Forget Me Never

by Sable Hunter

  “So, you don’t think I’m dirty?”

  Patrick blew out a hard breath. “Savannah, my love, I think you’re as pure as the driven snow. And I can’t wait to kiss you and make love to you.”

  His frankness caused a hot blush to bloom on her cheeks. “Patrick – how? How can we feel this way about each other so fast?”

  He noticed that she didn’t try and deny the attraction; she just wanted to hear his explanation. So he gave it to her. “We’re connected, Baby. Our lives are woven together in ways we can’t even understand. You had the fortune teller’s words, but I had something much more specific.”

  “What?” She was hanging on his every word.

  “Do you remember me telling you about that old well at Evermore? The one that was dug by the slaves?” She nodded her head. “When I was thirteen years old, on Halloween night, Selma Smith’s nieces were insistent about looking down that old well to see the face of their future husbands. I moved the cover for them and stood by while they peered into the well. They didn’t see anything, but the waters became disturbed and it scared them. I stepped up to see what was going on and the waters stilled and when they did – I saw you. You looked at me and smiled and I lost my heart. I went back and sketched you and I’ve been looking for you ever since. Can you imagine how I felt when I turned around and looked into your eyes? I recognized you as soon as you smiled. I’ve always called you Destiny. Now that I know your name, you’re my Savannah, but you’re still my Destiny.”

  By the time he was through talking Savannah was crying in earnest. “Oh Patrick, come home! I need you so.”

  It was all Patrick could do to stay seated. He wanted to crawl through the screen and hold her. “I’ll be home as soon as I can. I promise. Now, I’ve got to go, Baby. There things I’ve got to handle here, but you rest assured that you will never be out of my thoughts. Okay?”

  “Okay.” She kissed her fingers and pressed them to his face.

  Savannah was in love.

  Chapter Four

  Over the course of the next few days, she found herself opening up more and more with Patrick. Sharing became a pleasurable game with them. Daily they revealed little things, taking turns answering questions, and discussing every topic under the sun. As they revealed to one another their hopes and dreams, they found out how much they had in common.

  What did change about their communications was the heat level. There was one email in particular that Savannah had reread a hundred times. It made her blood run hot. The night before, she had lain in her bed and touched herself as she read his words. They were beautiful.

  Savannah, Baby

  I’m so lonely. Oh, I’m not alone; there are plenty of people around. Jayco and Hawke are good people. And I got a letter from my best friend, Revel Lee. I can’t wait for you to meet these guys. But the truth is, I’m lonely for you.

  The last photo you sent me is beautiful. I’ve stared at it so often; it’s imprinted upon my memory. I’ve fallen in love with your face. Every single feature is precious to me. I dream of tracing your cheekbones with my fingers, staring into your eyes and kissing that sweet rosebud mouth of yours.

  From what you’ve told me, you don’t think you’re sexy. Well, I beg to differ. I can’t wait to hold you close. When we kissed and I held you to my body, I could feel your breasts pressing against my chest. And when I sucked your nipple through your dress – Damn! I’ve thought about that over and over. I can’t wait to peel off your clothes and touch you for real. I’m sure you will feel like heaven in my arms. What color are your nipples? Not that it matters, but in my fantasies they are a deep rose color. God, I can’t wait to suck them. When they got all hard and big because we had teased one another, Lord, Girl, I wanted to reach over and touch you so much.

  I want to give you pleasure, Savannah. If you’ll let me, I’ll love on you all night long. Don’t get upset with me, but I stroke myself when I think about you and me lying naked in your bed while I thrust my cock deep inside of you. I can promise you this, Sexy, your pleasure will be more important to me than my own. If you’ll let me, I’ll make you cum again and again. God baby, I can’t wait to get my hands on you. Write me back. Tell me that you want me as much as I want you. Please.

  Patrick

  Savannah lived for those emails. She didn’t hear from him every day, and when she didn’t, the day wasn’t complete. Her hours were busy, however. This morning she was rushing around like a chicken with its head cut off. First on the agenda was a visit with Mamaw Gracie Boudreaux who was going to let Savannah record her telling the story of how the sirens had saved her grandfather when he had been washed out to sea on a door during the great hurricane of 1893. The old man had been rescued by a Portuguese trawler and when asked how he had survived he told that it was the sirens or mermaids who had saved him and kept him from drowning until help could arrive. Even though Gracie’s relative had lived to an old age, raised a family and bought land – he had never changed his story. He had gone to his grave standing by his tale of the saving sirens in the midst of the storm.

  One of the goals of the Louisiana Culture Center was to preserve the music and the oral history of the region. Inevitably, as time passed, a place would change. And Savannah sought to keep intact the tales and memories of the old folks. Their organization wasn’t the first to do this, but she was continuing the effort and trying to catalogue and link the archives of others, so a data base would exist that catalogued the richness of their oral traditions before they completely vanished. It was her dream to acquire as much of the original music of the area as she could. So, she combed the countryside buying old records and original recordings and making new digitized versions of the local musicians in order to keep intact a true rendering of Cajun and Creole music. Today, when she finished with Mamaw Boudreaux, she was headed to Grand lsle to pick up an original field recording of Wayne Perry from the 1930’s playing creole blues on his fiddle.

