Flash Fiction – Searching for Memories

Time no longer has any meaning for me. I drift through it rather than taking an active part in it. It’s a difficult situation to be in, but I’m learning to live with it. At least, I think I am. I still get a creepy feeling in my gut whenever I try to remember anything from before. I just can’t seem to pull it out of the ether and into my consciousness.

Everyone I see is a stranger, even though I know this must be false in some way. I’ve spoken to others like me, and they are here because it’s familiar. They hover around their loved ones, drinking in the last bits of life before they melt away. Others never leave, but the difference is, they know why they’re here. What does that make me?

A ghost with amnesia?

I’m standing by a tree watching a dog chase after a Frisbee when something happens. I’m watching the Frisbee when suddenly my gaze lifts slightly and I’m staring at… Well, he isn’t familiar in the sense that I know him, but everything in my being sizzles.

I stand up straight and before I make the conscious decision to follow him, I’m doing it.

He looks like a typical teenager – black jeans worn a little too low, V-neck Tee that hugs his thin waist, and a beanie flopping on his head. He even has the swagger down, like he knows he’s cool and wants everyone else to know it too. I couldn’t possibly have liked boys like this before, so why the sizzle now?

I follow him most of the day – into a music store, down the street to buy some weed from the corner junkie, then to a friend’s house where they spend all day in a haze of smoke and music. Part of me wishes for the oblivion they find. They laugh at nothing and doze off in the midst of the thumping bass and the pounding drums.

Did I do this when I was alive?

None of it seems familiar, but the sizzle never leaves. It doesn’t get any stronger though.

I finally decide to leave. I’m just getting depressed and I honestly don’t know what to do.

When I step outside, I’m stopped in my tracks by a voice speaking to me. It’s been a long time since I’ve spoken to one of my kind.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” She’s leaning against the building on the opposite corner. She looks like a gypsy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen or known a gypsy, but that’s what pops into my head. Long black hair, black t-shirt and a long colorful skirt that sweeps the ground around her.

“Who are you?” I ask, even though I don’t expect an answer.

She tilts her head to the side and just watches me.

I smile and start walking down the street in the opposite direction. I’m not in the mood for a cryptic gypsy.

Trouble is, she won’t leave me alone.

I see her everywhere. She doesn’t speak to me again, but I know she’s there, following me, watching me. It makes it supremely uncomfortable to do what I do when I know I’m being watched. Is that how The Living feel when I watch them?

It could have been a few nights, it could have been twenty, but at some point I realize she’s not going anywhere so I might as well see what the hell she wants. She makes it easy enough. She’s sitting on a park bench watching me watch some kids play on the swings.

“I’m not looking for anything.”

She tilts her head and I think she’s going to ignore me again but she doesn’t.

“Sure you are.”

A cryptic, smug gypsy. Even better.

“If you knew the answer, why’d you ask?”

“I didn’t know. Sometimes it happens like that, but sometimes you just get weird feelings and follow them around for a day or two.”

“I suppose you have first hand experience?” I sound sullen and bitchy, but too late to change it now.

“If I said I did, would you believe me?”

I want to keep throwing snark at her, but I’m not sure how much of my shit she will take before simply walking away. I don’t think I want her to walk away.

Finally, I say, “I don’t know.”

We sit in silence for a while, but it’s an active silence full of thoughts that battle their way around my head in a swirl of longing and hope. I really hate asking for help, but I’m not sure I have much choice.

“Can you help me?” I ask, breaking the silence.

“I’m willing to try if you are.”

I nod my head and our shaky acquaintance begins. Shaky because I don’t think Anne likes me very much. (We finally exchange names – she’s Anne and I’m Chloe. It almost sounds like a fairy tale…) Honestly, I can’t decide if I like her either. I think I hold it against her that she seems to have her shit together, whether she was like me before or not. She never really answers that question, but I don’t have anyone else breaking down my walls, offering their help, so I’m pretty much stuck with her.

“So, who’s the guy?” she asks as we walk along the bank of the pond, a breeze blowing her long black hair behind us.

“I don’t know. I got a weird feeling when I saw him, so I followed him.” She’s silent next to me, so I glance in her direction and keep talking. “That’s never happened before. I don’t recognize anyone or anything around me. Every other spirit I’ve talked to seems to have some idea why they’re here.”

