《A Ghost's Story》


 Chapter 1 - A Ghosts Story

    The baby stopped breathing. Her small mouth gaped open like a fish floundering at the bottom of a boat. Leaning over her crib, I searched through my memories for an innocent enough memory that would heal instead of damage her injured soul.


    A moment later, the memory of a summer day floated up to the surface of my mind. I could feel the warmth of the sun on my skin. It was so real I could almost believe I was still alive again.


    I bent down and kissed Renee¡¯s forehead, breathing out the memory as I did so. I concentrated on maintaining that memory as it washed over her skin. Then, I waited as the memory faded away, leaving her untouched.


    Fudge. It should have worked, I thought. I can¡¯t afford to lose any more memories. It better work this time.


    Still standing over the crib, I dug deeper into my memories, pushing aside the darker ones that kept trying to surface. After a few seconds, I managed to uncover one I could give my granddaughter.


    It was a memory of when I was a kid, floating on a raft with the sun on my skin. I could smell fresh-cut grass and heard a song playing on the radio. I held onto the memory and then exhaled once more. This time, my breath seeped into her like rainwater into parched, dry earth.


    Come on, I thought, willing her to live. You can do it.


    I knew that I couldn¡¯t do anything more for now so I looked down at her still form while I prayed that some guardian angel would descend and heal Renee. I knew that wasn¡¯t going to happen, but I couldn¡¯t help myself and prayed anyway. After that, I watched to see if I would have to sacrifice another memory to keep her alive.


    I sighed, shaking my head. I was so tired. Between my wife and my granddaughter, I wasn¡¯t sure how long I could keep doing what I had been doing. It was difficult enough to survive in Acedia already without giving away memories. I could already tell I was getting weaker.


    It¡¯s ironic, I thought. Every spirit needs something that motivates them. Unlike others though, my motivation is making things worse.


    Spirits were basically memories and desire. If a spirit didn''t hold onto their memories, they would slowly fade away. And forgetting was oblivion. In Acedia, a relentless spiritual erosion continuously gnawed away at unguarded memories. As for passions, they soon turned into preferences, which were quickly forgotten.


    Renee¡¯s tiny hand twitched, abruptly snapping me out of my thoughts. Her lips parted as she took a shuddering breath. Relief crashed over me like a wave when a chubby little finger uncurled from a small fist. Her eyelids fluttered open.


    Feeling drained, I knelt down. I watched as color gradually returned to her face. Her blue eyes seemed to meet my own through the slats of her crib before they slowly closed and she fell into an exhausted sleep.


    I sighed, my gaze still lingering on Renee¡¯s sleeping form. Her breathing was steady for the moment, but I knew it wouldn¡¯t last for too long. My memories could only do so much to heal whatever had damaged her soul.


    My intervention was a temporary measure. Each memory I shared with her was like trying to patch the biggest leak in a vessel riddled with holes. Eventually, her essence would seep away. I¡¯d bought her time, but that was all.


    After a few moments, I stood up and looked around the room, soaking in the memories. What I had done had taken a lot out of me. Because of this, I needed to strengthen the memories I still had, or at least make new ones. Afterall, spirits were nothing without memories.


    Renee¡¯s brother slept soundlessly in the opposite corner, unaware of how close his sister had come to death. Gazing at Nicholas, I resisted the impulse to slip into the boy¡¯s mind to discover what dreams waited to claim the toddler tonight. I quickly brushed such dangerous thoughts aside.


    I didn¡¯t want to save one child, only to endanger the other. I wished that I could continue infusing her with memories to heal her soul, but I knew that wasn¡¯t going to work. I had to be careful. Young souls were especially fragile.


    Above both children, teddy bears holding heart-shaped balloons were painted at the top edge of each wall. Although they had faded with time, they were still my favorite feature of the house. My wife and I had painted them before Elizabeth was born. I looked at one wall in particular.


    I guess you were right again, I thought. I had been so sure that we would paint over the teddy bears when Elizabeth got older that I hadn¡¯t taken my time like Carey. She had slowly painted the teddy bears along one wall while I painted the other three. Of course, being seven months pregnant must have slowed her down.


    Another thing that hadn¡¯t changed was the presence of small stuffed animals. They smelled like baby powder and were scattered throughout the room. It reminded me of a memory I had almost forgotten about. Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    We had a claw machine at the grocery store where I used to work. Whenever I noticed a stuffed animal I could definitely grab, I would give it a try. Needless to say, I ended up littering the floor of our nursery with a layer of stuffed animals. It looked like Sarah was doing the same thing for her children.


    I took in everything, reinforcing my remaining memories. They were all that allowed emotions to survive. In turn, emotions were the anchor that kept their memories from fading into oblivion.


    Because of this, I listened intently to the lullaby playing in an old CD player that I had given to Sarah years before I died. It was Brahms¡¯ Cradle Song. I often played it for Sarah and Elizabeth when they were babies. Standing there, I listened as the song began to tug at the recesses of my thoughts, dredging up old memories that I would rather not relive.


    Before the memory became too strong, I quickly left the room, I left their room and moved toward the front of the house. Along the way, I noticed that the furniture hadn¡¯t changed much. That was surprising since most of them were hand-me-downs that I had given them in the first place. They had simply moved the furniture back in after they inherited my house.


    Suddenly, I realized something. Although I hadn¡¯t noticed it before, they must have sold my truck. I hadn¡¯t seen it the last few times I came to help Renee. For some reason, that bothered me a little.


    I suppose I can¡¯t blame them though. It was old with a lot of miles on it long before I died, I thought.


    Ignoring my disappointment, I looked at the sleeping father of the two children. I still wondered what Sarah saw in him. Then again, I often found it difficult to believe she was old enough to be a mother. I suppose I should have been happy that she found someone.


    Finding the ¡°right now¡± person was often difficult enough, I thought. Considering I traded my life for his, he better be the ¡°right¡± person.


    The ever-present dark rings around their eyes spoke more of their situation than any words that could be said. Those dark rings tied them together more closely than their wedding rings. Lines of grief had already left its mark upon them. I sighed and then shook my head, wanting to leave before Sarah returned.


    Was I right to prolong Renee''s life, knowing that one day her soul would inevitably reject my borrowed memories? Yet even as the question formed, I knew the answer. Every day was precious. It would also give me a chance to discover a way to heal the baby¡¯s soul.


