The Flooding House - A Paranormal Story

The Jackals and the Flea

2013-10-04T21:00:00.000-07:00

Flooding House - Book IV, Ch 5 - The Jackals and the Flea

My attention bounced from Gina to Phyllis, from the golden speckled apple in Gina’s hand to my great-grandmother’s cat-eye pendant settled in the hollow of Phyllis’s throat. It was as if I had to make a choice which of my in-laws to throttle first. Did I take Gina down for a bite of the fruit in her hand? Or, did I claw Phyllis’s hair out for wearing my jewelry?

Gina pinched the stem of the apple between her nails. With her other hand she turned the body of the fruit. In the sunlight, and with the hunger gnawing at my belly, the ruby fruit with the spray of golden speckles on it’s flesh became a temptation worthy of murder. Four days! Three days without sight of another and it was Gina who arrived. When had I last ate? My stomach hurt so bad that my toes cramped. Whatever Gina was saying was interrupted, again, by the growling of my stomach.

Gina gave a laugh. “Oh, that’s how I felt this morning. Of course I had the largest of meals last night.”

Phyllis nodded. “Gina’s husband was promoted to second onboard his ship. We celebrated.”

“Well, not we.” Gina said. She held the apple up for a moment, looked at the stem. “How many times have I twisted this thing already?”

“Give it to me.” I said.

Gina laughed again, this time with true amusement. “This, my friend, is too good for the likes of you.”

“It’s just an apple.” I hated the pleading I heard in my voice. My stomach was talking now, having its own dialogue with the fruit.

“Just an apple?” Gina shook her head. I noted her short hair was growing quite well, better than mine. My own head was shaggy and ill handled, my attentions being elsewhere these last few days. Gina’s head looked . . . well, she looked glossy. But then, wasn’t that the nature of someone like Gina? To show up at the poor camps with done up hair, makeup perfectly on, and food? Oh, not food for the starving.

She bit into the apple. Juice. Clear, sweetly scented apple juice smeared across her top lip. A trickle of it slid down her cheek. She smeared it off with the back of her free hand. Then, holding the apple from her mouth, she licked at each finger. Each smack and suckle thundered in my head.

Phyllis fingered the pendant. “Do you like it?”

I jerked my attention from Gina. Phyllis moved the pendant and, at once, I was blinded by the sunlight that caught on the silvered edges of the enamel and bounced to me. It added to the thundering in my head. “It’s mine.”

Phyllis shook her head. “No. I bought it from Burton.”

“Burton stole it from me.”

She shared a look with Gina. Both women rolled their eyes. Phyllis said, “Cole gave it to Burton while they were selling your home. Cole said Burton could have it for all the things Burton did for you. You and Cole. Burton sold it to me.” She ended with a ‘so there’ tone in her voice.

Gina took another bite of the apple. “So, why are you all the way out here?”

I must have looked dumb. I couldn’t put two and two together at this moment. Not with the demon in my stomach making its demands. Howling. But more, I didn’t want to admit that what drove me to the wide dusty road was a hunger so deep, so depraved that I . . . I had to look down at my hands to make sure I’d left the shovel back at the shack. For as little sleep that I’d had last night the idea of a source of food just yards from the shack had left me with enough energy to dig up one of the bodies laid to rest. Not that I had actually done so. No, what I’d done was dragged the shovel to the mound. It took everything – every small and insignificant cell in my body screaming a warning – for me to drop the shovel and walk away. And yet, I couldn’t go back inside. I was convinced doing so meant I was going to die in that shack.

Gina said, “I thought you’d be at the shack. He’s worried about you, you know.”

“That’s right.” Phyllis said. “Burton sent us to check on you.”

I shook my head. This conversation made no sense. Burton didn’t care for me. I was in the way. He wouldn’t offer me one lick of food were I starving. And then it hit me: I was starving. And he wasn’t offering me food. Burton was waving it in my face, under my nose. This was a game.

I was being tested.

I asked, “What would I have to give you to get just a bite?”

“Of this thing?” Gina shrugged. “It’s just an apple. In fact,” She turned where she’d bitten to look at it. “It’s rather sour. What do you think?” She handed the fruit to Phyllis. Gina licked her fingers while Phyllis took a dainty bite.

“Ugh!” Phyllis made a face. “It is sour!”