“I think you’d be surprised.” Her smile is sardonic and she’s back to being cryptic.

I stop, frustration melting off my words like ice cream on a hot summer day. “Look, do you have any answers, or are you just having fun at my expense?”

She keeps walking but somehow her words carry back to me on the breeze. “I think you should keep following him. He holds the key to your memories, but you need to be open to knowing the truth.”

I jog to catch up to her and put my hand on her arm. “What do you mean, open? Of course I want to know the truth.”

She stops and turns her head to face me. Her gaze bores into me, cutting deep. “The truth is difficult to bear, even if you know in every fiber of your being that you’re ready for it. I just want you to be prepared, that’s all.”

Am I prepared? I don’t think anyone can really prepare themselves for this scenario, and as time stretches on, I start to realize that maybe I’m not ready, that I’ll never be ready to know the truth.

I follow him for days. He goes to school. He smokes weed. He hangs out with friends. The sizzling feeling is always there, but it doesn’t increase or decrease. It’s just a steady buzz in my blood.

I start to realize, though, that memories are coming back in slow degrees, but it isn’t like a big reveal. I don’t just wake up one morning and ta-da! I have my memories back.

No, this is a slow torturous process – glimpses of faces and pops of color. One time, I’m stopped in my tracks by screams echoing in my skull and it lasts so long, I fall to my knees and grab my head.

Anne is there, beside me, and once again asks, “Are you sure you want to know?”

I can barely move my head it hurts so much, but I throw a look in her direction. “I can’t stop it now, even if I wanted to.”

I have to hand it to her. She helps. More than I thought possible. If nothing else, I’m not alone and that makes it more bearable.

It finally happens at a football game, of all things. It’s an away game so it’s across town. I hang out in the back of the bus and let the lull of pre-game talk and bullshit waft through the air around me. It isn’t until we step off the bus and I take a look around that I realize I know this place. It’s familiar.

I suddenly wonder if maybe I’m hanging around this guy, not because he was familiar to me in my life, but because he was the one who ended it.

The thought paralyzes me and I fall to the ground once again as more images come rushing back.

A football game…

A car…

Him!

His friends…

A haze of smoke and blaring music.

Screaming…

My screams echoing through the night until it is silent once again.

Murdered.

Abandoned.

Left to rot in a hole where I have yet to be found.

Dread fills me. The helpless weight of knowing there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it raises bile in the back of my throat and I choke on a sob.

No one can prepare you for it. No one can save you from it. Memories are a terrible weight that I wish I had left alone because even now, I no longer want to carry them.


This week’s flash fiction challenge thrown down by Chuck Wendig was to take someone else’s character and write a story under 2,000 words (mine comes in around 1,560). I chose the character written by JQ Davis. I loved the ghost aspect and pretty much everything about the character. I suppose I went the obvious route, but I honestly couldn’t think of anything more original. I hope I did justice to the character, though, and that you enjoy my dance in this character’s world.

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SoCS – Jump-Scares

Sometimes I really need to read the prompt, have it show me a word and then just write. And it seems like every time I really want that, Linda throws me for a loop. Nope, Helen, you actually have to figure the word out yourself among the, I don’t know, hundreds(?) of four-letter words out there. I guess it’s not her fault though. Not really…

(I really appreciate Linda because keeping up a blog prompt isn’t easy, so thanks, Lady!)

I decided to keep it a bit lighter today. My life is stressful enough right now without rehashing it all on my blog.

I like scary movies. I don’t know why I like them because they really get to me. They scare me, even though I know they aren’t real, and many times they make me feel really gross, like “why am I watching this again?” But every time I’ve told myself I couldn’t possibly watch another one, I find myself renting another one or borrowing one from a friend.

Unfortunately – or fortunately, depending on how you look at it – my kids like them too. We watched one on Netflix not too long ago called “Babadook” and that show scared the crap out of me. I was talking to Adelle afterwards, and I realized it wasn’t so much about the scary content, it was really more about the Mother and her son. When you become a Mom, the meanings and things that happen in movies change and you suddenly look at them very differently.

My kids? Their response: “It was just a bunch of jump-scares.”

