“No problem,” Everett agreed. He winked and flashed me one of his sly smiles like he would when we were getting away with something devious.
“Thanks, man.” Tyler left the room with his magazine under his arm, softly whistling a tune.
Everett stood beside the bed, his grin still intact. I sat up in shock. Seeing him again, being in his presence, brought forth a rush of indescribable emotions. Instead of speaking, I simply leaned forward and gave him the tightest hug ever. His strong arms hugged me back. My brain told me he was dead. But he was there. He was real.
Immediately he took notice of the blackness swirling overhead. With his arms folded, he sneered at the congealing mass. Within it, he could see the face of evil. And clearly, it could see him. Upon recognizing Everett, it slowly retreated back into the corner from which it had seeped. As I had known all along, Everett’s presence alone could chase away demons. He was like a star. By simply existing, he repelled darkness. With him near, my fear began to fade. He glared defiantly until the last of the tainted shadows left the room, until it returned to its natural afternoon hue.
“Soon they’ll figure it out,” he whispered before sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Figure what out?” I whispered back.
“That I’m dead.”
“You mean they don’t know?”
He shook his head. “And once they realize that, it won’t matter if I show myself or not.”
“They can’t hurt you, can they?”
“No. They can’t hurt me. But I can’t hurt them either. I can’t fight them. They’ll learn that. And when they do, I’m no longer a threat.”
It was a devastating thing to learn. The power Everett possessed in life had been taken away with his death. He was my protector rendered useless. My hero in restraints. “But I won’t survive much longer. Not alone,” I fretted. Everett lowered his eyes, looking ashamed. Immediately I turned red from my own shame. How could I have been so concerned about my own survival when Everett himself had not survived? The important thing was, even in death, Everett cared about me—enough to materialize in my presence. And selfishly, I had yet to even ask what he had been through. “What was it like? Dying?”
He lifted his gaze while searching for the right words. “It was like—going to sleep. There was no pain. People call it ‘dying,’ but that’s not really it at all. It’s more like you’re changing, shifting forms. Like energy shifts forms. I know now that we come from nature. And that we go back into it. As I let go of my body, I smelled it. I could smell nature. I smelled grass. And the sweet leaves of fall. I smelled dirt. Rain mixed with pine sap. Flowers. Do you know the lilac bush in the backyard?” I nodded. “It smelled like that when it’s in full bloom. I wasn’t dying. I was being reabsorbed by nature. It happens with everything, not just people. A tree dies in the forest and later becomes covered with mushrooms. Everything is just energy changing forms.
“I know it’s strange to think about, but I found myself unfolding and sprouting on the maple that overlooks the garden. I couldn’t see where I was. I wasn’t even sure what I was. But somehow, after I fell to the ground, turned brown, and withered, I knew. I then realized I had choices about what I did with my energy. I suppose I could’ve stayed near my body if I’d wanted, until every bit had broken down and been reabsorbed. But instead, I chose to be someplace familiar. I learned not only could I choose where I’d end up, I could choose what I’d become. I wasn’t limited to just plants. I could be as simple as single-celled bacteria or part of a network of fungus. Or I could be more complex. A cricket. A field mouse. But I learned that with these choices, there were also rules. The more complex I wanted to become, the more energy I’d need to conserve. And this meant I’d have to exist for quite some time without any form at all. And in that time, all I’d be able to do is float through the air, drifting invisible, storing and growing my energy.”
I leaned forward and touched him again to confirm he was real. “How is it that you’re here? Like this?” I asked.
He tapped his chest. “Having this body is a bit like cheating. I’m here now with not much time, not much energy to stay in this form. It’s not natural. Basically, it’s—borrowed energy—and it has its limitations. It feels physical, but I only have fleeting effects on my surroundings. I guess that makes me—a ghost.” He laughed, amused by the mortal word for the form he had taken.
I looked to the dark corner. “What about them? Where does their energy come from?”
“It comes from nature too. Like everything does. Well, at least it begins in nature.” He scratched the hair on his chin. “Sometimes entities create so much energy that extra spills over. That’s all monsters are. Extra energy—perverted. They’re still a part of nature because whatever created their energy still controls it, manipulates it—and is itself from nature. But because they cannot gather or control their own energy, monsters are also once removed from nature. And because of that, they take on the most unnatural forms.”
“How do I stop them?” I asked in a whisper.
His eyes fell to the floor once again. His glum look led me to believe there wasn’t hope. But as always, Everett had a plan. He leaned toward me and replied, “Phillip.”
“Phillip!” I balked. “I haven’t seen Phillip since high school!”
“I can’t protect you anymore,” he reminded me. “And I can’t keep showing up in this form. Even if I could, I’d be of no help. Phillip is the closest thing you have to me. He’s all you have.” I had no choice but to accept what Everett proposed. If Everett said Phillip was my only hope for survival, my only hope at keeping the demons in the darkness, then that was that. Still, I couldn’t imagine seeking out Phillip and begging for his protection. How in the world would he receive such a request when he already believed I suffered from delusions brought on by Everett’s suggestive ideas?
