Harrison Investigations 2 Ghost Walk

 

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Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20

 

 

HEATHER

 

 

GRAHAM

 

 

GHOST WALK

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For Molly Bolden, with all the love in the world.

Also, for Bent Pages,

and the girls,

Kay Levine, Michelle Bergeron,

Bonnie Moore, Jolene Leonard and Betti Basile.

 

And for Connie Perry, Al, Scott, Stacy, Josh and Me Maw,

and the Ladies of Louisiana,

Brenda Barrett, Lorna Broussard,

Karin David Debby Quebedeaux and Mary Lomack.

 

There's nowhere like New Orleans,

but people always create the heart in the why we love a place!

 

 

The child awoke, not sure why. He could hear voices from the living room, but they were hushed, and though he immediately sensed a strangeness in their tone, he knew they hadn't been loud enough to wake him.

He lay there, wondering.

Then he felt it.

Exactly what "it" was, he didn't know. But it wasn't frightening. It was just a sense of being comforted, like a blanket, like the soft brush of a feather, entirely pleasant. He felt enveloped by gentleness, care and concern. Even strength.

All the different tales that had been told to him seemed to blend together. There was a mist in the room that echoed the stories of the Great Spirit. He thought he heard a cry on the air, barely discernible, a soft keening. Perhaps it was only in his mind, but it might have been the distant cry of the banshee.

He wasn't frightened.

Whatever it was… a mist, a shape, nothing concrete, but yet… it was there and it touched him, reassured him. The bathroom light was on; the little night-light was always kept on for him, even though he was five and already quite grown up.

But he knew that the mist or whatever it was had nothing to do with light or dark. It was simply there. It was a kiss on the forehead, a promise that everything was all right. It wasn't a something but a someone, he thought. Someone who loved him and needed him to know that he was loved in return.
Someone who had entered
…

The kiss again, and the feeling of love, somehow deeper than anything real. And there were words, but not words that could be heard. They were words he simply felt.

Another world…

When the door opened quietly, he lay still. He could hear the tears in his grandfather's voice as he whispered to his uncle, "He's sleeping. There's no need to wake him."

He wanted to rise, to wrap his arms around his grandfather, to tell him that it—whatever it was—was going to be okay. But something held him silent, eyes closed, pretending he was sleeping. They were whispering again.

He was a strong child. He would be fine.

But he was an only child. He would be so alone.

No. It would be all right. He would have the rest of his family. And he was one of a great Brotherhood. He would be all right.

He definitely didn't want anyone to know that he was awake, listening, and that in their words he had already grasped the sense of tragedy that was tearing them apart.

He was afraid that if he made the slightest sound, he might lose the precious sense of the light, the touch… the love that surrounded him.

Finally they left, the door closed.

 

It was in the morning that his grandfather spoke with him, stoic as always, firm in his belief in the Great Spirit, God, the Creator. There would always be an end to life here on earth, his grandfather told him, and it was how each man lived it that mattered, not the length of his lifespan. There was a world beyond, and it did not matter what a man called that world; it was simply there. His parents were gone from this place, and they could not be with him, not in the now. Nothing could hurt them anymore, ever. All they would know in the future would be the tender grace of their Maker. He—no matter what one chose to call him—would watch out for them.

His grandfather was wise, and yet the boy couldn't help but wonder if he himself wasn't more at peace than the man who would now raise him. His grandfather's eyes were filled with pain. He didn't fully feel the truth of his own words; he hadn't felt the gentle touch.

The boy slipped his hand into his grandfather's, then touched his face. His grandfather offered him the wisdom of the native peoples; his mother had brought him the fanciful mystery of a faraway country and the beliefs of the Old South. "It will be all right," he said simply, knowing his parents were still alive in his heart and would always watch over him from above.

"My boy." His grandfather wrapped him close.

Yes, the boy thought, his parents would be fine, in a world past all pain, all strife. But all the same, they were gone.

His father would never throw him up in the air again, play ball with him, teach him, tell him tales of the Great Spirit. And his mother would never match those tales with her own Gaelic whimsies. The soft tinkle of her laughter would not come again, nor would she tell him that he was a big boy, yet tuck him into bed anyway.

They would never offer him their deep, unconditional love again…

No, that wasn't true.

He knew that love as deep and abiding as theirs had been was eternal. And there was comfort in that, a comfort that could ease loss and pain.

But there were other elements in the world that were also eternal.

Just as there was love, there was hatred.

Just as there was gratitude, there was vengeance.

He believed that he had a gift, and that his gift was special. But it wasn't long before he learned that he was destined to face far more than the soft touch of love in the night.