Ghost Heart

by John Palisano

  My legs were twisted in impossible directions. My lower half was soaked. Was it blood? Melted snow?

  There were trees around a clearing and me ahead; that much I could tell.

  I was alone.

  They’d all gone.

  I looked back up at the sky one last time and shut my eyes.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I drifted over the river, my spirit free at last. My husk of a body, broken and hurt, left behind to decay and fall to pieces, to be reused and recast again. My soul headed to the Otherwhere. For the first time in a long time, my body felt warm, as though I were sunbathing naked on a summer day, only the heat wasn’t just on my skin—it also permeated my body, through my muscle and inside the middle of my bones. A comfort both alien and familiar cradled me as I traveled. I wanted nothing more than to see where I was going and to know the source of whatever was carrying me. The world I’d known didn’t matter. I’d have everything I’d need.

  Something touched my side. At first, I thought it might be an insect. A butterfly? A moth? The feeling became stronger until I recognized it completely. Someone’s hands were on me. I heard crying. Sadness. The energy in the hands pulled me back—back inside my broken, dying, earthly body. I fell behind my material eyes again. As they focused, I saw someone leaning over me.

  It was Minarette.

  Crying.

  “Come back. This wasn’t supposed to happen. They weren’t supposed to take you.”

  I knew her heart was true. Truer than anything I’d ever felt from a person.

  She saw me come to and put her hands on my hair. “Oh, Rick. Oh, thank God. Please hold on. Please. You can’t die.”

  I wanted to say something, but nothing came out. I wanted to tell her how much I loved her and how happy I was to have her near me again.

  She wrapped her arms around me, holding me so tight. Then she lifted me, and I couldn’t believe how strong she was. She held me, my body wrapped around hers, my head drooping over her left shoulder. I still could not speak. I tried to hold her back, but my strength was gone.

  I thought you were dying.

  I thought I was dead.

  She carried me through the freezing snow. She carried me from a place I didn’t know until we reached a place I did know. The shore. The beach. Was she taking me there to die? My favorite place? The water. The ocean. If I was going to die, there was no better place. She knew that. I felt fear and panicked. This, finally, was my last walk. I’d soon fade away. I knew it to be true. She’d given me one last mercy—one last, dying, graceful act of dignity. I wouldn’t die in an unfamiliar place, in the middle of nowhere. I’d pass where I’d most be at home.

  And then I didn’t want to die. I didn’t feel ready. There was more to do. More to live. So much more. We could heal, she and I, and thrive, our lives perfect and sublime. I just knew it.

  We crossed one of the small buildings and we headed for the beach, which was completely covered in snow. My last sights would be filled with gorgeous landscapes, at least. A silly thought, but I’d always said I didn’t want to go out in a hospital. There, all around, was my wish.

  Snow blanketed the beach. It looked so clean and perfect. Minarette set me on my feet, pulled me along and said, “Use me as a crutch.” I hesitated. “Don’t worry. I’m strong.”

  I reached up, and she drew me up. We were walking on the ice toward the shore. “What are we doing here?” I asked.

  “I wanted to bring you to the water one last time,” she said.

  My heart went cold.

  “Last time?”

  “I have to get out of here,” she said. “I have to move on. Too much stuff here.”

  “Oh, man. That’s horrible,” I said. My feet stumbled. The ice was very slippery. Minarette didn’t seem to have a problem.

  My breath made smoke when I spoke. “I’m not going to make it, am I?” I asked.

  “You’ve lost a lot of blood,” she said. “This is bad.”

  My voice quickened. Was this the end? “So you brought me to my favorite place to die?”

  “Yes,” she said. “This is entirely my idea. My fault.”

  We made it to the curb, which, had I not grown up at the beach and had practically every bit memorized, I would not have recognized. There were electric versions of gas lampposts guiding our way to the walkways, and to the beach beyond.

  “Don’t say that,” I said. “I would have totally wanted to come here if I had known this was my last moment. You know me really well.” I coughed up blood on the last word. I shielded my mouth with my left hand; my insides felt as though they might completely rip apart within me.

  “Shush,” she said. “Don’t talk right now.”

  Minarette guided me through the paths, our shoes crunching the snow. Flurries blew gently through the air. Was another storm coming?

  We made it past the walkways and what was the grass beneath the snow, and went out on the sand. The snow didn’t feel as compact on the actual beach. It looked so striking—the blanket of white stretching almost all the way to the waves.

  “Okay,” Minarette said once we’d made it close to the shore. “I’m going to clear an area. Can you try and stand for a moment?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  She let go, and I grabbed my middle, crossing my arms around myself. The pain came on immediate and strong. My wounds were mortal. I could tell. We know our own bodies, and mine was telling me my clock was running down. Fast.

  Minarette made quick work of clearing snow away from a patch of sand. She hurried back toward me, wrapping her arms around my middle.“Sit down,” she said. “Gently.”

  “All right.” I did my best. It hurt, and I felt a warm wash of blood pour from my belly and over my forearms. I made it down, and Minarette sat next to me.