    Trying to ignore those thoughts, I pushed through the locked front door, surprised by how much effort it took to do such a simple task. Interacting with the living was not only difficult, but it was also forbidden. I didn¡¯t really care, though.


    I had followed the rules when I was alive and gained nothing for my efforts. I¡¯d seen so many examples of people doing something unethical and profiting from it while I did what was right and struggled. Now that I was dead, breaking a few rules meant very little to me.


    Stepping into the night, I walked silently down the driveway toward the street. To distract myself, I looked around at the surrounding mists. I had  gotten used to Acedia¡¯s eternal haze long ago. It was perpetually cloaked in a veil of fog. It wasn¡¯t like fog from the living world, though. There was no moisture in the air, only a biting cold that numbed my skin.


    Acedia had many names. Perhaps that was because it was always changing. I could be standing in the crumbling ruins of an abandoned building one moment. Then everything could change. I might find myself in a new home. Or it could disappear altogether. Eventually though, it would return to whatever condition it was in real life.


    Acedia was a place where everything was an illusion. Reality changed without warning. It was as if the environment was shaped by old memories. Time and space were torn to shreds. It was as if the pieces had been put back together but didn¡¯t fit correctly any longer.


    Still, at least I¡¯m not in Hell, I consoled myself. Not yet, anyway. Unfortunately, I knew that I would have to go back there.


    After passing through the gates of Hell, it was difficult for visitors to leave. Even if they managed to escape, they would eventually be drawn back. As for those spirits sentenced to Hell, they had very little hope of escaping, even temporarily. As for myself, I would inevitably be pulled back into Hell. It was like a black hole. That was the price I pay in order to help my wife.


    As for the sounds, I actually would have preferred an oppressive silence instead of what I had to listen to. Most of the time, it was like a white noise. Other times, I could hear whispers and muttering, too faint to make sense out of. Every now and then, other sounds would occur. Often, these sounds had something to do with the spirit hearing them.


    Sometimes, I wondered if Acedia was actually sentient. This belief was strengthened when I heard a distant siren echoing in the depths of the fog. I could feel it tugging at my memories. The sirens were stirring up thoughts that I had no desire to relive. Despite having a good life, a few things happened to me over the years that left scars which persisted even after death.


    Thinking about this, I glanced down at my left hand. Spirits often assumed forms that reflected how they saw themselves. With me, it was no different. Although the wedding ring was completely cosmetic and didn¡¯t actually exist, I could still feel the weight of it on my shattered ring finger. It never recovered after the surgery, at least not completely. Scars from the operation had left it weak and barely functional.


    I guess I shouldn¡¯t be surprised, I thought. That night shattered me. In more ways than one.


    Realizing what was happening, I quickly tried to think of something different, anything different. I tried to push the memories back. However, they clung on stubbornly. Soon, they began to overwhelm me. It was going to happen whether I wanted it to or not.


    I hate this feeling, I managed to think, still trying to resist.


    While I still had some power, I concentrated on the sirens, imagining them as tornado sirens instead of police or ambulance sirens. I could already feel one particular memory surging up, pushing aside other memories. As the memory crashed over me, I smiled.


    At least it wasn¡¯t the night when the world I knew died. Instead, it was the night that I died.

 Chapter 2 - The Tornado Siren

    A muffled tornado siren wailed in the distance. I almost didn¡¯t hear it at first. However, that was because my head was halfway submerged in the water in my bathtub. For a moment, I considered ignoring the warning. Usually, I would. If Carey was here, she would have made me get out of the bathtub and hide in the walk-in closet. However, she wasn¡¯t, so I usually didn¡¯t care.


    What I did care about was the fact that the siren was growing more annoying every second. I wanted to stay under the surface and shut out the world. As I lay there, my mind couldn¡¯t stay still. I found myself remembering the first night I shared a bathtub with my wife.


    I could still remember her nervous laugh. It had been so awkward. Even though I had been much thinner back then, I was still over six feet tall. Considering the small size of the bathtub, it had been quite crowded with both of them in the tub. She hadn¡¯t even let me keep the lights on. Still, it was one of my favorite memories.


    The shriek of the siren clawed its way through my recollection, snapping me back to the present. I closed my eyes, sighing. After years of dealing with too much, I¡¯d learned that I could ignore a lot. I¡¯d ignored far worse things than a storm warning in my time.


    I closed my eyes for a moment and then reluctantly decided to get out. I had been in the bathtub long enough anyway. Water sloshed over the edge of the tub as I sat up.


    I probably should have drained more water, I thought. It probably had something to do with the fact that I rarely drained enough cold water before adding more hot water. That meant the water was always dangerously close to overflowing.


    Sighing, I stood up. Then I reached for the towel I had thrown over the shower curtain. I really do sigh too much, I thought. Although I didn¡¯t want to admit it, I missed my wife asking me what was wrong every time I sighed.


    Of course, I always told her there was nothing wrong. She didn¡¯t need to know that I would buy the clearance bread and use ketchup packets to eat ketchup sandwiches at work. She also didn¡¯t need to know that I hated talking to people at work, especially when they refused to give me the raises they had promised.


    Even speaking with Carey had been difficult for me. Just having her by my side was more than enough for me. Despite the fact that she had died thirty years ago, I still missed her. Although she had loved Elizabeth more than me, she was still the one I had loved the most.


    I reached down and pulled out the bathtub stopper before drying off. I shivered as I carefully stepped out of the tub, although not before throwing the towel onto the floor so that I could step onto it. I was quite accident prone and didn¡¯t want to take any chances. I didn¡¯t want to have another operation.


    Don¡¯t want to step on this, I thought as I picked the Kindle up from the floor and put it on the sink. Then I grabbed my robe off the hook before opening the bathroom door. After shivering again, I quickly pulled on the robe. It had been a gift from Sarah last Christmas. The memory made me smile.


    I had to admit, things certainly had changed since I was my daughter¡¯s age. When I was her age, I kept dozens of fantasy books in the bathroom so that I could pick which one I would read next after finishing the first book. The Kindle made reading in the bathtub much easier.


    I wonder if she would use the Kindle if I gave it to her. It¡¯s not like I use it as much as I used to, I thought. I wonder what she is doing right now.