Last night, I watched Sinister with the boyfriend. He said it was the worst movie he had ever seen. I don’t think it was terrible, in fact, it did exactly what I thought it would. I jumped multiple times, my heart was racing, I was wringing my hands. I’m thinking watching scary movies releases some sort of chemical that we just can’t get enough of. Like riding roller coasters or extreme sports.

My boyfriend is into true crime, and I am too, but sometimes I just want to watch something that can’t possibly be true and it’s all just good fun. He laughed at me multiple times last night, so I think it was a good time all around.

Adelle – and let’s be honest, the boys too – hates watching scary movies with me because I scream out loud and that scares everyone more than whatever was happening on the screen. I scream then everyone jumps and yells at me for scaring them.

I guess I’m just one of those people that jump-scares really work. I think that’s why I hate going to haunted houses. Now those are places that are all about the jump-scares. Except they aren’t on a harmless screen. They actually jump out at you or chase you or get in your face. I actually end up getting mad, rather than enjoying myself. And who wants that? I don’t! My boyfriend keeps trying to talk me into going to a haunted house this year, but I really don’t like them. Which is funny because I love scary movies. I don’t know. I guess I’m just weird like that.

I’m also the girl who likes paranormal scary movies and zombie movies, but I don’t like those movies where some random killer goes around and chops people up for no reason at all. It’s a science, in my head, that makes absolutely no sense to anyone else. But I’m okay with that. I just try and watch what a like and ignore the hecklers.

What about you. Do you like scary movies?


This scary Stream of Consciousness post is hosted by Linda G. Hill. “Your Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is: “four-letter word.”  Use any four-letter word as your theme. Enjoy!” Please fee free to click the link and join in, or read other posts.

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Flash Fiction – The Fortune (Part 4 of 4)

Chuck’s challenge this week was to close the gap – write part four of a four part story. I picked one on Sunday and as much as I wasn’t going to admit it, I had a hard time with it. I thought the ideas were flowing and it was going to be a quick thing, but it’s turned into a three-day long slog of just trying to get the words down. I’m still hoping the finished product is up to par though and that everyone who participated will enjoy how I finished the story. This has been an exciting project and I’m happy I participated!

The first part was written by JW Rapa, the second by John Freeter and the third by Lauren Greene. I definitely urge you to click on their links and check out their blogs. They are all talented artists and I’m honored and humbled to be in their midst.

I have included all four parts here for ease of reading.

The Fortune

Part I by JW Rapa

Margaret drew the curtain back slowly, taking care not to pull too hard on the thin, slightly musty fabric. The worn beading crinkled beneath her fingers and she took a step inside the tent. She paused a moment for her sight to adjust, blinking back the bright specks of the sundrenched day still lingering in her eyes. Behind her the buzzing of the hurdy-gurdy man she had passed just moments ago mixed with the sharp squeals of a group of children as they ran towards the games of chance on the far midway. She brushed a patch of dust from her skirt as she glanced nervously around the space, taking in the threadbare rugs that lined the floor, their oriental patterns clashing garishly with the many tapestries that hung around the small tent.  Margaret took another step towards the lone wicker chair set up in the center of the room and looked around her.

“A fortune for the lass?”

The voice was quiet and lilting, and she jumped a bit as a man slipped his slim frame into the room from behind one of the larger tapestries. He smiled at her and gestured with a gloved hand towards the chair.

“Uh, yes,” she said quickly, looking back and forth once again. “But isn’t there….”

The man laughed softly, opening his arms to encompass the room as he followed her gaze. “Yes, I know. Not quite what you were expecting.”

He began to pull one gray glove off, finger by finger. “I don’t work with those tricks you’ve read about. No crystals or smoke and nonsense needed.” He moved on to the second glove. “And I am no old gypsy woman, either, sorry to say.”

She laughed nervously, for indeed she had expected it to be like in a book. This man was perfectly average. Middle height, thin, with a brown beard and hair of all one short-trimmed length. He wore a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles that seemed to be slightly off-center. If she had passed him in town that day, she would never have glanced twice.

He had finished removing his gloves and tucked them into a pocket on his waist coat. He gestured to the chair again, and she noted his now bare hands were worn thin and speckled with age spots, his nails brittle and yellow.

