Haunting Me (An Angel Falls Book 3)

by Jody A. Kessler

  Sitting with my back against the wall, I wonder if Liam will ever come back and show his face again. I’ve searched every inch, every crack and crevice of the small cave, with a physical body and without one. I can find no way out of my jail. The entrance is the weirdest part. It’s open to the woods, but I can’t pass. Liam must be one hell of a conjurer, or this place is filled with a kind of magic I’ve never heard of.

  Outside, the rain lifts, but the collected raindrops in the trees drip and shower the forest floor with a different kind of melody. Trickling rivulets of water glimmer down the rock walls inside my cave and sound like whispering fairies teasing me about being captured. I don’t need fairies in my world right now. I don’t need rain, or water, or food. What I need is to be out of here and back to Vivi and Juliana. Will any of my superiors know what has happened to me? Will Marcus or Harmony notice I’m missing and come looking for me? Will they be able to find me? Liam has a reputation of having disappeared off the face of the world. How has he done it? How has he fallen and returned to life? I came here with a few questions and I ended up trapped in an enchanted cave.

  I hang my head back, hitting the stone. I feel nothing. I am nothing in this place. I may as well fade into the ether. I’m sorry, Juliana. I’m so sorry, Vivi.

  I hear faint sounds coming from outside. A drum and a whistle followed by the chatter of children’s voices.

  “Don’t give me cheek. I’m doin’ it just fine,” one little voice says.

  “No, you’re not. Give it here, and I’ll play it for you again.”

  “Hello! Over here,” I call.

  Agonizing silence is returned.

  “I’m stuck inside the cave,” I try again and wait.

  I hear whispering. I can’t make out the first of it, but then I hear the girl say, “Nooo.” She’s whiny. “Don’t you do it, Kevan. Uncle Liam will hae your hide if you go near the fairy place.”

  “Shut yer gob, and don’t ye be sayin’ nothin’. I’m just goin’ to peek.”

  “Ye’ll be stole’ away by the fairies and then what will I tell Mam?”

  “I’m not a fairy,” I say.

  A small shriek, I have to assume is from the girl because I can’t see either of them, is followed by, “Get back, Kevan. It’ll trick ye and I’ll never see you again.”

  “Can you please get your parents? I don’t want to scare anyone,” I say, thinking the last thing I need is to frighten someone’s children on top of the trouble I’m already in.

  More silence, then a fierce whisper.

  “It even says it’s scary. Now get back from there, Kevan.”

  “Stop it, Becky,” the boy says. “I won’t go in. Uncle says they can’t get out once they’re inside. I’m gonna have a look at him.”

  “Ye have shite for brains. I’m gonna tell Mam on ye right now.”

  “I’m gonna tell Mam ye said shite,” he says back.

  Then I see a dark-haired boy with a round face and equally round hazel eyes appear in an opening between green leaves and vines. He holds a small drum in his hands.

  “Hol’ yer horses, Becky! This fairy’s as big as Uncle Liam.”

  I take a step back and say, “I’m not a fairy. Will you please bring your mom or dad here?”

  “It talks queer too, Becky,” the boy calls over his shoulder to the girl whom I can’t see.

  “I’m from the United States,” I say trying to explain the talking ‘funny’. “Can you help me out of here?”

  He inches closer, his eyes widening. “I’m no’ supposed to play with the fairies.”

  “That’s great. I wouldn’t recommend it. Do you know how I can get out of this cave?”

  He blinks and his jaw drops to form a little round o with his mouth.

  I try again. “Where is your Uncle Liam?”

  “Uncle! Uncle!” the boy screams as he whirls like a dervish and runs off.

  Can I resume the head bashing now?

  Hours pass. I let go of my physical body. There’s no need to use up the energy needed to hold onto it for sitting around in prison. I hear or sense movement near the entrance to the cave. I look up, thinking the inherent curiosity of young boys has brought Kevan back for another look at the giant fairy. Instead, I see the stony-faced Liam staring at me.

  “Done playing your game with me?” I ask.

  He doesn’t flinch at my accusation.

  A cold silver silence fills the air between us as we glare at one another.

  Finally, he says, “What did the fairies show ye?”

  The image of Juliana sitting on the floor of the cave next to the pool is still fresh in my mind. And later, the image of darkness hovering around her in the pool of water. It has been the only thing worth thinking of in this damp dark place. I won’t share it with Liam though.

  “I’ve done nothing to you and mean you no ill will. Let me out of here.”

  “I gave ye plenty o’ warning.”

  “I obviously made the mistake of thinking I could speak to you like a civilized human being.”

  “Ye’re sayin’ it’s my fault ye’re a brick shy of a load?”

  “I’m saying, I came to talk to you and you’ve treated me like a criminal.”

  “For all I know, ye are one, and worse.”

  “You know exactly what I am,” I say.

  He stiffens. “What made ye enter the fairy lock?” he asks again.

  “Go screw yourself,” I say.

  A flicker of emotion crosses his pale blue eyes and he turns and leaves.

  Stepping forward as close to the entrance as I can, I call out, “Vivian said you were a shit. I guess I should have taken that as a warning.”

