Death Lies Between Us (An Angel Falls Book 1)

by Jody A. Kessler

  He makes a face I can’t interpret. His lips are pushed together in a tight line but I feel as if he is smiling inside. “Did you see my aura change?”

  “Oh yeah. You’re all gold and white now, like you’re standing right in front of the sun. Why did you surround me in it though?”

  “I am impressed. You caught on faster than I thought possible. Much faster than when I was learning.”

  “Really?” I ask, letting him hear my surprise. I wonder when he was taught to see auras and if it was by his father. My thoughts are interrupted as he continues.

  “The white light is for protection.” He points a finger down the rocky slope behind him. “From that.”

  I take a few steps forward.

  “The hot spring?” I ask as I look down at the water.

  It looks deep. The pond below is black and appears unmoving. The stream coming down off the mountain runs past a stone cottage and then into the wide pool. The little building must be the pump house Lance mentioned. Is Chris’s protection because of the building, or the water, or am I missing something? My eyes are drawn back to the water. From where I stand it looks like all rock leading to the water’s edge on its east side. Far to my right is the pond’s outlet. Part of it is dammed with cut blocks of stone, helping to increase the pool’s size and directing the runoff toward a crevice of sorts. The drop off appears to be a black chasm. It feels very strange as I watch the water disappear into the earth. There’s no sound coming from the hole, the water just disappears into a gaping mouth of stone. Maybe I’m not seeing it right and it only looks like a bottomless pit from up here. I feel myself being drawn in to take a closer look. Holes in the earth’s surface aren’t a common occurrence around here. It’s more than curiosity I feel. I have to go to it. I tear my eyes away only to look for the most direct route to have a closer inspection.

  Chris places a warm hand on my arm. It startles me to attention and I give him a questioning look.

  He shakes his head at me and says, “Do not go anywhere near the water.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “This spring,” he says, waving his other hand toward the pool. “This is the Western Spring of Souls.”

  He says it as if that explains everything.

  “Yeah, so?”

  “How is it that you do not know of this place?” He sounds honestly perplexed and a little upset.

  “I don’t know,” I answer, feeling slightly irritated and wishing he would get on with it, but he doesn’t.

  “Why didn’t your grandmother or your grandfather tell you?” Chris did not raise his voice but he sounds and looks incredulous.

  “I don’t know,” I say again. “You’ll have to ask them. Hot springs are all over. What’s the big deal?”

  It’s surprising to me I’ve never heard of this one. Most of the kids around here, and adults too, seek out hot springs, especially the private or secret ones, and covet them, but the word spreads and sooner or later everyone knows about them. It dawns on me this hot spring is probably why so many people sneak up here. I just assumed it was because they wanted to see a haunted castle.

  I turn my attention back to Chris and wait for an answer satisfactory enough to keep me away from the water. He looks heavenward and I see a muscle in his jaw flex. Mr. Serious is back. Oh goody.

  His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “The big deal is,”

  He’s mocking me. I roll my eyes and wait some more.

  “I have a hard time believing that your grandmother never told you. How irresponsible of her. The big deal is…,”

  A pregnant pause fills the air.

  “The Spring of Souls is for the dead.”

  “Huh? Are you being serious? That doesn’t make any sense. What would a dead person need a hot spring for?”

  His nostrils flare and he’s shaking his head.

  I guess he either disapproves of my choice of words or he’s appalled at my ignorance.

  “Are you not a Native? How do you not know these things?” he accuses.

  “Apparently, I don’t know anything.” He’s irritating me again and I wonder had I been given a choice of rolling in a patch of nettles or waiting for Chris Abeyta to give me a ride, if I wouldn’t have chosen the former. Nettles hadn’t offered me a ride home. Too bad.

  His look of surprise at my tone gives me a small amount of satisfaction. It’s not like I chose not to know. His next words are spoken with slightly more patience.