    Although she was old enough to be on her own, the habit of worrying about her hadn¡¯t worn off. Especially considering her nervous nature. There was a good chance she¡¯d call any minute just to hear another reassuring voice besides that of her boyfriend. I could picture her dialing my number while picking away at her eyebrow.


    And I thought I had issues, I consoled myself. However, after I started to worry about her, I couldn¡¯t stop. Sarah still wasn¡¯t good at dealing with even a little stress.


    Hopefully, her boyfriend would be able to help her stay calm. I doubted it though. For a deputy, he was almost as skittish as she was. In fact, I wouldn¡¯t be surprised if he made things worse.


    Then again, maybe I am wrong. I barely know the boy, I thought. Sarah¡¯s boyfriend barely registered on my radar. What was his name again? Although I probably should have felt bad for not remembering, I just didn¡¯t care.


    In fact, she might not even call. She might just send a text message. That was usually how we communicated. Because of this, I looked around for my phone.


    Did I leave it on? I wondered. Is it even charged? A minute later, I found it under a plate with dried ketchup on it. After glancing at the charge, I was amazed to discover it still had almost a quarter of the battery left. As for the plate, I left it where it was.


    I was curious to see if she had left a message. It would probably say something like, Hi, Dad, just checking in. Are you okay? This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    Surprisingly, there was no message. I frowned. I really had expected her to send me something. She was an obsessive worrier. She was more skittish than that dog Troll had gotten rid of while Sarah was at school.


    I¡¯d spent days making an amazing doghouse for that dog, only for Troll to pretend that the dog got out and never came back. I still wasn¡¯t sure exactly what happened.


    Did she sell the dog? Did she just open the gate and shoo him away? I supposed it was possible she gave him away, but I doubted it. What was that dog¡¯s name? Usually, I didn¡¯t care about such things. However, I was curious.


    I resisted the impulse to open my laptop and search for one of the pictures. The one reason I didn¡¯t was because I knew it would take forever to locate the files. Anyway, it wasn''t the time to search through my computer to find either the ¡°lost dog¡± poster or the picture I had taken when I built his doghouse.


    I had even put a framed picture of Sarah inside the dog house so that he could see her while she was at school. It was one of the few rare times I had to call in a favor and ask someone to help me move the dog house to my old house. I had been so desperate to leave that Troll that I had given up the house my grandmother had bought for me.


    Marrying her had been the biggest mistake in my life. The only good thing that woman ever did was to give birth to Sarah. However, she had even managed to screw that up. I still wondered what Troll had done to Sarah. However, she never told me, or the psychiatrist.


    Unfortunately, I knew that I would probably never find out. Sighing, I stared at the phone, almost as if I was waiting for a message to miraculously appear. Finally, I set it aside and got dressed.


    I hadn¡¯t spoken to Sarah in a few weeks. However, that was normal. We rarely even texted each other. She was probably sitting in her boyfriend¡¯s storm shelter. For some reason though, I felt that I should check on her.


    Unsure whether I should call, text, or go see her. I took a second to look around the house. I wanted to see if there was anything else I could give to Sarah when I dropped off the Kindle.


    Then I frowned. I hadn¡¯t really realized just how much I had given to Sarah. I didn¡¯t have much left to give. About the only furniture left in the house was the bed and a cube organizer. I didn¡¯t even have a recliner or a couch.


    Then again, she probably had everything she needed. I should know, I thought, chuckling at how empty the house had become. I¡¯ve given her just about everything.


    Thinking about this, I walked toward the window while I waited for her call or message. Pushing aside the drapes, I looked into the darkness outside. The siren was starting to get on my nerves. Annoyed, I glanced at the phone and frowned.


    Although it was completely different from ambulance and police sirens, it was still bothering me. I hadn¡¯t dreamed about that night in weeks. I was certain that would change though. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes before murmuring, ¡°Peace, serenity.¡± After that, I took a deep breath before opening my eyes.


    Then I checked for a text message. Seeing nothing, I thought, I guess I was wrong. I really thought she would contact me.


    Not having anything to sit on in the living room, I went back to the bedroom. Then I sat on the edge of the bed. I stared at the phone for several minutes before I sighed and stood up once again. Then I walked back to the living room and looked from my phone to the open window.


    I tried to ignore the feeling that something was wrong. I didn''t need to go rushing over to her house. She was safe with her boyfriend beside her. Unfortunately, for some reason, I didn¡¯t believe that to be true.


    It won¡¯t hurt to drive by her home just to make sure everything is alright, I thought. Afterall, it was windy and they did live in a trailer.


    Rain began to hit the window harder as the wind picked up speed. She''s fine, I told myself. She¡¯s a grown woman who has a storm shelter. Well, actually, I guess it isn¡¯t hers since it was the boyfriend¡¯s trailer.


    It¡¯s actually not that bad, I tried to convince myself. I hadn¡¯t been inside their home yet, but it did look okay from the outside. At least the previous owners built a storm shelter.


    I closed my eyes and took another deep breath. Don¡¯t judge, I reminded myself.


    Then I went to the closet and grabbed my old leather trench coat. Mimi had given it to me when I was around eighteen years old. Although it was showing some signs of age, it still worked just as well as when she bought it for me.


    After she gave it to me, I remembered watching my shadow as I walked. I felt so cool wearing it, especially at night. Even years later, the thrill remained. This was especially true after The Crow comic book came out. Until then, I had always imagined I was a vampire.


    Snorting, I dismissed those thoughts as my eyes flickered to the window again. Although I couldn¡¯t see a lot in the darkness, I could hear the tree branches creaking outside my window. I smiled and gave myself a nod of approval since I had cut down all the dead trees before I retired. Having a tree fall on my house once was more than enough.


    Part of me was still amazed that I had actually been able to retire. Actually, I¡¯m surprised that I didn¡¯t die long ago, I thought. It seemed like everyone else in my family had died early deaths.


    How depressing, I thought as I walked to the kitchen and picked up my truck keys from the top of the refrigerator. Then I glanced around before heading toward the door. Then I paused and wondered, Why did I bother looking around?


    Pushing aside such thoughts, I opened the door. The wind hit me first and cold hit me. Although the trench coat was waterproof, it wasn¡¯t much help against the cold. Pulling the coat tighter, I started walking toward my truck.