“Sour apples. Isn’t that a saying somewhere?”

My mouth watered. I cleared my throat. “Grapes. Sour grapes.” I said.

The two rolled their eyes. It was not clear whether they’d planned the details of their game, or whether the two women were so similar that the synchronized ‘oh bother’ of the motion was natural to them.

I went for broke. I held my hand out for the apple. “I want some.”

Phyllis swallowed her tiny bite. “Some of this? I don’t like to share.”

“Me neither.” Gina said. Then, “I’ve had enough. Toss it when you’re through, Phyllis.”

“Of course.” Phyllis’s lob of the fruit was as true as any rookie baseball pitcher. The red skin didn’t even twirl to reveal the pale flesh. It just seemed to hang in the air, a perfect illusion of unspoiled food. I tracked it, not feeling the whimper rising in my throat. I was animal in that moment, no longer human. It splattered against a tree.

I sprinted to the fruit. I was moving before the pieces hit the ground. Gina and Phyllis laughed at this, now truly pleased at how base I’d become. To grovel for food was one thing. To pluck it from the dirt another. And oh, how they loved it. Loved seeing me skid to a stop at the tree, and drop to my knees in the roots. The mash of apple and dirt and crumbles of last season’s leaves mattered not to my shaking hands, or the cavern of my mouth.

They laughed all the way to their car. Gina made ‘oink, oink’ noises.

In that moment I hated them. I hated them with my heart, with my mind and even my soul. My stomach did not hate them. My stomach churned around the bits of apple I’d fed it. It was greedy, my stomach was. It wanted more faster than I could chew. For a moment a piece lodged in my throat. But my stomach was more insistent and the food worked free to be pulled down in the pit.

I dared pause long enough to look up. They were linked with their arms around each other’s waists. They were walking to their car. Gina reached inside, pulled out another apple, and bit into it. Gina froze. Her carefully contrived laughter ended. She lowered the fruit, looked at it again, and spit it out. A shudder rippled from the top of her head down her slim body, to her toes. This was not fakery for my sake. Something was truly wrong.

Phyllis climbed into the car. They were arguing, in agreement, but arguing. Phyllis’s voice was the louder of the two, with Gina still staggering from her experience. Phyllis tossed an apple. It didn’t go far, only to the edge of the road and still more than a hundred yards from me. But her intent wasn’t on showing her arm. Her intent was to clear the car of the fruit. Piece after piece hit the dirt, the sound hollow and squicky wet at the same time.

“Let’s go. Now!” Gina snapped the words out. “This cursed land is –“ The car engine cranked. It did not turn over. Gina tried again. She’d not closed her car door. Even from this distance I could see her hands shook. When at last the car started her fingers bit into the steering wheel. So clear was the bone-white of her knuckles.

I remembered the apple then, the scent luring me in for another bite. For a moment I refocused on it. When I looked up the car was gone. There was at last, and quite suddenly, only one bite left. I wanted it. Oh, how I wanted it! But I had the sense that to take it was to short the tree, to deny the ground, and to rob the grub hanging onto that one last bite of its chance for the sweet juices. I set the apple down among the tree’s roots, settled a small pile of dried leaves over it, and went to inspect the remains of Gina and Phyllis’s feast.

Hungry as I was, I could not bring myself to touch the molding fester of rotted fruits. Nor did I try to wrap my head around that it was Gina who brought the rotten things to me. Maybe she’d picked them at market from the piles not even the beggar thieves would pluck from. Maybe in her glee to rub my face in it, simply forgot the fruit was bad. I only knew that the food could not be eaten.

And that I, if I did not hurry, was not going to make it to the women’s hotel before next meal. I would beg them if need be. I would crawl on my hands and knees. I would not, ever, admit that Burton’s derogatory play had been a small gift. Nor would I ever dwell on the possibility that he’d most likely saved my life. Those thoughts led to madness. I’d been there already this morning. I did not need to go back to that dark hunger again.

Only The Truly Mad Don't Know They're Mad

2013-09-27T19:00:00.000-07:00

Flooding House - Book IV, Ch 4 - Only the Truly Mad Don't Know They're Mad (Part I)

Food! There was food!

I could smell it, could almost taste the rich meat on my tongue. Oh, how the fats would melt like butter!