  “I will keep this brief because it is a long story. The whites who built Castle Hill,” he says, pointing his smooth chin in the general direction of the castle, “also bought this land.” He makes a graceful sweep of his arm encompassing our surroundings.

  “They acquired the property from the city planners of the time, who you….” He gives me a doubtful eye. “I hope you at the very least know, that the whites cheated and manipulated our ancestors into giving up our sacred waters for a mere pittance of a price.”

  He spit out this last part as if the words were rank in his mouth.

  “When the elders found out that people were quarrying the stone by the Western Spring, they warned of the extreme danger to their souls if they continued their vain plans.”

  I listen closely. I haven’t heard this history before. The last of the evening light leaves the sky with a band of deep purple hanging over the edge of the world. The shadows of the trees are about to swallow me whole but I don’t pay them any attention as Chris continues.

  “Of course the investors would not listen to the members of the tribe. They could only see dollar signs, the opportunity to bring business and wealth to themselves and the county. The Elders shook their heads with hopelessness knowing that they could say nothing to change their minds. The whites continued on their path of destruction. They tore up our Earth Mother and ignored nature protesting its devastation. This sacred place has been violated beyond repair and nothing but horror and sadness has come of it.” He gives a helpless shrug and doesn’t turn to look at me. He stares down at the water, his body as still as the stone he stands upon.

  “Quarry? You mean for the Castle?”

  “Yes, look.” He points to the base of the mountain and to the left of the stream.

  In the near dark I can still see the unnatural straight lines of cut stone.

  “White people do not understand the sacred circle. They make everything into hard lines. They scar the mountain. The pool as well.” His accusing finger moves to point down in front of us. “It was not this large before.”

  Sure enough, the east side of the shore is straight edged and tiered resembling a mini stone coliseum.

  “It looks perfect for swimming,” I say.

  “Swim in that water and you will be consumed with the tragedy and loss of all the souls that have perished at Castle Hill. They wait for help to transition to the spirit world, but being misplaced makes them restless.”

  “Consumed with tragedy and loss? I would feel a lost soul’s despair in that water? How’s that possible? How do you know there are people’s souls in the water?” I ask. I let some skepticism leak out in my words. People must have swum in the spring at some time and I’ve never heard anything like what Chris is telling me.

  “I do not think most people would feel what I think you would feel in the Western Spring.”

  “Why? Because I’m Native American, or because of my ‘gifts’?” My doubt about what he is feeding me increases and I hesitate, wondering if he’s yanking my chain.

  “Both,” he answers. “You should not take who you are lightly. Your grandmother is a powerful woman and that power runs in you. You have already shown me that, even if you do not know it. This place has always been for the dead and it is a loss of great magnitude that it has been forced so far out of balance.”

  I don’t care for the straight forward remark about my character. It makes me feel vulnerable, as if he knows me better than I know myself. I stare at the black surface of the water and try not to
take it too personally. It wasn’t an insult after all. “How do you know there are trapped souls here?” I ask again.

  “It is what I do. It is who I am. I know these things like I know my creator.”

  I digest his answer. There’s no hint of egotism in his words. How did someone know their place in the world so assuredly? I don’t. When I think about who I am and what I want to do in this life I have a thousand answers, or a million questions, sometimes both. I shrug off my uncertainty for the moment and ask, “How? Why?”

  “You mean; why are the souls stuck here?” he says.

  “Yes. I meant, are there other reasons besides the disturbance of the earth here? You said dead people used this place before the white man came.”

  I look up over my shoulder and notice the waxing moon peeking out between the trees. I give it a silent acknowledgement and am grateful for its familiar silvery white presence. The smell of the water brings my attention back to the pond and I see wisps of steam catch the moonlight and rise into the cooling night air.

  “I could try to explain it all but I think you will understand more by seeing it. There are many strong memories here.”

  Something cold and covered in slick scales slides down my spine at those words. Gooseflesh rises to the surface of my skin. “I’m interested in hearing more but I’m not sure if I’m ready to ‘see’ anything again.”

