Collection 1

by Therese A. Kramer

  Although Brock knew it was improper to snoop, but he was too curious to care. Walking the long hallway, he opened one door to find a bedroom with furniture covered with sheets and cobwebs and loads of dust. He discovered all the other remaining rooms in the same condition. Well, that could be understandable since he assumed that the strange lady lived here alone and that there was no need for her to keep up so many rooms. Brock wasn’t surprised to find the last room clean and neat, definitely a woman’s boudoir. And she seemed to like the color blue and the scent of roses.

  “Looking for me?”

  Brock winced and turned. Damn, now she shows up. That woman had a knack of sneaking up on a person like a ghost!

  Whoa, don’t go there, man. She’s too beautiful to be a spirit, and it would be a damn shame.

  Turning, he gave her a forgiving smile along with an apology.

  “I have no excuse since you caught me. But I had hoped to see you before I left to thank you for the use of the room.” He was stymied seeing her staring at him strangely.

  Was she annoyed because he wore some other man’s garments? He asked, “I hope you don’t mind me borrowing the clothes. I’ll return them as soon as possible, I assure you.”

  “No, that’s fine. In fact you can keep ‘em. I have no use for them anyway.”

  Brock didn’t miss the sadness in her voice and he wondered if they had belonged to a loved one. That notion stirred something in his soul, but he wasn’t about to ponder over it, it mattered not to him if she had a lover. He only wanted to get out of there and to return home, even though there were bad memories waiting for him there. He thanked her again and, recalling that she had no car or phone, he decided that he felt well enough to walk. He passed her and descended the stairs feeling a bit sad for leaving the beautiful woman all alone. He thought for a moment that he might return one night to ask her out. She seemed so unhappy, but then, who wouldn’t be, living here in these conditions.

  When Brock reached the door, he turned and inquired, “How far is it to the nearest town?”

  She bit her lower lips and shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  Brock sighed in frustration. Maybe asking her out wasn’t one of his best ideas. That lady was very strange; to bad she was so beautiful, he might have changed his mind about romancing a woman again. Once more he thought about his stupidly forgetting his cell phone. He couldn’t imagine how in hell people got along without them before. No sense in kicking himself in the butt over something that can not be changed.

  Opening the door Brock walked out onto the porch, feeling as if he had stepped into another dimension of time. His eyelids flickered against the blinding sunlight and then a shadow appeared. He had no idea why he had this eerie feeling of foreboding, never having had a premonition before. And then without warning a lightning bolt hit the wood railing splintering pieces of wood debris all around him.

  “Holy crap!” he yelled and leaped back into the house as torrential rain began to fall. What the hell was going on? He had heard of people born under a dark cloud but this was ridiculous! If he didn’t know better he’d swear that someone or something was out to get him. Or maybe keep him there.

  Now that was a stupid notion. he chided himself. But was it?

  “Damn!” Brock groused slamming the front door and leaning against it panting. “I guess that I’ll be staying a bit longer than I planned. I hope you don’t mind?”

  “Mind, not at all,” she murmured.

  Brock heard her reply but her face said differently; she looked as if she had swallowed a lemon. He was sorry he had to impose on her further but no way in hell was he going to walk in that wicked storm. And for some unexplainable reason, he felt very tired.

  “I think I’d like to lie down for a spell.” He rubbed his temple feeling a headache coming on. Although he needed to be alone and think, he hated the idea of solitude, it made him feel colder inside.

  Trista didn’t reply but nodded and watched Brock stagger back to the room behind the kitchen. When the man turned before, she wasn’t prepared for the sight that greeted her. Drops of moisture clung to his damp forehead and his smile was beautiful, warming her body again. His pale skin magnified the inky blackness of his eyes, and it surprised her how much his face had healed overnight. The man’s nose was no longer as swollen and she believed that when it regained its natural form, it would be aquiline in shape. His hair was brown with sandy-red highlights and his generous mouth had also regained some of its softness making her wonder what it would like to kiss them.

