The Haunted Halls (24 page)

Epilogue

Lee Buhl sat at his laptop smoking a cigarette in a crummy Econo Lodge outside his hometown of Malden, Massachusetts. It had been nearly a year since the incident at the Bruton Inn and his father’s subsequent passing from a sudden stroke two days afterward. He’d finally come back home to visit his father and his grandparents’ graves and see about putting a claim in on the old family ghost house. His mother, grateful to have her boy home again, wanted nothing to do with the haunted relic and said it would just be a matter of paperwork to get him the keys and the deed. He should be in by week’s end.

In his meditations following the happenings at the Bruton Inn, he’d made a promise to his grandparents to stay on the path of his heritage. Roots were important. Family was important; not to be forgotten or taken for granted. His days as Lee Buhl, “Urban Shaman,” were done. No more working lonely old crows for their savings; no more novelty merchandising or crappy volumes of half-believed haunting books. The true shaman practiced love and respect and harmony on a daily basis, on his own and out of the spotlight.

He’d not gone back to the scorched land off Route 5 that once held the foundation of the Bruton Inn. He did not care to.

Rhiannon had kept in touch on Facebook. He was proud to have made such a great friend and extremely impressed with the way she had entered the battlefield, slayed the demon, and pulled through what would have crippled many. Via email, Facebook messaging, an occasional phone call, and Skype, per her request, Lee had shown her the path to Shamanism.  She was a willing and open receptor taking his teachings and–with an amazing grace–applying them to a life in progress. She was attending school at Oswego in upper New York with a friend of hers. She studied Zoology, trying to put all of her focus on animals. She’d joked that she’d had enough of humans–too many skeletons in the closet, too many ghosts.  She’d encouraged Lee to write the book of all books and tell their story–so long as he promised to change her name to Alana or Crystal and pass it off as fictional.

He felt dirty even considering the book, especially in the wake of his spiritual rebirth. But eventually, through Rhiannon’s constant support, he finally put pen to paper and crafted his most honest and cathartic piece of writing to date. And his first official work of “fiction.” 

For once, he was going low key, choosing a small horror press to release
their
story, changing the names and places in the book as he’d promised Rhiannon (though he did cave to the will of his publisher who pushed for the “based off true events” tagline for the back jacket). 
Burning Darkness
was set for an October 2015 release.

Lee finished typing his message to Rhiannon filling her in on the details of the release. He sent it off on the wings of the web, closed the laptop and crushed out his last cigarette. He stood and stared out at the perfect clear night beyond the window of his hotel room. Even calm nights like this made him shiver if he stared into the darkness for too long. He stripped off his shirt and ran his fingers over the row of ribs that had taken nearly six months to fully heal.

After a moment, he lowered himself down onto another lumpy mattress, dropped his head to the pillow, and clenched the wooden pendent around his neck. He kissed the head of the Native figure, whispered a prayer of love and light, and closed his eyes.

His dreams were filled with blood-bathed mermaids and a lake of fire–a small penance for redemption. 

THE END