by Jane Davitt
“Where are you?” he murmured, closing his eyes. “I’m here. I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to come back to help you, but I’m here now.”
This long. A year. A year before he’d brought himself to admit that until this one ghost was laid to rest he’d never be at peace himself. A year to erase the last, lingering resentment towards the unknown man who had, in death, still been capable of affecting the living.
John waited patiently, giving him space, and Nick took a deep breath and opened himself up, letting it come.
There was a whisper, a slippery sound like something sinking into water. Nick flinched away from it instinctively, curling a hand up around his head to block his ear.
Here ... people and ... so alone. It was a vicious hiss, angry and frightening.
“I’m sorry,” Nick gasped. “I know, I shouldn’t have ...”
John came up beside him and reached for his hand, murmuring reassurances, and Nick took heart.
“I’m here now. Tell me what you need.”
Images flashed over him, vivid and quick, like being assaulted by a slide show that left out too much information to be a complete picture. Each image hurt, searing into his brain, too bright for his eyes to take.
A hiker, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, walking through the forest.
The same man sitting at the base of a wide tree, huddled for warmth.
A hand stretched out on the ground, unmoving and covered with ants.
“Shit!” Nick flailed wildly only to discover himself sitting with John’s arms around him, holding him together.
“Tell me what you saw.” John’s voice was calm and undemanding. They’d done this before, with John’s questions pulling details from Nick that he hadn’t been aware of absorbing, helping him to piece together what needed to be done.
“He was walking,” Nick said. “He got lost ... hurt, too. He couldn’t walk. His ankle. He broke his ankle.” He felt a throb in his own left ankle as he said it, intense but fading fast. Ghost pain. Real, and somehow not; he’d rarely mentioned it to Matthew, not wanting it to seem like he was looking for sympathy, or weak. But there was nothing that he couldn’t share with John. “He waited ... God, a really long time. Hoping someone would come.”
“And they didn’t.” It wasn’t a question.
“The animals came.” Nick shuddered, but knew that it wasn’t really that bad when you thought about it logically. The man had been dead when they found him, Nick was sure of it. “But no one else did, and he’s in there, deep in there.” He frowned. “I don’t know why they never found him, but that’s what he wants. To be found. To be buried. His family ... they think ... oh, God, I don’t know what they’re thinking, but he wants them to know. To be sure.”
“We’ll need to tell the police.” John sounded a little concerned about that, even as his hand moved in slow, gentle circles on Nick’s back. “Will they believe you, do you think?”
Another flash went through his head, sharper than the others. This one was emotional rather than visual ‑‑ the stark, intense terror of a spirit who hadn’t realized that his physical body was dead, watching as flesh was torn from bone by a fox. Nick clutched at John and pressed his forehead to John’s chest, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. “Okay! I know. I know. I’ll ... I know.”
John’s touch was comforting. “Nick. Police?” That was just what Nick needed at times like this ‑‑ to be reminded of the concrete, of what had to be done.
“Yes.” Nick nodded, the words coming painfully. “There’s a cop in Scranton who knows me. A detective. He’ll back me up when we call the locals.” He shivered and breathed deeply, reassured by John’s scent and presence. “God, he was so alone.”
“Then, maybe, but not now.” John’s hand was warm on Nick’s face. “Tell me when you’re ready to go. There’s no rush. We’ve got plenty of time.”
“Do we?” Nick asked idly. It wasn’t a serious question, and John knew enough not to answer it. John’s hand slid across his skin and came to rest at the back of his neck. Nick turned his head, letting his temple rest against John’s shoulder as he looked at the trees and the thin strips of sky that were visible between the branches. Now that they were quiet, he could hear the chirping of birds and the sound of his own breathing, slow and relaxed.
John’s thumb traced a tendon in his neck gently, rubbing at it as he waited for Nick.
After another minute or so, Nick pulled away. They untangled themselves and stood up. He couldn’t resist going to the tree one more time, touching the scarred wood of it and then looking down at the small scars on his own wrist, faded from dark pink to pale now on their way to white. They’d fade with time. Pretty much everything would.
But not, Nick thought, turning and meeting John’s blue eyes, everything.
He was glad he’d gotten the chance to learn that lesson.
“Do you have any idea how much I love you?” Nick asked.
John smiled as Nick walked over and put his arms around him. “Aye, I think I do. It might even be almost as much as I love you.”
Nick didn’t turn his head to look at the tree again. Whispering a silent goodbye to any ghosts that might be near enough to hear, he kissed John before they started back toward the car, arms around each other’s waists and the sun shining on the backs of their necks.
“Let’s go,” Nick said. “And afterwards, when we’ve taken care of this guy ...”
“Mmm?” asked John.
“Well ... where do you want to go? Pick a direction; we’re on holiday.” Nick smiled, deliberately using the word John would have and picturing the expression on John’s face when he saw New York City or the Grand Canyon.
“There’s a perfectly good bed waiting at the hotel.”
“There are perfectly good beds everywhere,” Nick told him, grinning.
He was looking forward to trying them out.
Jane Davitt
I am English, married with two daughters, and I emigrated to Canada in 1997. I'm an inveterate reader who began writing in 2002 at the age of 38 and discovered that it's just as much fun being the one putting the words on paper as being the one reading them.
Writing is something that's become part of my life and I sometimes wonder just what I did with the hours I now spend tapping away at my computer. It can't have been important I suppose. I'm a fan of detective, fantasy and science fiction and collect vintage children's books too. Our house is filled with over 4,000 books and we all love to read. Apart from the cats.
I did have hobbies but now I write mostly. If I wasn't writing, I might be gardening, cross stitching or walking. I do still manage to volunteer at my daughter's school and at the local library.
Visit Jane on the Web at www.janedavitt.com.
Alexa Snow
Alexa Snow is an emotional person who appreciates practicality in others. She's prone to crying at inconvenient times, drinking too much coffee, and staying up too late playing with words (either reading or writing.) A background of schooling she wasn't all that interested in resulted in a Bachelor's degree in Sociology and a vague sense of wasted time. Alexa lives in a tiny old house in New England with her husband, young son, more books than she has time to count, and a small but oft-changing collection of pets.
Visit Alexa on the Web at http://home.comcast.net/~alexasnow/wsb/html/view.cgi-home.html-.html.