  I know he heard me, but he doesn’t return. I spend the entire night exhausting myself trying to figure a way out of the cave. I call for help from my angel friends and call to the fairies. No one ever appears. I search every inch of stone again with my fingertips and in my spirit form. I even begin to make up chants and spells as if I can conjure a solution to my problem. Then I’m gone again, into the vast unknown where I rest.

  On my next return, I’m once again face to face with the seeping black stone inside the cave. This time I have gifts waiting for me. I don’t move toward the duffle bag at first. Damn that Liam. It’s probably another trap. After staring at the canvas bag for an unknown length of time, I decide any change to my current situation is better than what I’m doing now, so I find a loose stone and use it to nudge the bag open.

  What I find surprises me. A can of soda, a bag of chips, some candy, including a chocolate bar, some wilted flowers, a notepad and pencil, a penny whistle, and a small bodhran drum with its beater. The drum looks like the same one the boy had been holding. So the little boy, Kevan, had been here and I missed him. And, he brought gifts for the “fairy”. I would smile about the odd assortment in front of me if this situation were different, and it wasn’t me imprisoned, but I can’t find humor right now. I have to get back to Vivi and Juliana.

  I pick up the bodhran and give it a couple of beats. I’ve seen them played, but haven’t tried one. The beater feels awkward in my hand, but I keep going. What else do I have to do? After a long session playing the little drum I lay it back on the duffle bag and pick up the whistle. I have even less experience with flutes, but I manage to play a few notes. The bright and shrill tone of the penny whistle is too cheery for my mood so I set it aside. Memories of sitting with my mom at her organ for hours upon hours of my childhood come to my mind. When she was sober she would play every day. I loved to listen. She taught me to play and read music. I played the organ well enough, but what I really lusted for was a guitar.

  On my thirteenth birthday, Mom and Dad gave me my first acoustic guitar and an instruction book with all the chords in it. It was a Yamaha and the best present they ever gave me. I haven’t played since I died. Seeing Jared’s collection of electric guitars and his acoustic reminded me of the days when I would sit around for hours practicing. Would Juliana be surpr
ised to know I used to play the guitar? She knows how important music is to me. We love discussing each other’s favorite bands, but I never mentioned to her I used to play until my fingers refused to move. Everything that was important when I lived changed after I died. The guitar was just another aspect of living I gave up after becoming an angel.

  I grab the pencil and paper and write a request in large letters across an entire page, A guitar, please. Under that I write, A way out of here would be better! If little Kevan comes around again maybe he takes requests.

  With pencil and page before me, I begin to think about what I would tell Juliana if I never got out of here. The hopelessness that falls on me keeps me from finding the right words at first, but I realize that isn’t good enough. If this paper is my only connection to her outside of my prison then I must tell her. I have to let her know I’m a complete and utter fool, but a fool who loves her, lusts for her, and never intended to hurt her.

  It takes me many tries with a lot of scribbling and rewriting, but I finally come up with what I would want her to know. It comes out onto the page like a song. I hear the chords in my head and feel my fingers wanting to strum the tune. The déjà vu hits me again for a very brief instant — the feeling of being alive. I shake it off and re-read my work.

  Before I came

  Your days were sane.

  Now chaos rules,

  But you’re still game.

  I held you once, under the cover of night.

  It was my greatest pleasure.

  It was my deepest fright.

  To lose you now would be my death.

  For you hold my every breath.

  There’s no place to go

  No one to call.

  You are my home.

  You are my all.

  When you’re with me,

  I will never deserve,

  your trusting gaze or

  your haunting curves.

  Without you, Jules,

  There is no need,

  for air, or joy, or chivalry.

  There would be nothing left,

  for me to believe.

  So take me to the gallows.

  String the rope around my neck tight.

  Because without you, love,

  There is nothing but night.

  There’s nowhere I would go,

  No one I would call.

  You are my home,

  You are my all.

  I lie flat on my back, giving up my physical body. The uneven stone of the cave floor beneath me means nothing. It’s dark outside and raining. The little pool is filling up again. I can hear the faint dripping of water over the cave walls. The fairies are laughing at my misery. Has another angel been assigned to Vivi? Does Juliana think I’m not coming back because of our disagreement about what happened to her while she was possessed? She wasn’t to blame for anything that happened during that time. I wish she hadn’t gotten so upset during our date. The past is past. I understand, and I don’t care what happened. The whole bloody situation was my fault to begin with. That she forgives me is a miracle in and of itself. She survived the ordeal. That’s all that matters. Will I?

  Will I ever get out of this place?

  Jules… I am a fool.

  Could she love a foolish angel with intentions mightier than those of God?

  Chapter Fourteen: Lessons Begin

  Juliana

  Chris examines the book I “borrowed” from the metaphysical store. I push my foot around in the driveway gravel and wonder how I could have been so oblivious. I wanted to find out some information about angels and the afterlife, not bring demons or ghosts into my house.

  Chris sets the book down on the tailgate of his truck and walks around to the cab. How can I tell him I didn’t intend for any of this to happen when I willingly went searching for the book and brought it home with me? Chris opens the door to his truck, leans in, and grabs something with a long wood handle. He backs it out carefully. Large feathers dangle from the shaft of a long spear. There are black, white, and red markings painted on the wood. I don’t understand the significance, but at least I understand it is significant.