I set my glass of water back on the night stand. How it had become filled in the middle of the night I did not know. Nor was I, who’d gone the day before without a single drop, going to look past this timely gift.

Oh, but the succulent scent of food!

I threw back the covers, climbed from the bed and looked around the shabby shack. Where was Cole? Where was Adonin? Why would they hide the delicacies I could smell?

“C’mon guys, quit playing.” My words sounded thin and weak in the morning air. Not seeing the two husbands within, I decided they must be outside.

I stubbed my toe on the leg to the bed. “Awww – shit! Cole!” I was pissed now. Pissed and in pain. I stumbled to the door, pushed it open and held onto the frame while the pain finished flaring from the poor damaged digit.

Adonin’s car was not parked on the side of the road. Nobody stood around the ice-filled casket.

From a distance came voices. Dim voices. One called, “Miranda, breakfast is on.” I didn’t recognize the voice. But I was hungry. And my stomach, which had so far been silent, made its presence known. Still, some thought of self preservation had me lifting the shovel from where it leaned against the weathered side of the shack.

“Miranda, food!”


		Miranda #2, Flooding House Series #2.	Medium: Watercolor Pencil, Ink on Watercolor Paper	S. Ford Copyright 2013

This time the voice was louder, and from just around the corner of the building. I looked to the corner, expecting the owner to appear any second now. He did not. In fact, the voices faded. I stood, waiting. I stood until the wind shifted and the scent of freshly seared meat and vegetables wafted up my nose.
I inched forwards, peered around the corner, and saw no one. Nobody. I knew that voice. I just didn’t remember from where. It would come to me. But that could wait. I needed food, and I needed it now. I didn’t much like that these men were playing such games on me. No doubt they knew I was female.

I looked down at myself. The female parts were hard to miss. Boobs, hips, ass gave away my gender. If Cole were around at a certain time of the month my peeved temper only added to the certainty of being female.

A new breeze and I finally caught wind of what the meal was: pot roast. I stumbled forwards, my arms feeling unwieldy and long. The shovel dragged in the dirt as I could hardly lift it now. It left a stuttered line behind.

“Cole? Adonin?” My attention swung from the ground to the trees to the shack. Was that a shadow over there? Was someone hiding behind those bushes? I shook my head and continued to follow the delightful scent of a hot breakfast. “Cole? Adonin? Quit playing around. I’m hungry.”

Into my ear Adonin said, “It’s over there, wife.”

I jerked around, looking for him. He wasn’t there, hadn’t spoken into my ear. Or maybe he had and I was simply too hungry to see him leave. That meant he went to get the food! I turned back to where I’d been looking. For a moment I was confused again. The landscape wavered, as did the certainty that there was food. Then it snapped back into focus – I snapped back into focus.

I could see the cooling unit now, could see how it was settled on the ground and how the food within was kept cold. The one time father had taken me camping he’d shown me how to chill a drink by sinking it into the river. He’d also spoken of buying food – especially meat – in the ground to keep it from going bad. A rare pang of homesickness swallowed my heart. I vowed to ignore it and started forwards again.

I stopped at the small pile of wood. Cole or Adonin had gathered it together. The logs were packed with dried moss. I remembered then that Cole had pulled it off the roof of the shack. He’d said it was good for two things. The first was starting a fire. The second he refused to name, but insisted the dried moss would be safe enough to burn in the fire outside. He said it would keep the flies away.

They’d left a lighter nearby. I turned back to the meat, unashamed of how my mouth watered at the glint of edge of the crock peeking through the cooling dirt. On my hands and knees I pushed the dirt away, dug at it, unearthed the crock. Only it wasn’t a crock. It was a bottle. It was a bottle of beer.

The world rippled, then righted itself. I was hungry, not thirsty. But maybe later . . . I set the bottle aside. There was no reason, I thought, that the crock wasn’t here. I could smell the meat, damnit. I was hungry!

The sun burnt down onto my back. It heated my scalp and made the roots itch. I dug, I pushed, I shoved at the dirt. There was meat here. I knew it. Just as I knew Cole and Adonin were playing tricks on me, were the source of the laughter drifting on the air from the bushes. When my back was tired, when my hands ached and I’d bent yet another nail back I reached for the shovel.

