Page 42 of Dream Lake

“What do you make of it?” he heard Sam ask.

The ghost stared at the silk in Alex’s hand. “They gave them to American flyers to carry on missions over China,” he said. “In case the plane went down. The writing says, ‘This foreigner has come to help in the war effort. Soldiers and civilians should rescue, protect, and provide him with medical care.’ We kept them in our jackets—some people sewed ’em in.”

In a monotone, Alex heard himself explaining the blood chit to Sam.

“Interesting,” Sam said. “I wonder whose it was. I’d like to find out who owned that typewriter, but there’s no name in the case.”

Alex began to reach for the letter. He hesitated as if he were about to put his hand into an open flame. He didn’t want to read what was on that piece of paper. He had a feeling it had never been meant to be seen.

“Do it,” the ghost whispered, his face grim.

The paper was stationery-sized and brittle. It wasn’t signed. It was addressed to no one.

I hate you for all the years I’ll have to live without you. How can a heart hurt this much and still go on beating? How can I feel this bad without dying from it?

I’ve bruised my knees with praying to have you back. None of my prayers have been answered. I tried to send them up to heaven but they’re trapped here on earth, like bobwhites beneath the snow. I try to sleep and it’s like I’m suffocating.

Where have you gone?

Once you said that if I wasn’t with you, it wouldn’t be heaven.

I can’t let go of you. Come back and haunt me. Come back.

Alex couldn’t bring himself to look at the ghost. It was bad enough to stand at the outer edge of what the ghost felt, trapped in the nimbus of a grief that felt worse than anything he’d ever experienced. It was like being injected with a slow-acting poison.

“I think a woman wrote it,” he heard Sam say. “It sounds like a woman, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Alex replied with difficulty.

“But why was it typed? You’d expect something like that to be handwritten. I wonder how the guy died.”

More sadness, coming in aching waves from the ghost. Alex had to clench his fist to keep from striking out at him, even though it would have been like flailing at mist. Anything to make it stop.

“Cut it out,” Alex muttered, his throat tight.

“I can’t,” the ghost said.

“Cut what out?” Sam asked.

“Sorry,” Alex said. “I’ve gotten into a habit of talking to myself. I meant to ask, can I take this with me?”

“Sure, I’ve got no—” Sam broke off and looked at him closely. “Holy crap. Are you misting up?”

With horror, Alex became aware that his eyes were watering. He was about to start bawling. “Dust,” he managed to say. Turning away, he added in a muffled voice, “I’m going upstairs. Work on the attic.”

“I’ll come up and help you.”

“No, I’m on it. You sweep up down here. I need some private time.”

“You get a lot of private time already,” Sam said. “Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have some company.”

That almost provoked a laugh from Alex.“I haven’t been alone for months,”he wanted to tell his brother. “I’m being haunted.”

He could feel the weight of Sam’s gaze.

“Al… you okay?” his brother asked.

“I’m just great,” Alex said viciously, heading out of the room.

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