“Will I see you again?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” he replied. “I’ll have to rest for a while. And then, I’m not sure where I’m going. But I’ll be with you. Just think of me when you smell flowers. Think of me when you see leaves budding in the spring. Think of me when you are walking in the fields. I might be in the air next to you.”
There was another light knock at the door. The sound instantly injected me with fear. Had evil already discovered Everett’s secret? Had the demons come to consume me while at the same time torture Everett by making him watch? But it was not a demon that stood in the doorway. As if Everett had summoned him as a gift, there stood—Phillip. He looked part grunge, part preppy. His blond hair was long, down to his chin. But typical Phillip, he wore a dress shirt and a pair of khakis instead of jeans. I looked to Everett excitedly, but he was no longer on the edge of the bed. “Everett?” His energy, apparently, had depleted.
Phillip greeted me with a stilted wave and a smile. “Hey, Ayden. What’s going on?”
“I wasn’t sure how I was going to find you. But look. You came to me.”
He sat in the chair next to the bed. “I’m really sorry about Everett. You were saying his name . . .”
“You just missed him,” I said before realizing it was probably best to keep Everett’s visit—and his message—to myself. There was no sense overwhelming Phillip with his daunting responsibility. It’d be better to ease him into it. “Are you coming to the funeral?” I asked.
“I was afraid I’d already missed it.”
“Nope. It’s taking a while to ship his body back from Texas. We’re still not sure when it’ll get here.”
“Yeah, I called your house to find out what day it would be, and that’s what your mom said. And then she told me you were in the hospital, so I wanted to see how you were doing. You’ll be out of here before the funeral, I hope.”
“The doctor said I should be able to go home tomorrow. I just have to come back for a few oxygen therapy sessions.”
He nodded and looked about the room. “Did someone bring you flowers? It smells like flowers in here.”
“No.” I smelled it too. “Smells like lilacs, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, it kind of does.” It must’ve been Everett leaving, I figured. “Hey, what happened to your legs?” he asked, noticing my bandages. “I thought you were here for carbon monoxide poisoning.”
“I cut myself with silverware,” I lied.
“What’d you do that for?”
“I don’t know. I was upset.”
“I wish you wouldn’t have done that! If you’re ever that upset again, you need to give me a call before you start cutting yourself, OK?”
“All right.”
“So what’re your plans when you get out of here?” he asked, hastily changing the subject.
“I don’t have any.”
“Well, you’re done with high school now. Have you thought about going to college?”
“You sound just like Everett.”
“It’d keep your mind off things. And it’s not too late to sign up for the fall semester at Lanford Community. I could help if you want. It’s my last semester there. We could even see if we could take a class or two together. How does that sound?”
Going to college didn’t interest me. But going to college with Phillip changed everything. “That’d be great!” I couldn’t hide my elation. Everett’s plan was already in motion. Phillip was going to rescue me. For the first time in a long time, I felt alive. My legs tingled under the covers. I wanted to stand, to walk down the halls and out into the courtyard. I whipped the oxygen tubes from my nose.
“Whoa. Are you supposed to do that?” cautioned Phillip.
“It’s OK. Let’s go for a walk. I can go for a walk!” I said eagerly. I tossed the blanket from my burning legs. At first, I thought what flew from beneath the blanket was a wrapper or a leaf. It spun through the air in a dizzying tumble. Yet as it came out of its twist, a pair of wings unfolded from its body, and it fluttered to the window. Upon the butterfly’s bright yellow wings was a striking black pattern: an arc above a cluster of black dots, which looked as if it had been applied by a painter’s brush.
“Where’d that come from?” wondered Phillip.
“Same place everything comes from.” I smiled. “Nature.”
27
Ruthsford Cemetery
The Ruthsford Cemetery was situated on a hill secluded by groves of tall pines. To get to it, you first had to make your way down a road darkened by the thick, overhanging evergreens. The entrance was at the top of the hill. At the bottom was a ravine, where a small river flowed. Gravestones scattered the slope, which was naturally tiered into three sections. It reminded me of an amphitheater. The tiers I imagined to be balconies, and the bank of the river the stage. On the other side of the ravine grew a forest of tightly packed birch, maple, oak, and pine. Being inside the clearing was like being in the center of the universe. If you looked up, the sky seemed exclusively linked to that piece of earth. Everything else was simply out of orbit. With the constant flow of the serene river and the colorful change of seasons the wilderness beyond it provided, I figured if some soul wished to linger in the air before transitioning into something else, it’d be the perfect place for it.
I unhooked the tape recorder from my handlebar before we dumped our bikes at the top of the hill. “What’d you bring that for, anyway?” asked Phillip.
“Sarah Estep,” I replied.
“Who’s Sarah Estep?”
“This woman I saw on TV. She goes to haunted places: old battlegrounds, murder sites, cemeteries, catacombs—and she interviews the dead.”
“And how does she manage to pull that off?” he asked, full of mockery.
“She records herself asking questions. And sometimes, when she plays back the tape, she’ll hear their answers.”