  Before heading south, however, she was meeting the girls from work for lunch at Prejeans in Lafayette. They were worrying her to death about information on Patrick. And she was a little selfish about handing any out. But she liked them, so she would go. Pulling a pink camisole over her head, she stepped into flat shoes, then buttoned her blue jeans and pulled her mess of long wavy hair into a ponytail. Foregoing make-up, she grabbed her purse and took off. The drive to the restaurant would take about a half hour so she put on Elvis radio and tried to clear her mind. It was futile. Patrick’s face was all she could think about.

  In the last few weeks he had sent her more photographs and she had printed them out on photo paper. One she kept by her bed for viewing pleasure. Patrick had the kindest face. The first time she had seen him at the Acadian Memorial, it hadn’t looked kind. Patrick had glared at her, the very thought of it made her giggle now. He had looked so stern. His face was wide, his jaw was strong and his eyes could be piercing. But now he looked at her with love and there were crinkles of happiness around his mick and eyes and Savannah couldn’t wait to kiss each and every one of them.

  Elvis sang “Don’t Be Cruel” and she sang along, a little off-key, at the top of her voice. Never had she been so happy. Why kismet had chosen to reward the nothing little swamp rat with someone as wonderful as Captain Patrick Heath O’Rourke was a mystery to her. The miles whizzed by and she couldn’t help but open the sun roof and let the late fall breeze blow through her tresses. Since the day of her attack, they had spoken on video chat as often as possible and Savannah believed they were growing closer day by day.

  In the past, she had always been skeptical of online emotional relationships. How real could they be? And even though she and Patrick had physically met and had some unusual connections, most of their attachment had developed via email and instant messaging. Now all she could think about and plan for was his homecoming. He thought it would be after the first of the year. So sometimes between now and then, Savannah had to come to terms with her lack of sexual experience. Oh Patrick knew
she was a virgin, he had to – considering that she had lived her life as a pariah. But their emails had become so hot! They were having cybersex, especially on private message where there was no time delay. And she was good at it! It amazed her how intimate and emotional black words on a white line could be. Before meeting Patrick and starting this computer affair, she had rarely ever masturbated. Now, Savannah was a near nympho. All it took was seeing Patrick O’Rourke’s name pop up and her clit popped up right along with it.

  Gee, she needed to think about something else – she was turning herself on. Something mundane, that’s what she needed. But still about Patrick – oh yeah. During the time she had been communicating with him, she had found out a little more about his childhood. He had given her a little insight into the history of Evermore Plantation and she had begun gathering up anything else she could find. Little Felix worried her. She couldn’t help but dwell on what might have happened to him. The idea of a little lost soul trapped in space and time for eternity had stolen many hours of her sleep. She wondered if she could help him move on. . . Savannah had gone online and ordered a half dozen books on ghost-hunting and communicating with the dead. It was fast becoming more than a hobby.

  So far she had visited the local cemetery three times. Once she had taken the girls from work with her, but that had been a horrible idea. It had quickly disintegrated from a paranormal investigation into a giggling, totally irreverent, grave-hopping shindig. She had spent most of the evening apologizing to the dead. Tammany, Cato and Fresca had probably offended the deceased with their attitude – or maybe not. It’s possible their joy had been infectious. Either way, Savannah had tried to observe proper protocol, greet everyone and ask permission to videotape and take photographs. But Fresca and Cato had started making up silly stories about the dearly departed and Tammany had proceeded to lay down on people’s graves and then jump up and scare the other three when they would pass by. Suffice it to say, Savannah had not gotten any evidence worth having. No self-respecting ghost would come near those three hedonistic heifers.

  Her next visit had been different, however. She had gone alone. Not really knowing what to expect, she had just started taking pictures. Walking through the old cemetery, weaving in and out of the tombstones, Savannah had spoke kindly to the dead and explained that she was searching for proof that they were still tethered to earth. She began snapping photos, constantly watching through the viewfinder. At first she got nothing – no dust orbs, no possum eyes – nothing. And then they started to come. . .

  First there were two and then three and then three hundred. Before Savannah knew it she was surrounded by balls of light. The orbs were textured and incandescent, giving off their own iridescent glow. The colors were magnificent: cobalt blues, vibrant greens, pink, gold, opalescent – even a couple of blood red ones. What did the colors mean? She had no idea. It could be like auras, indicating personality traits or moods. And the closer she looked at some of the orbs, the more convinced she became that there were faces in some of them. Savannah was shocked, amazed and a little unnerved. She had left shortly thereafter. In fact she had trotted.