“I have only these to work with,” he said. “And if you are still willing, we can begin.”

Margaret paused, meeting his gaze. He had a gentle openness about his face, and she took no fear in it. After a moment, she gathered her skirts and sat on the chair.

He stepped forward to stand behind her. “I will touch your temples, and nothing more. Don’t be afraid, now. It will help if you close your eyes.”

She nodded, resting her hands in her lap and letting her eyes fall shut. His fingers touched her temples lightly, just barely brushing against her skin. She could feel the warmth of them as his coarse skin pressed closer to her head. She stifled another nervous laugh and a thought flitted past. This is nonsense, really.

“Quiet now, luv.” His voice was barely more than a whisper, and it seemed to come from right behind her ears.

She tried to push the thoughts away and breathed in deeply and silently through her nose. As she began to exhale a wave of dizziness passed over her, beginning from points on her temples where he held her and moving swiftly down to deep within her chest. Suddenly her bodice felt tight, a great crush of fabric, and even her sleeves and bootlaces seemed to constrict upon her limbs. She tried to breathe in again but it stuck in her throat and her eyes flew open in panic. She felt as if the air itself was strangling her, pinning her down where she sat.

Just as suddenly, the press was gone. She slumped forward with a loud huff of breath as the man released his grip, falling to her knees from the chair. An anger rose in her as she turned back to the man, ready to rail at him for his poor treatment. But just as she moved she saw that he, too, had fallen to the ground. The rage died in her as quickly as it had appeared. The man was shaking as if with palsy, his hands curled in to themselves as he clutched them to his chest.

“I did not know,” he whispered raggedly, his face turned down to where he gripped his own hands together. “I’m so sorry luv, I never would have…”

At that he finally looked up, and the look of sorrow upon his face seemed to sink into her belly.

“What?” she said. She realized she was whispering as well, so she repeated it louder. “What was that?”

He shook his head, avoiding her gaze. “No, no.”

She got up on her knees and reached for him, grabbing his dusty coat by the shoulders. She was angry again, if only to fight the fear that was beginning to grow inside her.

“What did you see?!”

He flinched away from her shout and seemed to gather himself. His trembling slowed and she let go of his coat. “Please tell me.”

He met her eyes once more, the same sorrow still filled his gaze. He reached up to touch her again but pulled his hand back just before her cheek.

“It was your death, luv.” his voice was gentle, calm.

“No,” she said with a shudder. “This is all too silly. You’re just a con man, then, scaring women!” She rose, brushing off her skirts and turned to leave.

“Meg, wait.” He stood as well, reaching towards her.

She stopped, stunned. She had never told him her name.

“Tell me,” he said softly. “How long have you been dead?”

Part II by John Freeter

Meg held onto the tent’s worn curtain, her legs buckling under her. Dead… dead? No. She couldn’t be dead. Meg felt her heart hammering against her chest. The loose strands of long black hair dangling over her face bounced in synch with her heavy breathing. The sunlight bathing her neck warmed her chilled skin. She couldn’t be dead.

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir,” Meg said, brushing back her hair, “but if you think you can take me for a fool, then you’re sadly mistaken.”

The man took a step towards her. “It’s all right, luv. I can help you.” He reached out to her with his thin, speckled hands. “Now close your eyes, and try to remem—”

“No!” Meg swatted his hands away. Upon touching them, her chest tightened and she staggered back, overcome by a new wave of dizziness. “Get away from me, you… you charlatan!”

She spun away from him and fled from the tent, back to the bustling fairground. The noise of laughter and conversation aggravated her dizziness. Her vision turned into a swirl of colors, and Meg tripped on her skirts. She threw her arms in front of her as she plunged face-first into the ground, breaking the fall with her palms. Pain shot through her body as she scraped her skin and banged her knees. She knelt on the ground, rubbing her reddened palms. Tears welled in her eyes. She gagged, and barely had time to push her hair away when a thick stream of hot, salty vomit poured from her mouth, drenching her skirts.

Meg wiped her mouth with the back of her trembling hand. She slowly raised her eyes, dreading the looks of confusion and disgust from the people around her, but no one paid her any mind. Couples strolled by without as much as a glance, and children ran squealing around her as if she was invisible… as if she was ghost.