“And she’s batshit, right?”
“She’s a scientist, Phillip,” I scolded. “She went to this lighthouse used during the Civil War as a prison camp and recorded one of the dead soldiers explaining how he died. His voice was all staticky. But you could make out some of what he said.”
“I bet.”
“C’mon,” I said. Undeterred by his skepticism, I took off down the gravel path that looped the perimeter. “Let’s try it.” I made my way to the section of graves nearest the river, where the more recently dead were buried.
As I neared Everett’s grave, I noticed that grass was finally beginning to sprout over the fresh patch in the earth. The clump of hawk feathers I had tied to a rock were still there. And although the wire stems had become twisted by the wind, so too were the plastic flowers Kirsten had left before she scurried back to Texas with her father.
It was strange to think that not many years before, Everett, Phillip, and I had tended to the secluded cemetery. I’d trim around the gravestones, daydreaming about the lives of the people buried beneath them. It was different then. I could easily separate us and them—alive and dead. Yet knowing someone who was represented by one of the markers blurred the lines between the two worlds. After talking with Everett, I became fascinated by death, intrigued by its possibilities. I didn’t bother stopping by Everett’s grave with my tape recorder. I had already interviewed him, knew he was no longer with his body. He had left it and was storing energy so he could materialize into other forms.
Instead, my eye was caught by a shimmer of red beneath the sweeping branch of a pine. As I made my way toward it, I realized it was one of those tiny balloons on a stick used in flower arrangements. “Miss You, Love You,” was written in cursive on the face of the bright balloon that had been stuck in the ground above the freshly dug grave. A stone hadn’t yet been placed. But there was a card attached to the base of the balloon. I opened it to reveal a handwritten epitaph beneath the graphic of a sun setting behind a glowing forest. It read:
Thomas Allen Gouldman
Loving son and brother
1971—1994
He was twenty-three. Close to Everett’s age. “Too young,” Phillip declared from over my shoulder. “Wonder what happened?”
“Let’s find out,” I replied with a grin before activating my recorder.
“Trust me. You’re not going to hear anything when you play that back,” he chided.
“Maybe not. Or maybe—he’s still near his body.” I extended the microphone. “Hello, Thomas. My name is Ayden. And this is Phillip. I’m going to ask you a few questions—if that’s all right.” I waited a moment for his permission before continuing. “First of all, could you tell us how you died? We’d really like to know.” I held the microphone just above the balloon. Phillip shoved his hands in his pockets as the branch over Thomas’s grave bobbed gently. Aside from the slight wind that drifted through the needles, the cemetery became silent. The animals, even the river, seemed to hush as we all strained to hear Thomas speak.
When I felt I had given him enough time to respond, I brought the microphone back to my lips. I was interested in learning how Thomas’s experience might’ve differed from Everett’s. “What did it feel like to die? Did you smell flowers? Lilacs? Are you inside your body? Or are you hovering near it? Do you still have vision? If the answer is yes, can you see me now? Can you feel yourself building up energy? Did you know you can choose where you go next?”
Phillip had snuck away, clearly not as entertained as I was. When I finally stepped away from the grave myself, I continued recording. I held the microphone out to the headstones I passed just in case others had something to say. The low branches slapped against the dusty ground as a gush of wind swept through the cemetery. The wind fed a rush of noises into my microphone, noises that may have very well contained voices from the other side.
I spotted Phillip up the hill wandering about, reading inscriptions. He was in the old part of the cemetery. The gravestones there were pale white. They looked so delicate, as if made of chalk. Many were cracked. Some had fallen over. I joined him before a tombstone that was split in two. The top half rested on the ground against its base. I felt the subtle grooves where lettering had once bee
n defined and legible but had become weathered and erased over time. Pieces of sediment rubbed onto my finger like sparkling grains of sand.
A few rows ahead stood two tall, skinny stones. Although most of the lettering on these had also worn away, I could faintly make out the years. On each, the date of death was 1859. I noticed in the row behind them were three more stones in the same style yet smaller. They too had the same faint year of death etched into them. “A family,” I announced. “All died within the same year. Must’ve been the plague.”
Phillip laughed. “You’re only off by a couple centuries. Not to mention the wrong continent.”
“Oh.”
“More like a fire. Maybe tuberculosis.”
He wandered off into another section, where the dates of death ranged from the early to mid-1900s. He examined them closely, walking up and down the rows as I followed silently. He stopped short in front of a cluster of markers. “Look.” He pointed. “All these people died toward the end of 1929. You know what that means, right?”
“I have no clue,” I said honestly, feeling like an idiot.
“Black Tuesday.”
“Oh. OK.” I didn’t know what Black Tuesday was but nodded as if I did.
“The stock market crash,” he thankfully explained. “People lost everything overnight. The rich were all of a sudden poor. There were riots. Mass suicides. People jumping out of buildings. It was the start of the Great Depression.”
“You’re so smart,” I marveled. My tone may have come off a tad sarcastic. But I meant it.
Where the Cats Will Not Follow Page 17