  She noticed how the suit fit snugly around the man’s broad shoulders and she wasn’t certain that this pleased her or not since she wasn’t going to get involved with this man. Inwardly, she groaned sensing that Dream Weaver was laughing at her this very instant.

  Trista almost called him back; almost. But she figured that the handsome stranger wasn’t sent to her by the Dream Weaver. So it was best that he go, but it was too bad, because she believed that she could have formed feelings for Brock. And they say life was cruel, but dead turned out to be no better!

  Arms akimbo, and irked, she tapped her foot. She now believed that Dream Weaver was behind this. That spirit was determined to win her one way or another.

  So you think you’ve won! I know what you’re doing. You want me to fall in love with a human because that wasn’t in the agreement. I suppose that I shouldn’t have had those thoughts about the man but I forgot you can read my mind Be sure, as handsome as he is, I will not lose my head or heart over him.

  Then her intrusive voice warned, Let him go!

  “You called?” Dream Weaver asked.

  Trista whirled around to stare him down. She heard humor in his voice and snapped. “Okay, what’s up? Why are you keeping him here?” she said flatly.

  Dream Weaver clutched his chest feigning insult. “Ah, ma Cherie, you cut me to the quick.”

  “Give me a break and explain why you’re treating this as if it were a joke?”

  He gave her one of his dazzling smiles. “Ah, my sweet, you’re the last female in my care and if I cannot have some fun once in awhile I shall not be a happy spirit. You do want me to be in a good mood, my buttercup?”

  Trista stiffened defensively and didn’t know what to say. She certainly didn’t want him in a foul disposition, there was no telling what he’d do to the poor man. So she tried another approach. “Is the stranger dying?” she interrogated him.

  Dream Weaver scratched his jaw. “You know it’s not up to me to make that decision but if you want him, I can put in a good word to the Almighty.”

  She tried her best not to groan but failed miserably. With a moan of distress she turned away liking nothing better than to clonk him on the head, if it were possible. Betwixed and between, she didn’t know what to do. The stranger was handsome and this was her last chance, but she hated to be responsible for the man’s demise. And then she didn’t want Dream Weaver to have the last word.

  Pacing, she finally said belatedly, “Let’s see what happens. If he dies, I just have to see, but no more interfering. Please, be a man, err, good sport and let fate handle it.”

  Dream Weaver disappeared without agreeing or disagreeing.

  Frustrated, Trista sat in lonely silence to organize her thoughts. She was not equipped to give someone bad news. How does one go about telling one that their dead? Or was he? The dead usually know that when the time comes, she did. Could the man possibly be in a coma?

  Chapter Five

  Brock opened his eyelids but was unable to keep his burning eyes open because of the splitting headache he had suffered before everything went black. Damn, he rubbed his temples hoping never again to experience such awful agony. If he didn’t know better he could’ve sworn someone had clobbered him on his cranium with a sledge hammer. Fighting the urge to keep his eyes closed he sat up feeling a bit nauseous. He waited a moment to let the world stop spinning and then he dragged his sluggish body up the stairs to the bathroom to splash cold water on h
is face wishing he had a damn mirror to see his features.

  His face no longer pained him and he touched his mouth noticing that his lips no longer felt cracked. The puffiness over one eye and his nose seemed to be reduced and he felt the soreness around his ribcage gone. The only symptom that remained was the cold that remained throughout his body. Shivering, he shook his head totally baffled. He had to leave this place and this time he was determined to go no matter what.

  Descending to the first floor Brock wondered where the lady of the house was. But, no matter, he had made perfectly clear his intension to leave and leave he would. The thick drapes were drawn so he had no idea what the weather was out there, but there was no sound of rain or thunder, so he was on his way.

  “Going somewhere?”