“Please, for the love of God, someone help me!” Everyone went on their merry way, oblivious to her cries. Meg got to her feet, cold sweat streaming down her face, the taste of salty vomit saturating her mouth. She dashed towards a plump lady in a bright yellow dress, who was shielding herself from the sun with a frilly parasol. Meg grabbed her hands. “Please, madam, you must help me! I… I…”

The woman shivered and closed her parasol. She blinked a few times, touching her temples. The color drained from her skin, becoming as pale as Meg’s hands. An older gentleman walking by gently placed his hand on the woman’s shoulder.

“Are you alright, ma’am?” He asked, his brow furrowed with concern. “You seem a bit peaky.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you. Must’ve been an errant draft.” A reddish hue tinged the woman’s cheeks. “I feel quite better now.”

“Is that so?” the gentleman asked. “Still, I believe something sweet will do you a world of good.” He offered the woman his hand, which she took gladly, and they both strolled away towards one the many vendors dotting the fairground.

Meg looked at her hands. Had they always been so pale? She couldn’t recall. Warm tears fell upon her palms. It can’t be. It can’t. A gloved hand took the tip of her fingers. She slowly turned her eyes towards the fortune teller, regarding her with his honest yet sorrowful expression.

“Come on, Margareth. Let’s go.”

***

Sitting back in the shade of the fortune teller’s tent, Meg sipped on a hot cup of sweet tea. The awful salty taste in her mouth was gone and her trembling had abated. Even her dizziness melted away as the tea’s warmth spread through her body.

“So, luv. How long have you been dead?” The fortune teller twisted the end of his lips into a grin, but his eyes—dark and soulful—remained fixed on her.

“I… I don’t know.” Meg looked down at her teacup, unable to hold eye contact with the fortune teller. “I remember my childhood, growing up in Croydon, quite clearly. Everything else is something of a blur. I don’t understand. It’s all so strange.”

“Yes, I see… it happens sometimes,” the fortune teller said, pacing the room.

Meg set down the tea cup on the carpet. “Sometimes? You mean it’s not the first time you’ve met a… someone like me?”

“Oh, it’s not an everyday occurrence, but a few errant souls have made their way to my humble establishment.” The fortune teller looked at his hands. “Comes with the territory, I guess.”

“What’s your name anyway?” Meg got off her chair and took a few timid steps towards him. “Who are you?”

“The name’s Oliver, and I’m… well, I’m a fortune teller.” Oliver took off his gloves and raised his thin, aged-speckled hands towards her. “I’ll help you, luv. I promise.”

Meg closed her eyes as Oliver laid his bony fingers on her temples. Her chest tightened. Her throat tightened. She couldn’t breathe.

“It’s all right, Meg. Just a little longer.”

Oliver’s voice failed to soothe the dreadful feeling. Meg opened her eyes. It was no use. All she could see where thin dots of sunlight, as if through sackcloth. She soon realized she actually was inside a sack as the rough fabric scratched her hands and cheeks. She flailed her arms and legs to free herself, but they’d been bound together. Meg tried to scream, but only managed to gurgle—saltwater pouring into her throat. Her clothes became heavy, drenched with water.

“Just a little more, luv.”

Meg squeezed her eyes shut. The drowning sensation receded. She was sitting down now, but the seat trembled beneath her. She opened her eyes. The tent was gone, and the sun’s rays fell upon her. She rode on a carriage, Dover’s white cliffs to her right, the endless ocean spreading further ahead. A man rode next to her, but it wasn’t Oliver. He was a tall, blond man. She knew that man.

It was her fiancée.

“George?” she whispered. The man turned towards her. A broad smile spread across his face.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it, luv?”

Part III by Lauren Greene

Her thoughts swirled, and she heard the fortune teller’s voice swimming in her mind, “Stay there. There you will find answers.”

The castle rose up before her, and peasants ran alongside the carriage. George swept his hand knocking them out of the way, even as their shouts for just a sixpence reached Meg’s ears. They passed the castle, where she was sure they were going, and the road twisted to the right.

The carriage stopped in front of a church, and as she walked arm and arm with George she realized she was attending her own wedding—something that had happened in the past, a window to what her world had once been.

