along the walls as I walked. I got to the end of the hall and stepped inside the office. It was dark and quiet in there with unpacked boxes still stacked about. I shut the door behind me and turned on the lamps on either side of the desk.

There it was, the spot on the floor that gave me that electrical jolt of visions that first day I came here. I knelt beside it, knowing now that the white boards were from where his blood had stained the floor and people had tried to scrub it away over the years.

I reached a tentative finger toward that spot. I vowed that I would not pull away, no matter how terrifying the images were.

Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes, and placed my hand flat on the faded floor.

There was a sickening tilt and spin to the world. I was falling and then I was spinning again. I felt the weight of long skirts around my legs even as I knew I was kneeling on the wood floor. Voices came from everywhere, crowding around me. These voices spoke to slow at first, and then so quickly that I couldn’t understand what was being said. Surrounding all of this was a prism-like light that blotted out everything.

I was falling down again and the prism became the crystal wine glass some version of me was holding as my new husband toasted me and over the rim of the glass, Alastor’s blue eyes held me captive. How could I deny the truth in this?

Again there was that nauseating spinning and Alastor became nothing more than a puff of smoke. I was then standing at my bedroom window; I felt his lips on my neck as his fingers pushed my long hair aside.

“I love you my darling.”

I was falling again, spinning until I stood at the door to the office; I could almost see that other me there in a long white nightgown with my hair flowing down my back. Alastor was at the desk, his clothes were rumpled and his hair was mussed as if he had just run his hands through it. His beautiful blue eyes were foggy and bloodshot as he looked up at me.

I saw the gun then, a bulky black thing in my pale white hand. I was raising it up, there was a flash of light, a cloud of smoke, and then Alastor’s face contorted in pain. He fell then, the blood from his chest spilling out over the floor.

“My Becca,”He grimaced as he lay dying. “Forgive me.”

I fell backwards, immediately back in the here and now. I could feel the wetness on my cheeks and my vision was blurry with unshed tears.

Dear God, what have I done?

Dad was calling me for dinner, his voice echoing down the hall. I didn’t want him to find me like this. Wiping my tears away, I went out to join him.

He met me in the hall with a cheery, but sleepy smile. “Where have you been hiding?”

“I just got back.”

“Oh,” Dad said with a stretch and a yawn. “Did you get your outline done?”

“Yep.” I said and turned him back toward the kitchen. “I got it all done.”

We ate in silence. I kept going over the articles in my head. Was I that Rebecca? If so, I killed Alastor. Why would I do that? The two people in the photograph seemed so happy, what happened?

I had barely eaten more than two bites when I excused myself claiming I was tired and wanted to lie down. Of course, such a logical explanation sent Dad into an immediate panic.

“You okay?” Dad asked with anxiety all over his face again.

“I’m just tired.” I lied, smiling to reassure him just like my mother used to.

“Okay, get some rest.” Dad agreed with a smile. “By the way, Billie and Ally both called for you earlier. You may want to give them a call.”

“I’m so tired. I think I’ll just wait and talk to them tomorrow, I don’t want to be on the phone all night.”

He smiled, “Okay, see you in the morning.”

Once I was safe in my room, I closed the door and locked it behind me. Within just a few minutes, I heard the television in the living room again and I knew that Dad believed my flimsy excuse. I was glad he was so easy to deceive. I hated to make him worry.

I turned back to my empty room and stared up at the plaster ceiling. I didn’t know how this was supposed to work exactly.

“Are you there?” I called into the emptiness. “Can you hear me?”

Nothing.

I stepped away from the door and listened, straining to hear anything that meant he was near. As I stood there, I felt a change in the air as it became slightly heavy, like the air just before a storm.

He was there. I could feel him swirling and gathering overhead even though I couldn’t see him. I closed my eyes, trying to hone in and make him materialize by my own sheer will.

“Alastor,” I called him by name. “I know you’re here.”

From within my room came a gentle wind from above, stretching out wide as it came down from walls. It moved across the floor to my feet and then circled around me as it rose, caressing my face and lifting my hair.

“So now you know,” said the voice on the wind.

“Yes.” I whispered, breathless as what seemed like particles of dust gathered together and began to take shape. I fought the urge to run away as I felt him growing stronger. “Why are you here?”

He became more solid, but flickered like a candle. “I am here because of you.”

I wanted to ask what he meant by that, but in a fraction of a second I decided it didn’t matter. That question was better left unanswered, and what would it matter what the answer was. It wouldn’t change anything.

“How long have you been here?” I asked, motioning wide with my hands.

“Since I first knew of you.” He replied without hesitation and turned those luminous eyes on me.

“When was that?”

He held me with his unwavering gaze, a smirk playing across his full lips. “I don’t know.”

This was getting me nowhere. I wanted to ask him so many questions, but I kept losing my train of thought. His face was so wistful and his eyes wouldn’t release me.

“Are there other ghosts here?” I finally stammered, trying to take him in without getting distracted by his handsome face. “Other spirits watching me?”

“No.” He answered simply, shifting and flickering as he moved closer.