 Chapter 3 - Into the Storm

    When the cold rain slapped me against my face, I started to jog. Despite this, I was still soaking wet by the time I climbed into the cabin. I was a little disappointed that I was out of breath. I could even feel a twinge of pain on the side of my chest.


    That will teach me to lay in bed all day, I thought. Maybe I should go see my doctor again. Sarah would certainly ask. She had the last few times I had seen her.


    I do need more cholesterol medicine, I admitted to myself. I hadn¡¯t taken the medicine in months. Then again, maybe I didn¡¯t need it since I wasn¡¯t eating as much junk any more.


    Too bad Mimi isn¡¯t around to see me, I thought.


    My grandmother would always tell me I needed to gain weight. Actually, everyone told me. Years later, after seeing an old picture of myself, I realized they had been right. I used to be just skin and bones. In fact, I looked like a smiling skeleton.


    Actually, I should also probably go visit a dentist as well, I thought. Then I shook my head and snorted.


    When I first left home, I had gone fifteen years without going to a dentist and I had been fine. Although both sides of my family had cancer, heart disease, and Alzheimer''s, at least we had died with great teeth and a full head of hair.


    Besides, I¡¯m doing better than my truck, I thought, annoyed that it took three tries before the truck started.


    I took one final look at my house through the broken front windshield. I still couldn¡¯t quite believe I had lived in a house long enough to pay it off. My grandmother had paid the down payment for it when I was in college. After my divorce, it became my ex wife''s house. Then, a few years later, I bought it from her when she couldn¡¯t afford the payments any longer.


    Just thinking about Troll still was enough to put me in a bad mood. The only thing that made it more bearable was the fact that she had eventually moved in with a drunk who kept throwing her out of the house. Part of me was still surprised that any man would want her. Then again, she was an amazing liar.


    Sarah had told me stories about how she would set up dates with men with no intention of showing up. Other times she would just go for the free food. Then again, after some of the other things Sarah had told me about, I hoped she was miserable.


    I still felt guilty. I wish I had known what life had been like for her. Although I eventually filed for custody, I still wished I had done so sooner. Squeezing the steering wheel tightly, I took a deep breath.


    Strange how things come around again sometimes, I thought. Too bad karma is a fickle bitch.


    Of course, that reminded me of my daughter again. When we were crossing a stream at the park one day, Sarah fell into the water. Trying to lighten the mood, I tried to act like I thought it was funny, only to immediately fall and crush one of the joints on my pinkie finger. I almost lost it.


    ¡°Ignorant idiots,¡± I muttered. Although I did wait a couple of days to visit the hospital, the doctors were far from helpful. They were even less helpful than when I took my grandmother to the hospital.


    They said my pinkie was fractured and dislocated. They didn¡¯t even explain anything else except that I needed to see a specialist. Not sure why they left it dislocated, I had tried to put it back into place myself.


    It would have saved me a lot of pain if they had actually mentioned the reason my pinkie was dislocated was because the joint bones were shattered, not just fractured. It would stay that way until I had reconstructive surgery. The specialist said I was lucky not to have lost the finger.


    Looking down at my left hand, I realized if there was a curse on my family, it was definitely after my left hand. Two of my fingers, the pinkie and the ring finger, had clearly been injured badly. As for the pointer finger, it was crazy how much flesh had actually regenerated after I cut off half of the finger tip. When combined with the scars, my hand looked like it had been in a war.


    Taking another deep breath, I tried to clear away old memories. I hated driving at night in the rain. I had ever since Elizabeth died. Pushing aside such thoughts, I slowly backed up and started driving.


    The windshield wipers were useless. Sheets of rain slammed against the glass. The road ahead was little more than a blur of darkness despite my headlights. I could feel the wind pushing against the truck every once in a while. At other times, I would be forced to slow down to the approaching cars whose headlights were blinding.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    I shivered. My knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. I then leaned forward, squinting to make out the road. It was hard to see where the road ended in the darkness. If I hadn¡¯t known the way by heart, I would have been forced to stop and wait until the rain subsided.


    As it was, the rain beat against the roof of the truck as I tried not to think about the night of the accident. It had also been a stormy night, although Carey had been driving. She claimed my hard braking would wake Elizabeth up. I could almost hear the loud, high-pitched screeching of the tires as Carey tried to avoid the drunk driver. The twisting metal and the shattering glass had been deafening.


    The truck skidded slightly as I hit a patch of water. It jolted me back to the present, my heart hammering. I muttered a quick curse under my breath and adjusted my speed, trying to push the memories back down.


    I shook my head, forcing myself back to the present. Sometimes, I wished for nothing more than to forget about the past. Remembering all the things I did, or didn¡¯t do, often haunted me.


    The road ahead was almost impossible to see. I could just make out the shapes of trees bending under the force of the wind, their branches whipping wildly. Each flash of lightning cast them in stark relief, momentarily blinding me. Shaking my head, I pushed away such thoughts.


    The siren hadn¡¯t stopped either. It¡¯s unrelenting wail had started to give me a headache. At least the heater in my truck had finally started to blow some warmish air. Of course, this started to fog up the windows. Although I usually didn¡¯t listen to the radio, I decided to turn it on for a weather update.


    I was tempted to flip through the channels. However, I was worried it might lead to an accident if I didn¡¯t concentrate completely on the road. Because of this, I turned off the radio. It wasn¡¯t like I was going to do anything different that I was already doing.


    I passed through an intersection where dark traffic lights swung violently on their wires. I could even feel the wind trying to push the truck off the road. What scared me though was the hail, which had started pelting the truck¡¯s windshield. Since it was already broken, I was worried that it would completely break apart.


    The rain began to ease slightly as I approached the outskirts of her neighborhood. The storm lost some of its intensity, though the wind still howled like a living thing. Streetlights flickered as I passed, casting eerie shadows across the wet pavement.


    As I turned down the last stretch of road, the hail stopped. Even the rain slowed down drastically. I was glad for the change in the weather since it made it easier for me to drive. My headlights finally caught the familiar shape of their mobile home in the distance.


    Relief washed over me as I thought, I knew I was worried for no reason.


    I slowed down for a moment while I tried to decide if I should stop or not. Now that I could see their home was fine, I didn¡¯t want to disturb them. However, after a moment, I went ahead and pulled into their driveway since something was still bothering me.