Another half hour and the sun was setting. No, that wasn’t right. I looked up. It wasn’t that the sun was setting. It was that I was in shadow. Somehow, when I wasn’t paying attention, someone had piled up the dirt around me. Mounds of dirt. It looked a lot like when we buried bodies in the makeshift cemetery out back behind the shack.

Maybe this was Cole and Adonin’s game. To tempt me with food into a grave so that I may understand what only someone from their family could: what it felt like to be standing with one foot on death’s door. “Well, lesson learned.” I said.

And no more had I spoken than the smell of meat doubled, tripled. Drove me insane so that my stomach . . . my stomach stopped growling. Some other part, dim part, of my mind said a quiet, ‘Uh-oh’. Not being hungry was no good. But the rest of me rejoiced. Only a few more feet down to go and there was food!

A shift of the air brought laughter to my nearly unearthed cache. The shadows moved. I thought at first it was that of an animal, a small dog or fox or coyote. They sorted themselves out and it was a man, a shadow of a man that colored the side of the dark, cool earth. I looked up. I had to shield my eyes.

Burton watched me, his gaze coming down the long sides of his nose. The air around him smoked. The sunlight kissed his bare shoulders and lit upon the scraped bare patches on his knees. He had a burn across his stomach.

The anger I held towards him did not surface. He was above me, on the ground, his knees spread wide. I, below him, could not miss the phallic-ness of the position. When he lifted his hand it was slowly, and as if a great challenge were being made. In his hand rested an apple. A ruby red apple with golden speckles across the skin. He held the apple, and he sat with his knees open as such. I was hungry. Starving. On the brink of death.

Burton knew this.

I saw the mounds of dirt again. I saw the shovel in my hands - the handle so rough it needed sanding. I saw how I was in his eyes: naked and digging in the mud. So hungry I'd eat whatever Adonin and Cole had buried in the dirt. Or whomever.

That anger I'd searched for roared back now. At once the sun was too bright, the ground too hard, the fine coat of dirt on my skin too gritty. And I was awake. I was aware of the shovel in my hands, of the coarse handle, and that I now had splinters. The small stinging splinter pains grounded me in reality.

How dare they do this?! How dare they send Burton and not food! How dare they lock me onto the lands as if. . . as if . . . as if I somehow belonged to it. As if I somehow belonged to them.

A snarl rose in my chest, the sound so animal that it startled me. It startled Burton. He jerked back, his knees at once closing protectively on either side of his extended maleness. He fell back, scrambled back. The apple hit the ground and went rolling. For a moment it seemed as if the fruit chased away Burton.

I wanted that food!

I launched from the earthy pit, caught on the side and teetered there for a moment. I couldn't shake from my head to chase the food. Burton turned onto his belly, lifted his arse and was in mid-bunching to launch when the apple touched his bare foot. Burton gave a single, sharp 'YIP!' and took off. He ran into the bramble bushes. The branches cracked as he flayed through the lot.

Then silence. Not even the afternoon bugs let loose a sound. It was just me and the apple.

A Confusion of Husbands

2013-09-02T22:33:00.003-07:00

Book IV, Ch. 2 - A Confusion of Husbands

A strange fear overtook me as Adonin pulled his car up to the grass of our yard. Ours. Mine and Cole's yard. Now 'ours' included Adonin. He freed the keys and bent his head to look past me to the beaten up shack. His eyes traced it, were transfixed by it. I could smell the fruit oils shampoo he used to wash with - citrus with a hint of mint that hung at the edge of my nostrils to tease there.

In the back seat Cole said, "We've planted a tree on a day I had arms."

For one moment Adonin's eyes met mine. They echoed my amusement, but also my weariness for Cole's imagined misfortune. For a moment we were linked by the circumstance of thin humor. Then Adonin was turning away, was sliding from the car, and crossing in front of it. I anticipated he'd turn and come to my door and let me out - imagined the feel of Adonin's hand wrapping over my elbow again. That day-dream died a fast death. Adonin continued on, crossing the grass to consider the new tree.

"Asshole." Cole muttered, and I felt better at once. Then Cole shattered it by saying, "He could have helped me out. He is my brother after all."

I had to bite back, "I'm his wife!" The thought of even saying that I was Adonin's wife made me shudder. One forced-upon marriage did not make me a wife. It made me a thing to be owned. And that was a thought I did not enjoy.