  “They are not here. It is an impression left on time from strong emotions. It cannot hurt you in any way.”

  Physically maybe, but I have my doubts about what has changed for me mentally that I can never get back after seeing that little boy. I don’t voice my uncertainties aloud. Instead I say, “It unnerves me. If it can’t hurt us, the place memories, or impressions, or energy signatures, whatever you call them, then why did you put all the protection around us?”

  “I am glad you are paying attention. In part it is because of the spring, but if you do not mind, I will get to the rest in a moment. Now, look down at the shore on the opposite side, and watch carefully.”

  “I’ve been looking and I haven’t noticed anything, umm, unusual? No spirits or ghosts.”

  “I understand what you are saying, but now we will look together.”

  I give him a quizzical look, but I question if he can see it in the near dark.

  His eyes meet mine with serene calm. They do not look the slightest bit irked by my skepticism, at least as far as I can tell. He answers my unasked question. “Unlike you, I have been here before and I know what is here to see. There is much power emanating from our Great Mother here. Can you not feel it?”

  “I hadn’t given it any thought. I felt the beauty of this place right away. You know, I think all places with water like this have their own unique feeling.”

  “That is true. This one is very powerful. I guess it to be the reason you are able to see the ghost world more easily, and my aura as well. Power places can open someone like you. Also, when we combine our energy it grows exponentially. In other words, my spiritual energy will boost yours and yours mine. I think we will see it together. The place memories are strong.”

  It feels as if his dark eyes were seeing more than I want to show him about myself, but again I let it go. I can’t control what others see in me, only how I feel about it.

  He adds one last remark. “You have to be willing to try. Your intentions influence everything.”

  “Okay,” I agree, jumping in over my head, and hoping I won’t drown in regret.

  He takes a step closer to me, moving like a breeze. Close to my ear he says, “Now watch, and do not upset yourself. They are long gone.”

  I’m encompassed in Chris’s presence next to me. It isn’t unpleasant in the way a stranger standing too close makes you feel, but every nerve ending in my body, inside and out, is aware of him. I feel his breathing like it’s my own breath, the lift of the inhale and the sinking exhale, in and out in a circular rhythm, though he makes no sound. I am aware of the unique vibration of him, so different from my own. There’s no discomfort in the awareness, no underlying sexual tension or passed judgments, just being and being all right with it. A thought flits around the edges of my brain, wondering if he’s aware of me in a similar way. The instant the thought is complete I know for certain he is. It’s the most unusual connection with another human being I’ve ever been consciously aware of.

  I hear his clear but low voice say, “Look.”

  Then I realize he hadn’t spoken the word aloud.

  Chapter Fourteen: Service

  Nathaniel

  It’s the blonde, the cruel one, with the same two friends. They pull up and park an expensive looking convertible near the Native’s truck. I watch Juliana. I know she saw them too because of the slight grimace she makes, wrinkling up her nose and moving away. She plants herself on the sidelines and looks as if she’s trying to blend in with the landscaping.

  What does Juliana want with this Chris guy? They seem to know each other but in no way intimately. Chris had barely acknowledged her in the van. He had seen me, I thought, or at the least had a sense of my presence. I moved farther away as he’d neared the van but I could hear most of what was being said between him and Lance. Something about the man makes me uneasy and not like when I’ve been seen before. The feeling is stronger with him. I look over at him now. He looks normal enough, patting his dog, but he’s different somehow. He turns to see who is getting out of the car nearest to him and his whole mouth turns down in a deep frown as he sees Ashley and company. Looks like she makes friends wherever she goes.

  Listening to the argument between Chris and Ashley from the relative safety of an overgrown spruce, I hear most of what is being said without being in a direct line of sight of Chris. My opinion of Ashley drops another notch as I listen to the stupidity oozing out of her whiny mouth. I get a distinct impression Juliana is listening too, even though she appears to be feigning interest in a shrub growing near her. Although from her distance I don’t think she can hear every word being exchanged. The curiosity percolating through me makes my fingertips twitch at my sides. Why is she waiting to talk to him?