    I pulled up next to the silver car I had bought for her years ago. It was a Chevy Cobalt. Considering how much grief it had given her, I was surprised every time I saw it. I was always worried that it would start working. Either that, or that she would trade it in for something newer.


    As for the boyfriend¡¯s truck, it was probably in the back. From what I had been able to gather, he would often pick up items that other people had set on the curb to get rid of and store them in his shed outback until he was able to use them or sell them. Although it wasn¡¯t something I would do, I actually had to give him props for doing whatever he needed to make ends meet.


    Of course, judging by what little I had seen when I came by at Christmas, he wasn¡¯t the best at making repairs. Sarah had tried to brag about how he was trying to fix some of the items so that they could sell them for extra money. She had even pointed out a table that he had repaired. However, I wasn''t impressed by what I had seen.


    I took a deep breath. My heart was pounding as I stopped in front of their home. For a moment, I almost convinced myself to turn around. But then that worry crept back in, settling in my chest like a weight. I needed to see her, just to be sure.


    While I hadn¡¯t noticed it before, I realized that their home had lost power. Not a single light was on around the house. While I knew it was probably nothing, I still felt compelled to get out and check on them. I left my truck lights on so that I could see better.


    After climbing down from the truck, I quickly shut the door and ran toward the front of Sarah¡¯s home. Although I expected to find them in the storm shelter, I wanted to make sure they weren¡¯t still in the house first. Afterall, I would probably still be in the house.


    Sarah was different though. She worried about everything. Because of this, I knew she wouldn¡¯t be in the house. Unless, of course, her boyfriend refused to leave. That might convince her to stay.


    I wonder if Elizabeth would be the same, I wondered. What would she be like? I really had no idea since she died so young.


    I shook my head and tried to force myself to focus. Still, despite my best efforts, I found it difficult. Suddenly tired for some reason, I knocked on the front door. While I was waiting for an answer, I went ahead and checked the door. Surprisingly, it was unlocked. I frowned.


    I thought I taught you better than that, I thought.


    Feeling a little weird, I went ahead and opened the door. It felt strange walking uninvited into another person¡¯s home. Even when I visited family members who were expecting me, I would always wait until they came to the door.


    The wind nearly jerked the doorknob from my hand as I pushed the door open. After a small stumble, I closed the door behind me. I called out, ¡°Sarah?¡± While I would have liked to have called out his name too, I really couldn¡¯t remember it.


    After taking a few steps into the hallway, I paused by the entry table. Sarah¡¯s keys were there, along with her purse and a couple of letters she¡¯d left unopened. So, she hadn¡¯t gone far. But where was she? And why had she left the door unlocked?

 Chapter 4 - The Storm Shelter

    I tried calling out again, but the only answer I received was silence. I wiped the rain from my face as I walked through the living room and called out once again, ¡°Sarah!¡± When there was no response yet again, I repeated her name, louder this time. While I was waiting for a response, I looked around as I walked through the house. I paused when I noticed a blue blanket draped over the back of an old sofa.


    I had to shake my head. Wow, I thought. She still has that thing.


    The blanket was the one she had used during the pandemic to hide under when she shared a car ride with me. She had to know it didn¡¯t provide any protection. Yet she did it anyway. Then again, maybe she just wanted privacy so that I wouldn¡¯t see what she was looking at on her phone.


    A couple of photo frames were on the wall. Most of which were actually her boyfriend¡¯s family. I ignored those and concentrated on the ones with her in them. For a moment, I felt a flicker of guilt because of how distant we¡¯d become.


    I walked slowly down the hallway until I suddenly came to a stop. Through an open door, I saw a nursery. Frowning, I slowly glanced into the room. Before, I had felt like an intruder. Now, it felt even more wrong.


    The room was dimly lit by my truck lights. My breath caught in my throat when I saw the familiar sight of brown, hand-painted teddy bears holding heart-shaped balloons along the wall next to the ceiling. I couldn¡¯t believe she had painted them in her boyfriend¡¯s mobile home.


    Standing there in a daze, I silently took everything in. There was a crib in one corner. Tiny stuffed animals peeked out from under a baby blanket. A rocking chair sat by the window, illuminated by my truck¡¯s headlights.


    Sarah was probably pregnant, although she obviously wasn¡¯t very far along. In fact, she might only be thinking about having a baby. At least that was what I assumed since there weren''t any other baby items in the room.


    Maybe she had changed her mind and regretted having the abortion. I didn¡¯t blame her. She had just moved out. Even though I was decades older, I still had conflicting feelings about it.


    Frowning, I took another look around the room before leaving the room. A flash of lightning lit up the room as I tried to gather my scattered thoughts. Although I didn¡¯t want to admit it, the nursery had affected me.


    Still, I could think about the implications later. At the moment, I needed to check out the storm shelter in the backyard. I concentrated on what needed to be done and I walked toward the back door.


    The wind was howling when I stepped outside. It hit me like a wall, tearing at my clothes. Rain whipped against my face. This time, I almost had a heart attack when a flash of lightning startled me. It was followed almost immediately by a clap of thunder. My heart pounded in his chest as I moved across the yard toward the storm shelter.


    On the way, I noticed branches and small tree limbs scattered across the back yard. The opening to the storm shelter was underneath a large gumball tree next to their tool shed. I only knew what type of tree it was because I almost slipped and fell when I stepped on one of the gumballs.


    What a stupid place for a storm shelter, I thought.


    It sounded like a horrible idea to build a storm shelter underneath a tree. I wasn¡¯t even sure what to call the storm shelter¡¯s entrance. A door, a hatch, a trapdoor, whatever it was called, a large limb from the tree had fallen across it.


    I tried to tug it away. However, the branches were tangled with the handle, making it difficult to open. I also noticed that one of the branches had pierced the turbine on top of the storm shelter.


    The pelting rain faded into a light drizzle. The wind also died down. The unexpected calm was eerie. That was when I finally heard the sound of my daughter screaming for help. I could even hear her beating against the storm shelter door from the other side now.


    My pulse quickened when I realized that they were trapped. I hurriedly grabbed one of the branches and tried to pull it off the door. However, it barely budged. It was slick with rain and the cold bit into my fingers as I strained against it.


    ¡°Sarah! There¡¯s a tree blocking the entrance,¡± I yelled as I tried to pull the tree limb off the door again. It was heavier than it looked and the rain didn¡¯t help. ¡°Come on!¡± I growled, frustration mounting with each failed attempt.