“Meg, baby, peace be with you forever,” a bearded man said to her, and he kissed her forehead.

Father, the word resonated within her, even though she was not sure how she knew.

A woman with a sweeping skirt and a dirty apron grabbed her hand. She could see the fortune teller’s eyes staring back at her. She shivered as the woman’s claw-like hand tightened her grip.

“Run, far away girl. There is no happiness for you here. Only fear and DEATH. He is the devil,” she said, pointing a bony finger at George.

She stared at George, his smile filled up his whole face, as he held out his hand for her to join him. Meg broke away from the tight grip of the woman, but her shouts filled her ears.

“DEATH, I say. Horror. Drowning. He—” But the woman’s words were cut off, as someone dragged her away, placing their hand over the woman’s mouth to prevent her screams. Meg stared back at the church scene, and it suddenly swirled away from her, a dream of the past, not something she could change.

She was on a bed in an ornate room. A clocked ticked away on the mantel. Her stomach seized up with pains. She looked down to see she was pregnant and in labor. Women rushed in and out of the room. There was too much blood, she could see it seeping from underneath her staining the mattress. The pain filled her own body, and she thought maybe this would be how she died. She fought to escape the pain but the fortune teller’s voice filled her ears, “Stay there,” his words echoed in her head. The pain in her stomach was overwhelming.

The midwife came to check her, shaking her head as she lay a hand on her stomach.

“This one is gone too.”

“That makes three,” the woman dressed in a green emerald dress spat. George’s mother.

The pains gripped her again and the midwife told Meg to push. She did, the feeling making her shudder, and soon she felt the head emerging. When they pulled the baby out he was completely blue, no life left in him, and she let out a howl of anguish, intense grief filling her soul.

“Boy or girl?” George’s mother asked.

“Boy, number three. The bleeding is heavier this time,” the midwife said. “If I can’t stop it she may never bear another child.”

“Does it matter?  She only births dead boys anyway. I will go tell the Duke. He will not be happy. Get this mess cleaned up, Ursula.”  George’s mother left the room, slamming the door behind her.

Ursula pressed against Meg’s stomach, trying to stop the bleeding.

She grabbed Ursula’s hand and said, “The old woman at the wedding was right.”

“You’ve lost too much blood. You’re delirious,” she said.

“No—the old woman was right.  He’ll kill me Ursula, if I don’t give him a child. It’s all he wants, someone to follow in his footsteps. But my womb,” Meg said, hitting her stomach with her fist and clenching against the pain as a red clot escaped from her traitorous body. “My womb is cursed against me. A black flower, dying and decaying, and it will only issue death not life.”

“It’s silly talk. You will see. You will have a live birth. It will happen,” Ursula said, as she kneaded Meg’s stomach and the blood, an endless river of red, flowed from between Meg’s legs.

At the dinner table, time had passed. Silence permeated the grand room. Candle lights flickered. Meg looked down, and her stomach was big with child again, but there was no movement. The baby has already died, and she knew it but she was keeping it from him. The sound of the forks and knives clattered against the plates in the tomb-like room.

A page came in, and whispered something to George. He slammed his fist down against the wooden table, the plates clattered too loud in Meg’s ears: the sound of her dead child within her womb screaming to be freed from its watery grave.

George’s eyes were dark and full of anger, and she thinks of the hopes and wants of the man who walked down the aisle with her. She placed a hand on her stomach willing the decaying child in her womb to live, an impossible feat. She knows in just a few days or hours her stomach will seize up with contractions and the baby will be expelled. George will be angry. He will come to her room and shout at her, curse her to God and the devil, and he will tell Meg she is a good for nothing wife, one who cannot even produce a child, an heir for him.

As the midwife wrapped up the slight body, died in the womb so long ago that the skin had started sloughing from her tiny body, George burst into the room.

“Another dead baby.” He cackled. His voice was too high pitched. “And to think…I had loved you.”

He slammed the door and walked from the room. His words, “I had loved you,” reverberating in her head reminding her of a time not yet arrived when there is too much water in her mouth, and she is drowning. And the last thing she hears before everything goes black are his words, “I had loved you.”

Part IV by Helen Espinosa

She opened her eyes to the muted colors in the tent and Oliver staring at her from his stool perch only a few feet away.