I pushed the car door open and slid the seat forwards. Cole had trouble getting out. "Shoulder here, first." I instructed. "Foot there. Put your butt back and bring your head forwards. . . " It took five tries for Cole to be free of Adonin's car.

The moment Cole stood on his own two feet the fear crept back up on me. What if Adonin wanted to spend the night? Where would he sleep? The floor? I gave a mental head shake at this. There were too many holes in the boards and the walls for the shack's residents to sleep anywhere but huddled under the blankets on the bed. Wouldn't that be simply weird with the three of us - in my head I tired to arrange we three under the blankets. Adonin on one side of me with Cole on the other. Or maybe Adonin wanted to be in the middle. But Cole was armless, and needed the most care . . . Another headshake this time. I had to remind myself Cole was not armless. "Don't be silly." I said to myself.

"I'm not trying to." Cole answered with a dull voice. "My soul's been cut from me Andy. How else am I to feel but guilty? If I was stronger I could have stopped all this, I could have held onto you without . . . " He fell silent.

We watched Adonin watch the rotten shack, the empty coffin-crate just before our door and leaking water from every knot hole, split and crack. The ground beneath it was sodden wet. In some places it shimmered in the sunlight like a shallow drafted pond.

Adonin shoved his hands into his pockets. He returned to his car, his long legs working in a slow and steady gait. Had he been shorter, paler, less bulky with muscles, I could have sworn I was looking at Cole walk towards me. They had the same measured movement that was almost clumsy, the same way of holding their arms, and of doing it all without moving the trunks of their bodies.

As he crossed in front of the car Adonin said, "We won't stay here."

"I can't live with you." I answered. I had a horrid thought of sleeping in Adonin's super comfortable bed under his plush blankets and splendid pillows while Cole shivered through the night on our dumpy, lumpy mattress. I knew myself too well to lie about how the down blankets alone would be enough to seduce me into my new husband's arms. Given a chance Adonin would break his promise to honor the pirate's agreement of a year's patience.

Anger flashed in Adonin's eyes. He stopped on the other side of the engine hood, his face reddening up with temper. "You cannot stay here. You are my wife, you belong in my bed."

I scrambled for an answer. In the stretching silence I heard a tree branch creek. It heralded the low moans of the wind shuttling over and through the windows and the cracks of that damn building. It struck me then. Of course, the shack!

I shook off the fear of the moment, stiffened my back, and said, "You see that building? That is the building I am legally bound to. Remember that decree on your grand-mamma's death?" I had a smug moment at seeing Adonin's lips press thin at the reminder. It spurred me to say, "You are welcome to join Cole and I. Bring a sleeping bag."

"You are my wife, Miranda. Mine!" Adonin slapped a hand over his chest. "No longer may Cole sleep where you sleep. I will not allow it."

"Fine. Take him home. Help him, he is armless."

Adonin spat at this.

I said, "There must be someone here. I am the funeral. I will stay."

Cole, lovely former husband of mine, spoke up. He asked, "Do you even know what it means to be funeral? Andy, it's not -"

Adonin interrupted, "Her name is Miranda. Get used to it, Cole. She has the rights to money now, and is no longer the slovenly shamed one you dragged home on the ferries."

I sucked in my breath. I'd forgotten about my hair. But that was nothing compared to the way Cole's shoulders slumped. Or how he hung his head. Adonin's cut down was an effective gag.

I touched his shoulder. Cole pulled away. "Here, let's get you back into the car." I said, and added, "Front seat, Cole. It'll be easier for you to get out."

"Yes, thank you, Miranda. But I think I can handle it on my own this time." Cole did not look at me. It was a dance maneuver for him, a wiggle of his hips and shoulders and slant of his head until he was in the passenger seat.

Adonin said, "Stay here, Miranda. Do not let anyone in. I will be back at sunrise." Adonin's command came seconds before he was in the car and reached across to fasten Cole's seat belt. A heartbeat later the car started, was turned back onto the road, and drove off.

I stayed. I watched the dusty dun road until my legs began to ache and my stomach rumbled. I felt like a dumb dog waiting for her master to come back. Turning to the shack, walking across the long stretch of bald grassy yard felt a lot like failure. The odd irony of the moment was I'd fought hard for this nothing of a place, this empty place. I fought for Cole.