    I straightened for a moment when strong winds started blowing again. The tree branches above me moaned in protest. I glanced up and noticed other dead branches were hanging above the shelter. Some of them looked like they could come down at any moment.


    Ignoring them, I gripped the fallen branch with both hands again. Then I pulled. I put every ounce of strength I had into it. My only reward was the wind roaring louder, as if mocking me when the branch didn¡¯t budge.


    Unlike the last time, though, I wasn¡¯t pinned inside a car this time. I screamed in anger and finally managed to make the limb shift. I glanced around, searching for something to use for leverage.If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    I needed something, anything that might give me the strength to move it. I quickly discarded the idea of searching through the tool shed when I realized that I couldn¡¯t hear her boyfriend. Something must have happened to him.


    After another tug, the branch gave a little more. Just a bit further, I thought.


    Finally, I managed to pull the limb away from the entrance, at least a little. Just as I was about to open the door, I heard a loud crack. Before I could react, something heavy slammed into me from above.


    The world spun as pain exploded in my skull. My knees gave way as I collapsed onto the muddy ground. My vision blurred, and for a moment, everything went dark. The wind screamed around me, but it felt distant, muffled. My body felt heavy.


    All I could do was lay there in the mud for a moment. Rain pelted my face as I tried to focus. The world kept slipping into and out of focus. I reached up and felt warm blood trickling down the side of my head. A wave of dizziness threatened to pull me under.


    Fleeting glimpses of my past seemed to blend together. I wasn¡¯t sure whether I was reliving the accident where my daughter had died or where I had been pushed through a glass door while trying to stop a shoplifter. Both nights it had been cold and wet. However, it was that same coldness that somehow cleared my mind.


    Get up, my mind screamed. You have to get up.


    After taking a deep breath, I forced myself to sit up. My vision spun and I fought the urge to vomit. Although dazed, I managed to stand. Then I planted my feet and pulled with everything I had. The branch splintered as it shifted. I felt it lift, inch by inch, freeing the hatch beneath.


    I fell back into one of the other branches as it abruptly gave way. I felt a stabbing pain in my back. However, I ignored it as relief flooded through me when I realized that I had succeeded. Quickly, I pushed aside the smaller branches. I reached down, gripped the handle, and pulled it open.


    Sarah stumbled out and hugged me before immediately pointing to the dark water. Her voice trembled with urgency and fear. ¡°Dad, Jacob¡­ he went under the water. He¡¯s drowning, Dad!¡± Her eyes were wide with panic as she clutched my arm, desperate for me to do something.


    I wasn¡¯t even sure how I noticed. Usually, I was oblivious to such things. However, something about how the white shirt clung to her skin drew my attention to a baby bump. I realized immediately why Sarah was asking for me to save him. She was worried about both her baby and her boyfriend.


    Although it was too dark to see anything in the water, I jumped into it without hesitating. Unfortunately, that turned out to be a mistake. I landed on something that pierced my leg. Reaching down, I tugged a jagged piece of wood out of my leg before diving into the dark water.


    It was impossible to see anything. The water was thick, clouded with dirt and debris. My arms stretched out blindly. My fingers brushed against splintered wood and the concrete steps and walls.


    My lungs burned as I groped around. My hand finally touched his arm. Relief flooded me. However, it was short-lived. Jacob was limp and unresponsive. His body was heavy as I pulled him toward me. My leg screamed in protest as I pushed off the bottom, propelling us both upward.


    A jagged edge of something scraped against my side, but I didn¡¯t stop. My chest ached, desperate for air. However, I refused to let go. I dragged him with me through the suffocating darkness.


    I suddenly realized I had done this once before. My sister had fallen into our pool. When I went outside to join her, I noticed her on the bottom of the pool. Luckily, I had been there for her that time.


    Breaking the surface felt like being reborn. I struggled to pull Jacob onto the concrete shelter steps. My hands slipped on the slick surface, and I had to use every ounce of strength to haul him out. Blood mixed with the water dripping from my body. It swirled around my feet as I collapsed beside him, panting.


    For a moment, the world spun and my vision narrowed. Despite this, I forced myself to focus. I slapped Jacob¡¯s face lightly and pressed my ear to his chest. My heart sank when I didn¡¯t hear anything.


    For some reason, I was starting to shiver and felt weak. In fact, I was starting to shiver. Because of this, I pointed to Jacob and said, ¡°CPR.¡± Sarah immediately started doing chest compressions while I slumped down.


    At first, I had feared it might be too late. However, even before she started mouth to mouth, he spit out some water and rolled over onto his side.


    For some reason, I wasn¡¯t feeling any pain. Unfortunately, I felt chilly one second and then nauseous the next. Curious, I looked down at my leg.


    Wow, I thought. Even that time when I cut one of the veins in my leg, there wasn¡¯t this much blood.


    Instead of being scared, though, I just felt sleepy. It was weird. I could feel blood spurting out every time my heartbeat. Since I was tired, I decided to close my eyes and rest for a moment.


    The next thing I knew, Sarah was shaking me awake. I was a little annoyed. I was about to close my eyes again when I heard Sarah say something. I didn¡¯t know what she said, so I looked at her. Then I frowned, because her boyfriend was calling someone.


    Why is he using my phone? I wondered. Or is that one of the phones I bought for them?


    Sarah looked at my leg. ¡°You¡¯re hurt,¡± she said, her voice trembling.


    Smiling weakly, I said, ¡°It¡¯s okay.¡± Although my leg was throbbing, I wasn¡¯t going to tell her that. Each heartbeat made the murky water below redder. It spread out in swirling patterns. It was hypnotic. The sight should have terrified me, but instead, a strange calm settled over me.


    For some reason, Sarah was shouting something to me. Then she shook me before she started to do something to my leg. I heard say, ¡°Dad, come on! Please!¡± Her voice sounded strained, almost as if she was panicking. ¡°Stay with me!¡±.


    I tried to mumble back, but I don¡¯t know if she heard me, ¡°Don¡¯t worry. I¡¯ll be fine.¡±


    Sarah¡¯s voice called out again after that, but it was distant, fading as my vision blurred. At one point, I realized that the tornado siren had been replaced by an ambulance siren. I hated that sound. My mind was already a little muddled, and old memories surfaced as I struggled to separate the past from the present.