  The hairs on the nape of his neck rose. Brock winced. Damn! Again he thought she had this uncanny knack of appearing like a ghost. Not possible, his imagination was once again running amuck and he didn‘t even turn to answer her. Reaching for the door knob, this time he found that he couldn’t grab it. “What the hell!” he cried. He turned and growled, “What in blazes is going on here?” anger surged through him and he had a sinking sensation in his gut. He knew that something was definitely wrong here and he feared it was with him.

  “Whatever do you mean? Honestly, I have no idea what you’re referring about. I didn’t see what happened and I’m sincerely baffled.”

  He snapped, “I am not buying your innocent act, lady! You know damn well what I mean!” And he reached for the knob again to demonstrate his problem.

  “Oh!” She gasped.

  “Oh!” he snarled. “Is that your answer? You better do better than that and explain,” he insisted. Albeit, he was no threat to her, but he certainly could murder someone. “Dammit! I want answers!” The lady agonized over it a bit too long and he swore again.

  She became annoyed and rebuked, “You have no patience. Look,” she said keeping her voice scrupulously even. “You need to sit down to hear the truth. And that’s not a suggestion because I’m certain you will not like what I’m about to tell you.”

  Stubbornly, he remained where he was. He was in no mood to take any one’s advice. “What could be so bad that I have to sit?”

  “Men and their pride,” she snapped. “Well, let’s see how strong you think you are.” Giving him no quarter, she blurted, “Brock you’re probably in a coma, or maybe dead.”

  “Huh?” His mouth fell open and not a word could he utter.

  “Is that your answer? Look, I tried to remain calm and sensible feeling sorry for you now. I know what a shock this must be but it’s not so bad being dead.”

  Brock had enough of this nonsense and took a few long steps in her direction. His intensions were to shake the truth out of her, one way or another. The woman didn’t shy away when he angrily reached for her shoulders his hand went right through her. Now he needed to sit but he was so shocked he couldn’t move. If he thought he felt cold before his innards turned to ice and something pounded hard in his chest. God, he prayed, let it be his heart.

  He told himself it wasn’t true; he wasn’t sure he believed it. “Dead?”

  “Um… I’m not exactly sure you’re deceased but,” she shrugged, “but you probably are.”

  He was in shock or else he had lost his mind completely because he began chuckling. “Dead or coma, what’s the difference,” he continued to laugh.

  “Brock, I’m sorry, and I know this will take time to understand and accept, but if

  you let me, I’ll assist you as much as I can to help you adjust to whatever is your predicament.”

  He wiped the wetness from his eyes surprised that he could feel himself and not anything else. Finally coming to terms with his situation, well, maybe not fully but what other choice had he? He couldn’t ignore the truth of his own eyes. The first thing he said was, “So, am I to believe that you are also in a coma?”

  “No, I’m afraid that I’m dead.” Trista bit her lower lip. “I don’t know how much more you can take, but I might as well tell you all of it.”

  “This is a joke, right!”

  Her brows rose in an agonized expression. “A joke? You think that I would joke about something like this?” Indignant, she stiffened her back and scoffed, “You insult me!”

  Brock stared, not sure if he felt relieved or disappointment and replied in a patronizing tone, “Since you’re deceased it does explain a lot.” But it also meant that he was stuck here with a beautiful woman and he couldn’t jump her bones. He almost laughed at his choice of words. She was all flesh and well stacked and, that was a terrible shame, worse than not existing at all. After that thought another hit him full force. If he were in a coma that meant his body was still at the accident.

  How long has it been since I crashed? What if I’m never found? Dear Lord, I don’t want to die. I have so much to live for: my money, my job, my fiancée. No strike that last remark! Jee’zes, I’m only thirty-four, in the prime of life. What did I do to deserve this?

  Apparently you pissed someone off!

  Oh great, I’m reprimanding myself.

  How was it possible to have a conscience in a suspended state? he wondered.

  How long he stood there, he had no idea but then, time for him no longer mattered. But he pondered on how long he’d been in a coma. Was it days, weeks, months, maybe years? He had no recollection of how long he had been unconscious in the times he had blacked out.