  The argument heats up. Petty, self-centered remarks fly from Ashley’s mouth. Chris looks like he’s about to blow a safety valve. None of it holds any interest for me. I’m only here for Jules.

  The girl stomps off, or more like taps off, in her heeled sandals. Click, click, click. Her rounded backside jiggles, it may be the only appealing thing about her. She’s not my style. Girls like her never have been. What is my style stands up and brushes graceful hands over her also nicely curved rear end. Indecision crosses Jules’s features as she watches the ghost hunter.

  I look over to see if Ashley has gone inside the castle and I have a moment of temporary paralysis as I spot Marcus. He leans back against the castle wall with one hand in a pocket and the other one absently rubbing his chin. He watches Ashley step inside past the heavy wood door. I scrub my fingers over my scalp out of frustration and disbelief. Her too? What in the world is going on around here? Two of us here in the same place, at the same time, two girls who know each other. How much better can this get? My sarcasm reeks of cynicism and disgust. I need a new job. I almost laugh at the hilarity of my own joke. Not because it’s funny but because laughing inappropriately is the best way to deal with my anger right now. I guess the joke’s on me. Eternity watching others die was just what I ordered.

  I once heard someone say, “Love it or leave it.” Loving my unusual occupation is not within my grasp at the moment and I’d like nothing better than to leave it, but how do I do that? I have no idea. My frustration reaches a new height as I continue to watch Marcus. He looks as if he came for the party, relaxed and cool. His long black dreadlocks sway around his head as he grooves to the beat of the music. He appears to be in no hurry to follow her inside.

  Ashley. Another young life wasted. I wasn’t mistaken. I knew the look Marcus had given her all too well. He was laying claim to his next case and waiting for the in
evitable moment of life letting go, forever. I don’t know her, but her age alone is enough to bring up old regrets. Both of them are too young. They have too much to look forward to. A brief moment of shame for thinking of Ashley as a cheap whore crosses my mind but I let it pass. She does dress that way and I’m one to call it as I see it. She’s a pretty girl under all that makeup and clothes. The real shame is she won’t have the opportunity to change her ways this time around.

  Marcus gives me a nod of acknowledgement and I give him one in return. Seeing him here is disheartening because of what it means for another young life, but I’m also relieved in a way. I need to speak with him.

  Juliana makes a dive for the large black dog. I step away from my tree for a better view of the situation. An unusual sensation stops me from moving any closer, like walking into a sandstorm. I stop and wait, keeping my distance. Could this odd feeling be related to Juliana’s last moments on earth? No, I tell myself. How could it be? I’ve done this before. I’m young at this but I’m not a rookie. It has to be connected with this ghost hunter somehow. She hands the dog over to him and then follows him to his truck. Staying farther back by the trees seems to help the odd sensation. I wait some more.

  As they talk, Jules fidgets. She looks uncomfortable but determined. She shuffles her foot at invisible gravel and tucks her hair behind her ear. I strain, trying to direct my attention to follow what is being said. Chris’s eyes, sharp as knife points, shoot in my direction for half a second and then back to her hopeful face. She stumbles out of her mouth. I hear, “catch a ride with you?” and I hear Chris answer, “No.” I see her hesitate, and then try again. I agree she should get away from here, but I’m not sure about her riding off with this guy. Is it safe for her to be alone with him?

  She’s talking it over with him. Is self-preservation stronger than fate? How is it going to happen? And how soon? What if it’s gruesome or cruel? Please let it not be. I’m not sure why it makes a difference. Dead is dead after all, but in this case, it just does. The pain stabs at me again at the oncoming reality of her life ending. I know I’m too involved and I know I have to stop my interfering, but I don’t have control over the grip on my chest as I think about her end.