 Chapter 5 - The Keeper of Memories

    It took a few moments before I realized that I had been stuck in a memory. While I was lost in thought, I didn¡¯t notice when The Keeper stepped out from behind a building. Unlike Blackwell, there was a palpable aura of power around The Keeper. That aura was heavily tainted with the taste of evil and madness.


    He didn¡¯t look particularly impressive, though. He was shorter than me. Then again, most were. He had short brown hair and looked like he was around forty-five or fifty. He wore black leather shoes, black slacks, and an old fashioned jacket. He also wore an ugly tie. I could only assume it must have been a gift, because otherwise, no one would have wanted to wear it.


    The Keeper wasn¡¯t an evil man, at least according to the rumors. While other spirits might be unsure, I knew the evil aura he radiated was from memories he had absorbed. They weren¡¯t originating from him. Instead, The Keeper stole them from those spirits who had done something unforgivable. Of course, that didn¡¯t mean that he couldn¡¯t still be a bad man.


    However, it didn¡¯t really matter since he was the closest thing this part of the Acedia had for a police officer. No one knew his real name. They just called him The Keeper. Officially, he was The Keeper of Memories. Unofficially, he was The Keeper of Peace.


    Most ghosts, spirits, wraiths, specters, phantoms, souls, or whatever they wanted to call themselves, followed a You leave me alone and I will leave you alone policy. However, there were always a few spirits who went crazy or were just so outright evil that they had to be stopped. That was when The Keeper became involved.


    He would investigate what was happening. Then, if necessary, he would track and take down the spirit. Since there weren¡¯t a lot of ways to permanently deal with spirits of the dead, this usually meant he would have to absorb the perpetrator, essentially devouring the spirit¡¯s memories until nothing remained. Of course, this also meant the end of the spirit. This was especially true in Acedia, which had a harsh environment that continuously eroded these memories anyway. A spirit with few memories was soon forgotten and faded away into oblivion.


    Spirits could only survive in Acedia with the assistance of their memories. Once their memories faded away, so too did the spirit. Memories fueled emotions and powers, which were what spirits used to survive. Unfortunately, the fact that he was able to steal the memories of other spirits was one reason why The Keeper was feared. Another was because everyone worried about the day when he would go insane. Afterall, it happened to every single Keeper at some point. Eventually, each Keeper would absorb too many memories for them to contain without going crazy.


    Many spirits assumed that the more memories the Keeper obtained, the more powerful he became. That wasn¡¯t true though. When Keepers absorbed memories, those memories often muddied their own memories, which made their emotions erratic. Keepers would lose focus and eventually become threats to everyone around them. Usually, when this happened, Keepers would travel to the Wellspring of Chaos or the Well of Oblivion.


    With that type of reputation, no one crossed the Keepers. Doing so was like playing with unstable. Dynamite. Although I wasn¡¯t worried, I respected what he did. That was why I was willing to hear what he had to say.


    ¡°You know what you''re doing is dangerous,¡± The Keeper said, his voice flat and emotionless. It was obviously a statement and not a question.


    "I know," I said. ¡°It¡¯s needed though.¡± He was right. What I had done was dangerous, to both Renee and myself. My current weakness was just one of the results. The other risk was getting drawn into a memory loop. It wasn¡¯t unusual for spirits to become trapped in memory loops until they faded away completely.


    ¡°They always need help.¡± The Keeper said, his clothing shifting slightly, settling into something that reminded me of an old-time sheriff uniform. ¡°That''s not your burden to bear. You already know that she¡¯s not your grandchild. Why¡­¡±


    Not waiting for him to finish, I interrupted him by holding up a hand. While I normally hated interrupting others, pointing out the fact that Sarah wasn¡¯t my biological daughter was a sore spot for me. Even decades after learning the truth, it still bothered me. I certainly didn¡¯t need it brought up that I was once again taking care of a child that wasn¡¯t mine.


    ¡°I know that,¡± I said as I glared at him, my tone implying I wasn¡¯t going to change my mind no matter what he said.


    What I felt toward Renee was a duty, something that was driven by something within me. Although Sarah might not be my biological daughter, she was still my little girl. Because of this, even though I wasn¡¯t emotionally invested in Renee, I wasn¡¯t about to let something happen to her if I could help it. Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    Then again, I suppose that isn¡¯t completely true, I thought to myself.


    In Acedia, lies were quickly exposed. People might be able to conceal their true selves or motivations behind lies when they were alive. However, death often stripped away pretenses. They quickly discovered what really mattered.


    For me, when someone needed something, I would do whatever was needed to help them. Even if I had to sacrifice something in return. I didn¡¯t know why I was wired that way. I certainly didn¡¯t like it, but I couldn¡¯t help myself.


    The Keeper didn''t say anything for a few moments. Finally, he just nodded, as if to himself, and reached into the inner pocket of his jacket to pull out a leather bound book that looked vaguely familiar. ¡°Your memories are becoming unstable,¡± he said, offering me the book. ¡°Every time you share them, you risk unraveling the tapestry of your own existence. These might help... anchor you. It was given to me by the oracle. Maybe it will be able to help you save her.¡±


    I accepted the book carefully. I didn¡¯t like the idea of accepting help from others, especially The Keeper or The Oracle. ¡°Why help me at all? I''m breaking the rules.¡±


    The Keeper sighed, then reluctantly said, ¡°Rules exist to maintain order, but order isn''t always justice. Also, I hope that will help the Oracle since¡­¡± He left the sentence unfinished. Then he continued, ¡°You''re not the first to care about the living. You won''t be the last either. But don¡¯t forget, there are other threats out there. Appearing weak is one of the worst sins a man can commit.¡±


    ¡°Why are you telling me this?¡± I was a little confused since I wasn¡¯t sure why The Keeper was treating me like an old friend.


    ¡°No particular reason. Just take it as the concern of someone who''s watched too many good intentions lead to oblivion.¡± He adjusted his satchel. ¡°The book is yours to keep. The Oracle said I would know when to give it to you, and I think this is that time.¡± With that said, he turned and walked away, his form soon fading away like mist in the morning daylight.


    I looked down at the book, wondering how the book was going to help. Then it hit me. I knew why I had the feeling that the book was familiar to me. Questions about why The Keeper was helping me were banished from my mind. Only one thing existed in my world at that moment, the book of poems. It wasn¡¯t just any book of poems. It was my mother¡¯s book of poems.