  “Miss, err..?” He looked up to question the woman but she had disappeared. Great! Swell! He sighed thinking that he should probably get used to her coming and going, since he had a sinking feeling that he was stuck here until he either came out of the coma or died. Terrific! Wonderful choice.

  He balanced his hands weighing the situation. “Dead? His right hand rose. “Coma?” His left hand rose. His hands went up and down like a see-saw. “Dead or coma? Hmmm? No answer for that one,” he continued his one sided conversation. It was a crap shoot wasn’t it, he mused. Then Brock recalled how Trista had helped remove his clothing. How was it possible for her to get a grip on things and not him?

  “Hey, wait a minute!” he snapped aloud. The light went on in his brain. “Why was it possible for him to grab things before he blacked out and not now?” He didn’t like the answer he gave himself.

  Determined he turned to try the door knob again. Nothing. Again. Nothing. “Damn, there has to be a knack for doing it.” Suddenly the movie Ghost came to mind. “Ah, yes. I remember,” he mumbled to himself. “Patrick Swayze also had to discover how to do it, but I’m damned if I can recall it.”

  He made a mental note to ask the woman when she made another appearance. Right now his stomach was queasy and he went into the parlor to sit on the sofa to contemplate his dilemma. Damn, this was all that bitch Susan’s fault. And he wasn’t leaving out his friend in the equation. Oh, to hell with them all. But…why did it feel as if he were the one in Hades?

  In her room, Trista tapped her fingers against the arm of the chair. She had decided that it was probably best if she left he man alone for the time being. He was smart and could figure this out on his own. She wanted to help him, knowing exactly what he was feeling. She had had the same reaction when she first saw the light at the other end of the tunnel.

  When Dream Weaver had approached her with his proposition to live between two diminutions, earth and heaven or go into the light, she had sold her soul that day. Not to the devil, to his kin, for that she was certain. Now she had no doubts that Dream Weaver had intended fully to capture her soul completely. If so, why did he send that man here? Brock looked dead, and if it were possible, she’d bet her soul again, that he was. Damn Dream Weaver, what was he up too? And damn her, but then…she was already damned.

  “Show yourself, I know you’re around!” she commanded. The corner of the room took on that familiar glow.

  Dream Weaver appeared, his arms folded in an adamant stance to tell her that he knew he was about to receive
another scolding about the stranger. Before she opened her mouth, he help up his hand and said, “Why didn’t you tell him the truth?”

  She deepened her frown and snapped, “Don’t turn this on me!” He quirked a brow telling her that he wasn’t intimidated. She had to admit to herself that she should’ve been honest with the man. “I’m sure he has figured it out by now, I didn’t have the heart to be the one to---”

  “I will leave you to do what you must,” he cut her off. “I admit that I didn’t cause the accident, but I had a hand in keeping him here. Since this is your last opportunity I’ll give you time to see where this leads. I’ll not interfere again.”

  He vanished leaving her feeling no less frustrated than before even though he promised not to butt into her life. Life, ha! What life? And she had told Brock that being dead was not so bad. Boy, had she stretched the truth a mite.

  Chapter Six

  Brock had no concept of how long he sat in the parlor; what he did realize was that he had fallen asleep again and woke having no idea how long he had been out. This seemed to be happening to him too much lately, but nothing was normal since the accident. Sudden anger surged through him; it was time to get to the truth of the matter and he was certain this Trista Walton had all the right answers. And he was getting mighty annoyed at her coming and goings, especially when he wanted her and she was nowhere to be seen.

  “Hello!” he stood and shouted. A minute or two later she came to him walking through the wall. Brock clutched his chest believing if he weren’t already dead, this might just do the trick. “Must you scare ten years off my life?” he cried foolishly.

  Her eyes narrowed steady on his. “You needn’t look at me like that, Brock. And I’m sorry, but I’m used to living alone.”