Page 48 of Whispers of Helena
“Fuck.”The word slips out of me, carried on a shaky breath. My eyes stay fixed on the figure retreating toward the trees. Caroline. Or was it Helena? Visions of my dream that night on the pastures come rushing back. The thought slices through my mind like a jagged edge, and for the first time tonight, doubt takes hold. Moonlight and shadows can be deceptive, can’t they? Maybe the lack of sleep, or the crushing insistence of guilt, has finally splintered my perception. Maybe I’m imagining all of this.
She vanishes into the tree line, her nightgown disappearing like smoke into the dark. My legs refuse to move, locked in place by the specter of what I’ve just seen. I’ve only dreamed of Caroline, but now…now her voice rings vividly in my ears. Its distinct tone. Its lilting pitch. Ithasto be her.
Was she the one speaking to me all this time? Guiding me in the quiet hours of my unraveling? And if it was her, does that mean it wasreal?
A cold shiver runs down my spine, freezing me where I stand, as if the intensity of her presence has pinned me to the earth. Then I feel it: the unsettling shift in my grasp. The small kit in my hand seems impossibly heavy and impossibly light all at once.Before I can react, it slips through my fingers, falling soundlessly to the grass.
I stare at my fist, still curled tightly, still holding the ghost of the kit. My knuckles ache from gripping nothing, my mind struggling to register that it’s gone, that I’ve dropped it. My breath hitches. The cold settles deeper into my chest. I haven’t had this trouble since the time shortly after Caroline passed.
"Focus," I mutter under my breath, as though the command alone could steady the fragile connection between me and the physical world.
I crouch slowly, careful to keep my trembling hand steady. The kit lies just within reach, its cold metal shining in the dim light. I stretch out my fingers, willing them to obey, to take hold and not betray me again.
The moment my fingertips brush the kit, I feel the tenuousness of the contact. The slippery sensation that comes just before something vanishes beneath my touch. My hand tightens instinctively, but the kit slips again, falling into the grass with a dull thud.
“Damn it,” I hiss through gritted teeth, forcing a deep breath into my lungs. I close my eyes, trying to summon the resolve to try again.
When I reach for it this time, I let my hand hover above it for a moment, as if the kit might disappear completely if I act too rashly. Slowly, I close my fingers around it. This time, the connection holds. A surge of relief washes over me, though it does nothing to calm the racing of my heart.
Rising, I move carefully, guarding the kit as though even the slightest movement might cause it to dissolve. Every movement back to standing feels like balancing on a knife’s edge. My hand shakes as I tuck the kit back into my pocket, the tinny scrape jarring me back to reality.
The sound shouldn’t feel so loud, but tonight it echoes in my ears, reminding me of everything I’m too frayed to handle. I squeeze my pocket to reassure myself that the kit is still there, still tangible. It shouldn’t feel like a victory, but tonight, it does.
Glancing back at Bennett’s house, I know I can’t do this.
When I deal with him, I have to be unwavering, attentive. There’s no room for distraction, no allowance for doubt or hesitation. And right now, I’m drowning in both.
I drag my hands down my face, pressing my fingers hard into my skin, as though I could scrub away the images burned into my mind. The unease clings to me like a second skin, no matter how hard I try to shake it off. My breaths come too fast, shallow and uneven, the memory of her, ofCaroline, still suffocating me.
She looked so real.Tooreal. That light in her eyes, the soft cadence of her voice. I know it wasn’t something conjured from memories or exhaustion. I’d know the ghost of my wife anywhere. Wouldn’t I? Yet, it defies logic, a thing my mind cannot reconcile.
My chest feels tight, my ribs struggling to contain the tide swelling within me. I force a deep breath into my lungs, hold it there until the pressure almost becomes unbearable, then slowly exhale. It doesn’t bring calm, not entirely, but it’s enough to stop my hands from trembling. Barely. I repeat the action, willing myself to regain control.
But her face keeps flashing behind my closed eyes, causing my nerves to seize. That glimpse of her, or whatever cruel phantom wore her likeness, felt like standing too close to an inferno, all-consuming and impossible to escape.
The pounding of my heart is deafening, the heavy thrum of blood in my ears drowning out the world. I open my eyes and shake my head, hoping to banish her image, but it lingers like the fading imprint of lightning against the night sky. My throat tightens.
Was it really her? Could it have been her all this time? That voice, haunting my nights and pulling me back from the edge so many times. Was that my Caroline? The thought fills me with equal parts yearning and terror, twisting my insides into knots. Am I being haunted, or am I finally losing what little is left of my mind?
I feel raw and exposed, every step back toward Shadow like trudging through knee-deep quicksand. My legs feel like lead, andmy body fights every inch of movement. Yet, instinct carries me forward, my only tether to reality the solid presence of my horse waiting patiently in the yard.
When I finally reach Shadow, I hook my foot into the stirrup and swing into the saddle. The familiar presence of my horse should ground me, but it doesn’t. My chest seems hollow now, a space carved out by the unanswered questions and the impossible truth I’m too afraid to name.
I grip the reins, my knuckles going white, and glance at Bennett’s window once more. The house is dark, its silent facade offering nothing, but I can’t shake the oppressive feeling that whateversheis, had been there, hadseenme.
“Am I being haunted by memories?” I whisper hoarsely, barely audible over the night wind. “Or am I losing my mind?”
The words drift in the air as I tug at the reins. Shadow obeys, turning us back toward the trail. The familiar rhythm of his hooves against the ground fills the space where my thoughts run wild and relentless. I ride into the darkness; the question echoing within me.
Black
Helena
By night on my bed I sought him whom my soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him not.
Song of Solomon 3:1
I race against the clock,desperate to return Merriweather to her stall and myself under the covers before I’m discovered. The night air bites at my cheeks as we reach the stable yard, my pulse pounding with the rhythm of her hooves. Mid-trot, I swing off her back, stumbling before steadying myself and guiding her into her stall.