I stopped at the coffin-crate, reached to touch the side, when I saw again the water within. The worn wood box had been brought to us with chipped ice within. That was days ago. Sometime in these last days, somehow the ice had worked itself smooth. That is, I was no longer looking at a coffin-crate of ice chips. I was looking at a solid block of ice. Suspended in the middle was an antique ribbon of coins complete with frayed edges and a faded print.

All I could say, all that would escape, was a simple, "Huh."

How to Lose Control

2013-08-23T18:00:00.000-07:00

Book IV, Ch 1. - How To Lose Control (Part I)

I stayed to the left of my new husband, my eyes searching the growing crowd of locals for Cole. I found him in the shadow of the women’s hotel, speaking earnestly and gesturing with his hands. He hadn’t moved as such since becoming ‘armless’.

There were too many in the way to see who it was that turned Cole from pudgy and pale to lit and lively. As Cole’s conversation continued my frustration grew. Then he blushed. This wasn’t just any ‘read something kinky on the internet’ blush. I’d seen this color recently. The pink on his cheekbones and the tips of his ears were places I had pressed kisses to in the bathtub on our last night together. It left me feeling off-kilter, as if something greatly important had been snatched off.

“Well, you won.” Gina sniped, stepping from the congestion and into the way. She planted herself in front of me fully aware she was claiming my attention. Had she not spoken the rank cloud of perfume that wafted around her would have gained my attention. The sour musk went right up my nose and sat there.

I twisted my head away, desperate for fresh air. “I won?” I asked. For one heartbeat a blessed breeze brought order to my stymied senses. “In what world would you even think that?”

Adonin’s fingers curled around my elbow. I’d forgotten he was there! His fingers tightened, bruised. It was a position of control. Adonin was taking control. “Say hello to Gina and Phyllis. Make friends with them, wife, as they are my sisters and will be with us often.”

Gina said, “You’ve married Adonin. He is the head of the house. And now you are the head of we women.” Her eyes flashed her fury at me. Had Adonin not been beside me I doubt she would have kept her claws sheathed.

The crowds parted for a moment. I looked past Gina, but Cole was gone. Damnit!
Into my ear Adonin said, “You are my wife. You will obey.”

The insufferable, obtuse man! I pressed my lips thin. When Gina started up again I was in no mood to listen. I pushed past her and through the locals gathering to wish good lucks onto Adonin. Very few looked to me as I did so, their attentions on their hero, the newly married man.

Cole was not in the shadows. Nor was he behind the women’s hotel. And he was not inside. I emerged into the bright island sunlight. Shading my eyes with my hand I looked down the road leading to the shack. Had Cole started home?

“Wife.” Adonin, again. His hand wrapped around my elbow, again. His fingertips tightened. This time he did not relax his fingers. Adonin continued with the steady pressure. A quick look at his face showed he was not pleased. I’d wondered off without his go-ahead. Island wives did not as much sneeze without their husband’s permission.

It was a cross thought, a cruel thought. It was a thought borne from my frustration with the enforced marriage. It created darkness within that sniped at the world for the red-cheeked look on Cole’s face.

At once Adonin’s fingers lifted from my bruised skin. My freedom lasted only a hair’s breath. He slid his arm around my waist. He said, “These are my people. You will be kind to them.” He’d spoken low and under his breath, but with a smile on his face. Several of the older locals ‘awww’d this, and looked to each other with true smiles and happiness shinning from their eyes.

I tried pulling free. This time Adonin held tight. I said, “You cannot command friendship and kindness. That is not how life works. These are things that take -“

Cole emerged from the steps of the house next door. He adjusted his belt, checked his fly, and turned his head to grin at the woman standing behind him. He blew her a kiss. It was what lovers do. He’d never, not once, blown me a kiss.

Adonin hugged me to him. “You will kiss me, wife.”

To pique Cole I let Adonin’s lips brush my cheek. Before his face lifted I asked, “What are you going to do, new husband, when the old husband comes calling?” I meant these words only for his ears.

Gina’s blare of brassy laughter quieted the crowds. Damnit! I’d forgotten she was there, too! Though how with that stench, I’d later wonder. She said, “Oh, brother, this first day of your wedding is all wrong isn’t it? You’re courting her and she’s claiming you as second goods.”

