Page 36 of After Life
“Oh lord. Please tell me I’m Darcy and not Daniel.”
“Definitely Darcy,” he agreed, and tugged his clothes on quickly so we could kiss in the open study.
“This is not the place for that,” Sandra snapped from the open door. “Respect this space if not me, damn it!”
She pulled the study door closed behind her and, a few moments later, the sound of clattering and slamming pots came from the kitchen.
“What,” Oscar said slowly, “the hell was that about?”
I gave him a brief recap of the odd encounter outside the bedroom, wondering if maybe she’d overheard my call. He listened, his frown growing deeper with each passing word it seemed. “Maybe she is really socially awkward,” I allowed, “but I’ve been around dozens, if not more, socially awkward people in my life—hell, I am one—and the encounters have never left me feeling threatened like that one did.”
Oscar shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going on but I’m not feeling great about staying,” he admitted. “I’m sorry. I know you planned this getaway for us and—”
“And we can have a do-over later, somewhere maybe a little less... fraught. I’ll feel better when we’re back on the mainland.”
He nodded. “I doubt we’ll be able to leave with the hurricane though.”
“No, not till it passes. And even then, only if it’s not done too much damage. If the dock is trashed...”
Oscar huffed a tired sigh. “My dearest, we are hell on hotels.”
Chapter 7 — Oscar
Ray-Don arrived just after we’d finished dinner. He pounded on the door to be heard over the storm, not letting up even once. When I opened it, he startled. “Expecting someone else. You look... different,” he said distractedly. “Like you changed up something. But”—he shrugged— “it’s been a long day. My eyes are tired, ain’t what they used to be. I need to close up the hurricane shutters. Might be some bangin’ sounds but it’s just me. Didn’t want to scare y’all.” He held up a metal toolbox and gave it a rattle. “You got supplies? It isn’t supposed to be too bad but if we’re cut off from the mainland, that means no grocery runs for a day or two and I’m already closed up for the duration.”
“We’re fine,” I said, hoping it was true. “Um how do you know it’s not going to be a bad one?”
“‘S only a cat two,” Ray-Don sniffed. “Gonna go right over us, if we’re lucky. This island’s been here forever. It ain’t goin’ anywhere.” He paused, then grinned. “We might, but Broken Palm will be fine.”
He cackled, all too pleased with himself as he trundled down the porch to start on the set of wooden shutters I’d taken to be aesthetic only.
Julian tugged me back into the house, closing the door against the spitting rain and, after brief hesitation, turning the lock. “We need to check the supplies, make sure they’re actually useful.”
I followed, unable to shake the feeling of being watched. “I know you’re here,” I murmured as Julian rummaged in the hall closet, pulling out a large plastic tub marked Hurricane Supplies—Box 1 in black marker letters.
“What?”
“Sorry, talking to someone else.”
Julian looked up at me, frowning. “Anyone I need to worry about?”
I shook my head. No one he needed to worry about, no. Julian stared at me an extra moment, then resumed his rummaging.
A soft sigh and the sound of voices murmuring teased me, pulled me down the foyer until I reached the door to what looked like an office, but an old one. Nothing modern about it: an old desk that probably weighed more than any car I’d ever been in, dark bound books lining the walls, a blotter with yellowed paper, and an actual ink well with a nibless pen took up most of the room. It smelled of dust, age, and old paper with the barest hint of damp and some dusty floral. The voices, though, were coming from everywhere in the empty room. “Hello,” I murmured. “I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but you’re a bit loud.”
The voices stopped but a cold almost electric sensation spread up my legs, around my torso, settling behind my neck. A funny pressure wrapped around my head, and I had the distinct sensation of being smothered. No, I realized. Of being examined somehow. The pressure wasn’t painful or predatory, more... curious, I thought. I didn’t have Ezra’s empathic abilities, so much of the nuance was lost on me, but the way the energy moved, gently pulsing and sliding, was almost calming. After a moment, it eased and the soft murmur of voices resumed.
I’d been dismissed, found uninteresting.
Fine, two (or more, as the case may be) could play at that game. My pendulum was upstairs, in our room, and I was reluctant to leave lest the spirits move on, so I walked to the desk, listening as the voices grew more agitated in tone. They were muffled, as if far away, the words indistinct but the rhythm suggesting an urgent conversation of some sort. The pen beside the inkwell wasn’t just nibless, it was broken. And the well was dry as a bone.
“Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking,” I muttered. “A still-usable well in a three hundred and something year old house?”
A soft click sounded and movement caught my eye at the corner of the desk. A generic ballpoint pen, the sort businesses by in gross-size bundles, was rolling toward me. White with a maroon cap, the side of the pen was emblazoned with the name and address of the Tibbins Quay Adventure Diving—Specializing in Shipwreck Tours! See The ONLY Natural Reef in the Carolinas! “Thank you,” I said, brandishing the pen at seemingly thin air. “I’m guessing you already know what I’m about to do.”
The voices fell quiet again, but the presence of the spirits were more palpable now. If I opened my awareness just a bit more, I had the impression of them standing closer. Indistinct bodies, three or maybe four spirits, playing at being casual as they paid attention to what I was doing. “You should feel honored,” I said with a small smile. “I don’t usually do this, but things are very strange here and I’d like to know more. And I feel like you’ll give me a more honest answer than Ms. Cochrane might.” Popping the cap off the pen, I took a moment to smooth the blank blotter page, age making the paper crinkle loudly in the office. “You don’t need to try to take over my body,” I warned. “Merely guide my hand. You’ll find I’m very amenable to communication. I’m one of the lucky living who can hear, see, and interact with you, and I have spent my life trying to help spirits. So, know that I will not be afraid of you. I will not try to harm you in any way.” I took up the pen as if ready to write, then held it poised over the paper.
And I waited.