“Would you like some more tea, luv?” The corners of his eyes were creased in a soft smile, and his eyes sparkled even in the subdued light.

“No, I don’t think so.” Her voice was breathy and soft, a little shaky around the edges. “Did you… Did you see?”

“No, luv. I’m only a guide, of sorts. My path isn’t to follow.”

“Do you… think you can help me?”She wasn’t entirely sure what she was asking for, but she realized she had made a decision while George’s words echoed in her head. She just wasn’t sure how to proceed.

“What did you have in mind, luv?”

“I need to go back there. I have… unfinished business.” She was still shaky and the dizziness swirled around her vision making her feel unsteady even though she was seated. She looked into Oliver’s eyes but the man didn’t give anything away.

“I can help you luv. A promise is a promise. But, are you sure that’s what you want?”

Her eyes hardened and she dipped her head in a brief nod. “I am.”

He moved so he was directly in front of her once again and he leaned over to place his hands on her temples. “Close your eyes, luv.”

She followed his directions and soon felt the chest tightening and loss of breathe that had come before, and even though she was prepared for it this time, she still found herself fighting it.

“It’s okay, luv, trust me.”

She breathed in deeply and let it out slowly, relaxing into his fingers as they pressed more firmly into her skull.

It was time.

She felt a breeze blow across her face and when she opened her eyes, she found herself inside the castle; inside the room where she had suffered extreme agony. Glancing around she realized it looked different from when she was alive in it, held prisoner by the man who had killed her; the man she had loved.

She remembered now, and as she thought of how he had taken her from her birthing bed still bleeding and weak, she let out a mournful wail that echoed through the room. She covered her face with her hands and rocked back and forth as the memories assaulted her.

She didn’t hear the footsteps that clicked down the hallway, or the door as it was thrown open.

“Who’s there?”

The gruff voice startled her and she spun around to see George standing in front of her. It was George, but he looked to be about twenty years older than when she had last seen him. His hand was on the door knob as he looked around the room. She held her breathe, waiting for him to say something, but he didn’t. He just shook his head and walked out, quietly closing the door behind him.

He heard me, she thought.

She stared at the closed door for a few moments, not sure how she was supposed to follow him, but as soon as the thought occurred to her, she was in a dark hallway on the other side of the door, and she could hear his footsteps as they faded away. She followed him, thinking she was bound to come across his family, a son maybe and the wife who had replaced her; but the castle was silent, almost completely empty.

She found, as time went on, that he shared the large castle with only one other person besides the servants – the Dowager Duchess.

Time had not been kind to her. She was a wrinkled shell of the woman who had attended her. She spent most days in a chair by a crackling fire, shaking uncontrollably with a permanent frown etched into her grave features. Every once in a while she snapped at the servants or George, but for the most part, she was a solitary menace taking up space in a dusty, worn down castle devoid of life or spirit.

Meg had no concept of time as it slipped steadily away. She had only one focus – to be heard and finally seen by the man who had ruined her life.

It wasn’t long before the castle was known throughout town and surrounding areas for the wailing screams that lasted long into the night; the slammed doors; and the cold, misty drafts that would stop a servant dead in their path for a few seconds while they remembered how to breathe after it had passed. Most of the servants eventually left to find better accommodations. The Duke and Dowager were bad enough without the strange occurrences that seemed to have no end.

The myth remained long after the castle was abandoned to the elements. People from miles away visited the old, abandoned husk and walked away telling tales of the Wailing Lady in the castle.

But what they didn’t know was that on a dark, stormy night a few years after Meg’s return, she chased George up to the ramparts of the castle screaming “I had loved you” over and over again, mimicking the echo of his words in her head. He was pulling on his hair, begging for it to stop when suddenly he looked up and saw her. Meg was standing in front of him. She looked the same way she had on the day he had carried her, slung over his shoulder in a burlap sack, down to the lake where he had thrown her in and walked away without a backward glance.

Meg watched as his face paled and knew she had finally done it. Her smile was cold, calculating, and she slowly advanced on him. In his haste to get away from the frightening specter, he tripped over the side, falling to his death on the cobblestones below.

It’s finished. As soon as the realization dawned, Meg felt herself slip away, back into the mists, finally finding peace for her tortured soul.