  “You and I, or you and your grandmother, are going to have lessons concerning the spirit world,” he says as he leans the six-foot long spear against the side of his truck. He reaches inside again and this time pulls out a leather bag from the front seat.

  I stare down at the ground and bite at the edge of my thumbnail before responding.

  “I didn’t feel anything creepy from the book,” I start to say.

  “The book is only a book.”

  “Then I’m not to blame for the… you know, demons?”

  “You are,” he says, and grabs the spear and his leather bag and walks back to the tailgate.

  I want to understand what is happening, but trying to get a quick answer out of Chris is like finding the center of the Earth with a toothpick.

  “How do you know? You just said the book is harmless.”

  “I did not say that,” he says as he lays out the odd implements of his trade on the back of his truck.

  “You said, ‘The book is only a book’.”

  “Yes. That does not mean it is harmless.”

  He doesn’t elaborate. Maybe he’s reached his word quota for the day. The story he told me earlier was more than I’ve ever heard him say. I take a deep breath, step back, hug myself, and sigh. All in good time with this guy.

  After arranging his things, he picks up his pipe, holds it up, and hands it to me. I reach over and take it, holding it the way he did, with the stone pipe bowl in one hand and the stem with my other hand, being extra careful.

  “What is this?” he asks.

  “Your peace pipe?” I say, unsure of what he calls it, or what he’s really asking.

  “Yes. Ceremonial pipe,” he says, correcting my verbiage. “You have seen me use it,” he states. “Feel it again. Does it have significance?”

  Closing my eyes, I focus on the pipe in my hands. I notice nothing unusual, only smooth wood, and cool stone. I keep trying to sense something more about it. A deeper feeling or a connection to Chris and his work. Then I realize I’m probably trying too hard like when he was teaching me to see auras. I couldn’t see a thing until he helped me figure out how to relax my eyes and open my senses. With this realization, my eyes flutter open long enough to see Chris has moved closer to the truck and isn’t paying me much attention. I close my eyes again and redirect my concentration to the ceremonial pipe. This time I don’t try so hard. Stone. Wood. Feathers.

  A deep breath fills my lungs with the mountain air. The lingering smells of sunshine in the warm pines, dust from the road, hot deck stain, and the tar of the roof shingles baking under the sun mingle and coalesce to form a familiar summer scent. The pipe feels like Chris. There’s a part of him in the working of the wood and the carving of the stone. It’s so subtle I think I am making it up. There’s a faint trace of tobacco and some other burnt herbal smell. I search for more meaning or significance and come up empty.

  Opening my eyes, I see Chris turn to me and wait for my answer.

  “It’s like you, sort of. I can tell you were the one who made it, but that’s it,” I say and feel like I’ve failed.

  Chris nods and takes his pipe back. “Your perception is very accurate.”

  “What?” I ask, totally confused. “I thought you wanted me to say it’s an all-powerful talisman or something.”

  He places it next to a smudge pot, some sage, and a couple of small pouches. He reaches for my book, Navigating Life, Death, and the Afterlife and hands it to me. I’m reluctant to take it after all that has happened, and not knowing for sure if the book is the cause of my problem. Chris shoves it at me, insisting I take it.

  “Do the same thing with the book and tell me what you feel.”

  Repulsion and a need to go bury the horrid book is the first thing I feel, but I don’t say so, and try to do as Chris asks. The book is heavy and has the lingering
scent of old paper and incense. I make myself relax and look, or feel — whatever it is I do — deeper into the book. The fear of what I might find is real, but I put that aside, knowing Chris wouldn’t ask me to do anything harmful.

  I get the feeling a man with darkness around him owned the book before and even some other man before him. These men must be the Treadors mentioned in the acknowledgments. There is history here in my hands. For less than a second, I see the flicker of a face and feel the man’s energy. I even get a glimpse of what he was doing with this book. I could go deeper and find out more about the stranger if I wanted to, but I don’t want to. I shut down the images. Other than that, I feel nothing. No ghosts or demons come swirling out of the pages to engulf me with evil or malice. It’s as Chris said.

  “It’s an old book,” I say as I open my eyes and look at Chris watching me. “The previous owners are not people I’d like to meet.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I saw someone’s face, but the book doesn’t really mean anything. It was the owner that held the power.”

  “Bingo.”

  “It’s not a nice book though. I guess I should have thought about it more before I brought it home. I was sort of in a hurry.”

  Chris takes the book and sets it back down. “Is anything mystical or powerful in either object?”

  “No?” I say, still unsure about what he’s trying to teach me.

  “Don’t doubt,” he says and reaches into his big furry medicine bundle.

  He hands me a small ball of dark fur wrapped around something lumpy and hard. It fits in the palm of my hand and my first instinct is to hand it back to him.

  “What does that feel like?”

  “What is it? I don’t like it.” I hold my hand out to Chris, but he doesn’t take it back.

  “This is your first lesson. Tell me one detail about the bundle in your hand.”