  When she had gotten home she had giggled like a child and immediately sent a few to Patrick. She shared everything with Patrick: happy news, sad thoughts, worries – the only thing she hadn’t shared was how people were beginning to gossip about her again. The news of her unfortunate past had leaked out around town and at the hospital. She only prayed that it didn’t leak out at work, she needed her job. Mr. Davis knew, but if the other employees protested working with her, she didn’t know what she’d do. Being questioned by the police and having to explain everything there hadn’t helped, either. People loved to talk and a connection to leprosy was unusual enough to start lips moving. Savannah didn’t want to upset Patrick, so she kept quiet. She knew he would worry.

  During the last few weeks, she had gone back to the cemetery several times and learned more each time she went. In October PROOF had come to town and Savannah had been thrilled with the chance to work with experts. In fact, she had loved it. Playing hostess, she had made all the arrangements and traveled with the crew and investigators to the ruins of the Grove, a plantation home that sat near a promontory on the river called Conrad Point.

  The Grove had been built around 1825 and became a very profitable sugar plantation. Everything changed during the War Between the States, of course. Hard times and death had overrun the beautiful plantation and it became a Union hospital for soldiers with yellow fever. Many of the soldiers died there and were buried on the grounds.

  Accounts of ghostly activity had started early in its history and continued until it was struck by lightning and burned to the ground in 1960. And even then an apparition had been seen in the flames. Savannah had done more research before the trip and found out about a horrendous accident that occurred in the river adjacent to The Grove, but it wasn’t until the investigation had been underway that she had realized how relevant it really was.

  Honestly, Savannah had been skeptical of the whole process. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in the supernatural – she did – she even had experienced things herself. But bringing in television cameras and expecting the unseen world to perform for them seemed highly unlikely to her. She was leery of putting her name on something that might taint the validity of her work. However shows like this were big business, and the financial gurus at the Cultural Center said that her participation and the show itself would be a big boon to Louisiana tourism and interest in the area. So, she didn’t argue.

  Stopping at a red light, Savannah turned Elvis down. Memories of the night at the Grove still caused goosebumps to cover her body. Jeremy Richardson and Garrison Keys had been very professional and easy to work with. They had treated her with respect and answered any questions that she had. Thankfully, Savannah observed that the program was on the up and up. There were no staged noises, preplanned ‘gotcha’ moments or any Photoshop computer gymnastics. When it was over, Savannah had been allowed to see the actual raw footage in the control van and when it was aired there were no changes made.

  But what Savannah had seen and experienced that night had changed her life. It had all started out quietly. They had walked around the property, weaving their way in between the ghostly columns that stood out so starkly in the moonlit night. It reminded Savannah of the setting of a Greek play and she half expected Pan to come skipping out of the woods playing his pipes. Cameramen followed their every step and Savannah swore to herself that no matter what happened, she wouldn’t go running off screaming like some silly schoolgirl.

  Jeremy carried a video camera with night vision and Garrison had a new item they had told her about, something called a Frank’s Box. It supposedly allowed investigators to hear the answers to their questions from the spirits in real time. Savannah would have to experience this to believe it.

  They began talking to whatever spirit might listen. “Is there anyone hear who would like to speak to us? Did you live at The Grove? Were you a slave here?”

  Savannah had been given a digital camera and she was taking pictures - in no random pattern, but in anyway that she felt led by her instincts. Just like at the cemetery, at first there were no orbs, but soon the very atmosphere seemed alive with them. “I have orb activity,” she offered, “lots of it.”

  “Good, we’ll look at it closer on the laptop,” Garrison paused to glance over her shoulder. “Keep going, Savannah. We want more than orbs.” More than orbs? She had figured her rendezvous at the cemetery to be a success if she got orbs.

  “Were you here during the Civil War?” The question was simple but the answer they received was extraordinary. The box in Garrison’s hands crackled and an unearthly moaning and groaning was heard quite clearly.

  “Shit!” Jeremy croaked. “I don’t like the sounds of that.”

  Savannah had made up her mind not to run, but it was tough. Her feet literally danced on the ground, it was all she could do to keep still. “What in the wor
ld was that?”

  “Somebody’s not happy.”

  They waited a few more minutes, but there was no more moaning. But the excitement wasn’t over. “Damn, look at this,” Jeremy stopped in his tracks and stared down at the LED screen. Everyone gathered around and couldn’t believe what they saw. Jeremy had the camera pointed at the ruins and they could look up and see the columns and then look back down at the image. Through the lens of the camera it was as if the air was vibrating. One moment they could see the stark, lonely columns and the next they could see the plantation house as it had looked before it burned. “Lord Bless my soul! I’ve never seen anything like that.” Savannah shivered with excitement. She recognized the house. Photos and post cards of its likeness were common on the internet.

  She snapped some stills of the area and turned in a circle snapping more. “Look at the clouds,” she gasped. It was hard for the guys to tear themselves away from the ghostly spectre of the mansion but they turned to inspect what she was capturing.

  “Is that ectoplasm?” Garrison asked.

  “I don’t think so, Jeremy.”

  Savannah was intrigued. Unable to resist, she began to walk toward the shimmering fog.