  She said, “Look out there at the ocean,” she said. “Our favorite thing in the world.”

  “Yes,” I said. I was dizzy, and everything spun. “Oh, man, Minarette. I think I’m fading.”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “I’m here. Why don’t I lay you down?”

  She put her arm behind my head, and I gently lowered my back down on the sand. It was wet, and I could smell its distinct, earthy scent. A thousand memories of the beach flickered through me. My mom and me, when I was a kid, on the same beach, not too far from where I was. The guys hitting on her. The summer sun. My pails I’d filled with sand on the bottom, seawater, and hermit crabs I’d caught and kept as pets for the day. She always made me release them.

  They don’t belong to you. No other soul belongs to you in that way. Only if they want to.

  Only if they want to.

  Minarette was over me, patting my hair, smiling a little. Her skin had gotten so pale that she nearly blended in with the white, overcast sky.

  “It’s going to be okay,” she said. “Just let go.”

  “I don’t want to die,” I said. “But I’m glad I’m with you. I love you.”

  “I love you,” she said.

  She leaned down, nuzzled her head in my neck. She felt, as always, perfect. We stayed like that for several minutes. The pain in my middle was extraordinary. My body shook, even as I tried to make it stop.

  “Minarette…”

  “Shush.”

  A new pain eclipsed the others. Sharp. Delivering fire. My neck.

  She bit.

  Giving me her Ghost.

  No. No. No.

  She didn’t have much left.

  That meant the changing of the guard.

  That meant…

  Before I could say or do anything, she was up and away.

  I heard her.

  “I love you, Rick. Always love you.”

  I did my best to lean up, to try and see her, to try and talk, but my body was not my own. The Ghost coursed through me, making a
ll my veins and arteries hard, slowing my muscles, clouding my head and slowing my heart.

  My Ghost Heart.

  I spotted Minarette; she walked to the water. Her hair bounced. Snow flurries multiplied. There was a storm. The surf kicked up. Bigger waves.

  Minarette walked into the water, spreading her palms on either side, gliding herself inside. She kept walking until the only thing left was her head.

  She didn’t turn, but she swam. I saw her arms circling above her in the water.

  Heard her laugh until that blended into the sound of the surf.

  Saw her until she, too, blended in with the breaks of the waves.

  Then I went dark.

  For how long, I don’t know.

  I’d been unable to move, unable to speak, unable to react; even tears wouldn’t come.

  Snow gathered on my face, and it took all of my will to shut my eyes.

  Let me die.

  I can’t live without her.

  Please.

  Take me.

  The white sky turned gray, and the snow fell more.

  A fire ignited where I’d been cut open, and spread through me within moments. I could move. I could get up. I could be.

  Everything looked new. I saw every detail on every snowflake. I smelled the ocean, strong, and I swear I smelled some of Minarette’s perfume on the breeze.

  I sat and then stood. Putting a hand to my belly, I felt the wound closing over, second by second. I looked down, and the blood coming out was streaked with clear.

  My heart felt empty.

  My head spun.

  My stomach ached.

  And I knew only one thing would do.

  Blood.

  Blood.

  Blood.

  Of the innocent.

  Of the guilty.

  Blood to fill my newly beating Ghost Heart.

  I will keep on living whenever you tell people about me…and whenever you speak my words…that’s how I will always live beyond this, right now.

  And so I have.

  And so she is alive forever and always inside me, as she is now alive inside you.

  About the Author

  John Palisano has written for magazines such as Fangoria and Dark Discoveries. His short fiction has been nominated for the Bram Stoker Award® three times and has appeared in many magazines and anthologies. His first novel with Samhain was Dust of the Dead, and Ghost Heart the second. If you’ve enjoyed John’s work, please consider spreading the word. Please say hello at: www.johnpalisano.com

  Look for these titles by John Palisano

  Now Available:

  Dust of the Dead

  Coming Soon:

  Night of 1,000 Beasts

  Reboot the apocalypse!

  Dust of the Dead

  © 2015 John Palisano

  For a while, it looked like the living had won. The war against the walking dead lasted almost a decade, but it’s mostly over. There are only a few straggling zombies left to take care of. Los Angeles has returned to its lattes and long commutes. It’s up to a small Reclamation Crew to clean up the Zoms left behind. But when the undead dry up, their skin turns to dust. Now the hot Santa Ana winds deliver a new threat…because the Zoms were only the beginning of something far worse.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Dust of the Dead:

  You never forget the first time you see a dead person come back to life.

  They’re not happy. For the first few days it hurts like crazy. All the pain receptors and nerves start firing. The body keeps trying to start up damaged systems. If they’re fresh, they scream. If they’re half-decomposed, they scream louder. Sometimes they even talk.

  My first was inside the beautiful downtown Burbank burial ground Valhalla Wings. That’s what we had my first night—a talker. It sounded like wheezing and gurgling at first, but that all changed fast. We heard words as we dug down toward the coffin. Edmund Gonzales. That’s what his headstone read. I didn’t know his story, but it didn’t sound like he’d died happily, with a room full of family and the Great Big Light from the Beyond starting to beckon. Poor Edmund woke from death remembering the last scene before he’d died.