Adonin snorted. He turned his head to study his sister. “This is not so.” There was a deep anger in his eyes. Cole would have simply stepped back. Not Adonin. I understood then that I’d forced him into promising a year of peace. Adonin, though, was an impatient man who did not like having to wait. He’d test me.

But Gina continued, “Not married five minutes and you’re already fighting. I wish you blessings, brother. She’s a bitch who is going to make you suffer.” There were gasps at these words. The locals looked to each other, looked to me, and quickly away. She linked arms with a gleeful Phyllis, and turned away. They were leaving.

My frustration with Cole, with the wedding, with being told to be nice to Gina of all people, boiled over. “You should know,” I said to Adonin, and loud enough for the crowd to hear, “That I will not allow her to work on the dead. They deserve far more respect than that port whore can give.”

The absolute silence of the locals, the boiling fury on Adonin’s face, Cole’s soft and disappointed, “Oh, Andy,” . . . I’d gone too far. I had overstepped my bounds. I’d ruined my second wedding day.

BOOK II: Gates

2013-06-14T18:04:00.000-07:00

Chapter 44

The matron snorted. "There's nothing beyond death. To give people the hope of more is to rob them. If you tell the dying there is more after, they don't make the same decisions before they die. They don't say good-bye like they should. They think they can return and make a difference. You should think on that."

We turned a corner and she slammed on the brakes. A crowd was gathered. This was no market gathering. This was the beginnings of a mob. A march. A protest of some type. Everyone looked angry. And yet. . . no banners, no cardboard signs, nothing being shouted.

The matron's hands shook on the steering wheel. "Out."

"What?" I was startled at the idea of walking through this to get to the palace.

"Out. Now. Take Joy with you. They need to see you both are well."

"But -"

"It's about hope, Andy." Her eyes blazed at me. "You have to give them something to believe in. Even if I don't believe in the afterlife, they need someone who does. Go. Show them you're taking care of their future."

I was expelled from the matron's car. Joy clutched my hand. "What do we do now, auntie?"

"We go to the palace. And we be polite."

At my words the crowd turned. A path formed. Murmurs of noise preceded us, and followed us. But those we passed were silent. Eerily silent like the in-between of last night. That is, the silence in between the haunted laughter. Only these weren't spirits playing tricks on my mind. These were living people watch me closely. Judging. Needing.

Book I: Family Love Truth

2013-06-05T20:55:00.000-07:00

Book I - F.L.T.

Chapter 1

We had the most amazing ride to the island. Though the swells were in the distance, large creatures rolling and tossing, the water seemed to smooth out closer to the ferry. Lots of people up on the decks had binoculars out. A few of the crew muttered comments back and forth. Some of the passengers were holding on to each other. A few times it was almost like looking at a herd of dark horses. Is herd the right word? No matter. I squinted at the oceanic scene, and discovered it was all too easy to imagine they waters were horses tossing their heads. There may have even been a rider.

I turned to Cole only to find he was, once again, buried nose-deep in his lap top. The wind ruffled his curly cap of hair. This is our conversation:

Me: "Wow! This is amazing. I've never been on a ferry ride before. Look at how wild the ocean is."

Cole: "Yeah. I saw the video of it this morning."

Me: "Or, you could look up right now."

Cole: "No, I'm okay. I'm watching shark sightings on my lap top. Actually, it's making me hungry."

Me: "Are there any sharks in these waters?"

Cole: "It's not the sharks you have to worry about. It's the souls of the uncrossed. This is the edge of the world, you know."

Me: "Erm. . . what?"

Cole: "This is the edge of the world. This is where souls gather until Kharon ushers them across. Don't get too close to the side of the boat. You might get dragged into the water."

Me: Laughing, "Sure. Okay."

Cole: For the first time he looked up. Whether from excitement or exhaustion there’s a touch of grey coloring his eyes to a washed out shade of khaki-brown. "No, babe. I'm deadly serious. Stay away from the water. There are dozens and dozens of reported drowning a year from people being pulled off the ferries. It's worse now, for some reason. The souls are restless. They're tired of waiting to go to the other side." He paused. "Shark would be a nice way to go. Quick. Easy. At least that way you'd know you were dead."