  “Don’t do it to me,” he said. “Please.”

  His voice was muffled from being inside his coffin, but we all heard him. The words were slurred, but you could make them out. Was this guy conscious of waking up in a coffin? Was it just his brain discharging old thoughts, kind of like a chicken that still runs around with its head cut off? No one told us either way. Frankie had an opinion. He always had an opinion. “Will someone please shut this guy up?”

  “Working on it,” I said, piloting the head of the Wild Cat excavator down again. I scooped up a last big load, turned the arm of the machine, and deposited the dirt next to the grave. When I took my hands off the sticks, they shook. That was new.

  Laurie, Ray and Frankie stood nearby, shovels at the ready. There was only so much the excavator could do. The final steps had to be done by hand.

  “Please.” The guy in the coffin got louder and clearer.

  In my head, I said a Hail Mary. Or seven.

  Frankie looked at me and said, “Get out of there and grab a shovel. We’re going in.”

  I quickly turned the excavator off and hopped out. There were several instruments near the grave: shovels, picks, a machete. Taking a shovel, I stood behind Ray, which was as far back as I could get.

  Thump.

  Frankie was down on top of the grave, or at least what I thought was the grave. “Put on your goggles,” he said. I didn’t have any, and before I could, he struck up what looked like a small, handheld welder.

  I turned round and saw a bunch of goggles near the shovels and gear. I put one on and turned back round.

  “That’s the vault,” Ray said.

  “It looks like a coffin,” I said.

  “Yup. Coffin vault. Fancy stuff. They make the outside look like the inside. Like a Russian Doll.”

  “What for?”

  “Caskets aren’t strong enough to bear the weight of the dirt on top of them,” he said. “Or the machines that roll past. They’re usually not this fancy. They’re usually just concrete.”

  “Huh,” I said. “Never knew.”

  “You’re going to learn a lot real fast,” Ray said. “Trust me.”

  He was right. A hundred percent, too. Ain’t seen nothing like it before or since. I thought to myself about how I came to be in Los Angeles all the way from Worcester. Back then, I, Mike Lane, had all sorts of dreams of becoming the next Steve McQueen or George Clooney, but I only ended up starring in little webisodes and micro-features. Got a few small walkons on a few different sitcoms, one of which you could only see half my body as I walked by a group of women sitting on the floor. But there you go. That’s Hollywood. To think Cindy was right along there with me, moving out to LA, her dreaming of stepping into at least a national commercial or two. It was a creative person’s version of hitting the lottery. Only neither of us hit—and we had a mountain of rejection slips we could use to start a fire when the end of the world came.

  The world did end, too. Our world. About five years ago. I came home one night to find no one home and a tiny Mexican woman handing me a manila envelope. Cindy served me. Cited “irreconcilable differences”. Still confused on that one. She never gave me a good answer as to why she did that. We’d known one another for years before we even dated. I thought we went deep, but obviously not deep enough. Life goes on, right?

  In the end, we all end up alone and everyone gone. So I thought. Until this thing happened and the world actually did change—just not the way any of us expected.

  Frankie used the small handheld welder to open the locking latch on the side of the coffin vault. It broke with a springing noise. “Now’s the hard part,” he said. �
�Getting this damn thing up and out of here.”

  “Why…?” said the voice inside the coffin. His voice was clearer now. I wondered again what the person…the thing inside…was thinking, if anything. “Please help me.”

  Frankie and Ray each grabbed a handle near the head and foot sides of the vault and lifted. They grunted. “It’s not going to budge,” Ray said. “Too damn heavy. They bought the twenty-gauge model.”

  “Get over to the excavator and pull the towing chain out,” Frankie said to me. “You know how to do that?”

  “Sure,” I said. “No problem.”

  That dead guy’s voice inside the coffin was really starting to creep me out. I was not a happy camper that night at all. There were about a zillion other things I would rather have been doing, but getting that job on the Reclamation Crew was probably the best thing that ever happened to me, all things considered.

  I made it to the excavator and pulled out the heavy towline from the front, dragging it toward the open grave. I held the hook with one hand, the chain with the other. When I made it close enough, I handed the hook to Ray, who took it without a word. He clamped it around one of the handles. He and Frankie climbed out, careful to take the shovels and hand welder with them.

  “All right,” Ray said to me once he was up and out. “It’s all on you. Earn your keep.”

  I nodded and went back to the excavator, where I turned on the power to the vehicle, found the tow controls, and turned it on. The chain went tight immediately.

  “Stand back,” Frankie said. “This thing’ll cut you in half.” Once everyone was a safe distance, he nodded and I pushed the button for it to pull again.

  There was a big tug. The wheels of the excavator jutted forward. The chain pulled.

  “It’s coming,” Frankie said. “Keep going.”

  There was a loud popping sound. Frankie and Ray hurried toward the grave, where they reached out and grabbed the sides of the coffin vault. Laurie made it to the opposite side and got a hold there.