    She had read from this book for so many years that the front cover was tattered and the pages inside were threatening to fall out at the slightest touch. I hadn¡¯t seen the book in years. I thought it had been burned up in the fire that claimed her life.


    I would sometimes catch my mother reading one of the poems in the book during those quiet times when my father was away. She never read the book around him though, although she did occasionally read some of the poems to me. As soon as she heard a car, any car driving nearby, she would hurriedly hide the book though. I never let my father know about her secret. Sighing, I realized I had kept a lot of secrets over the years, even ones I knew I shouldn¡¯t have kept.


    Still, the main concern was, How was it here, in Acedia? I knew that it had meant a lot to my mother, but I hadn¡¯t just how much it had meant to her. Obviously a lot since it had become a mementos. Although I didn¡¯t have a particular destination in mind, my feet slowly took me toward my childhood home while I tried to process what had happened.


    While I was walking, I considered the book of poems. I absently let my fingers gently trace the cover. I could feel the memories bubbling up from within the book. It was a true memento. I resisted the impulse to chase after The Keeper. Even if I asked him where he had found the book, I doubted he would tell me.


    I guess I shouldn¡¯t really have been surprised the book of poems had become a memento. Mementos were rare, and were almost always an object of great importance, at least to someone. I¡¯d met a few spirits who had mementos, and they treasured them above everything else.


    One spirit had carried a letter with him everywhere he went. He would often stop, for no apparent reason. Then he would take out the letter to read. It was from his wife. In it, she had told him how much she loved him. It also said that she couldn¡¯t wait until he got back from the war. When the man died in an explosion, that letter had meant so much to him that it was brought across with him.


    Mementos were like that. When they were destroyed in the land of the living, if someone had enough emotional attachment to the object, the objects sometimes crossed over. Such objects were quite valuable, partially because they were one of the few things that really were solid and real to the spirits of the dead.


    They were also valuable because of the emotions attached to these objects. Spirits could hold the memento and feel a connection to the land of the living through the emotions it invoked. Some mementos were full of laughter and joy, while others were full of anger or unhappiness. As for what I should expect from the book of poems, I doubted if the emotions would be joyful.


    Either way, a spirit losing touch with their own emotions would often seek out such objects to try to hold on that much longer before fading away. Their true importance came from the memories stored within them, however. For those spirits who had a true connection with the mementos, the spirit could relive the memories as if they were happening at that very moment.


    The soldier with the letter could feel the love his wife had placed within the letter with her words. He could feel her loneliness without him. Her scent was as bright and fresh as if she stood there before him. Mementos, even those of painful memories, were thus very important.


    Every time someone living thought deeply about someone who had died, the dead person would feel it. These thoughts, or prayers, would briefly hold off Acedia¡¯s erosion. Unfortunately, this sometimes helped evil spirits, since they gained nourishment from the fact that their victims still thought about them. My thoughts and steps were interrupted when I caught sight of someone else I didn¡¯t expect to see.

 Chapter 6 - Blackwell

    I wondered if Blackwell showing up was due to The Keeper¡¯s arrival. Even though Blackwell had been my mentor after I died, I hadn¡¯t seen him in ¡­, I had no idea. Time flowed quite differently in the Acedia. It could have been a month, a year, or a decade. I had no idea how long it had been.


    Blackwell had a tall thin frame, although one completely covered by voluminous black clothing. The clothes were threadbare and worn, but without a speck of dirt upon them. A thick coat was draped across his shoulders and a scarf surrounded his neck like a noose. Long dark hair fell to cover his eyes, and the rest of his face was obscured by a thick beard.


    I studied Blackwell intently. While he had been a mentor to me, that didn¡¯t mean that I trusted him completely. Every spirit had a dark side, a shadow in their heart. Sometimes that darkness would emerge and take over the spirit. However, after a moment, I nodded to him and started walking again.


    I moved past Blackwell, who fell into step beside me. Blackwell¡¯s booted feet clip clopped, thumping away like a heartbeat, steady and unyielding. My steps left no sound or trace of my passing through. ¡°Greetings,¡± I said quietly, my words soft, like a breeze, carried off to some other place, barely heard.


    ¡°Greetings,¡± Blackwell¡¯s gravelly voice echoed back, heard once, then again and again before dying away. For someone whose appearance was cloaked in mystery, he certainly made his presence felt. It was like he wanted others to know when he was around.


    ¡°Did you wish to speak with me?¡± I asked, turning to glance at him. I had always felt there was something strange between Blackwell and myself, although I wasn¡¯t sure what it was. I felt like I had known him for years. Perhaps it was because of recent events, but something about Blackwell was different.


    Many of those who had passed away and found themselves in Acedia feared Blackwell. And because I was Blackwell¡¯s student, they feared me as well. Because of this, I was generally left alone. Even those spirits losing touch with reality knew enough not to mess with Blackwell.


    Power, in the Lands of the Dead, came in many shapes and forms. Some of the dead had connections with the living. Others had been dead for so long they barely remembered a time before death. A rare few were simply powerful in their own right. It wasn''t because they were the oldest, or the youngest, but because their passions ran deep and strong.


    Emotion, passion, obsession, whatever you wanted to call it, was where the dead drew strength from. For most, the memories that provided this strength tended to fade with time. With Blackwell, it almost seemed the opposite was true. It was like he was achieving his dreams.


    ¡°Yes, but let¡¯s walk for a moment.¡± Blackwell said, his head turning as he walked to take in everything around us.


    That was one thing I didn¡¯t like about him. He always seemed to be keeping something from me. Not completely reassured, I lapsed back into silence, one of my few places of solace. I took the moment to glance at Blackwell once more, not really looking at him, but trying to understand something about him.


    The other spirits were terrified of Blackwell, but the man had been nothing but kind and considerate to me ever since I arrived. I wondered, Why then did they fear him so much? Forbidden Arts weren¡¯t enough to explain their feelings.


    While it was true, because of his passions, Blackwell was strong. In fact, he was more powerful than almost any other spirit that I had encountered in Acedia, with the exception of The Keeper. Perhaps it was because of his passions that they feared him. As for the Oracle, I had never met her. I had just heard stories.


    Before, I never tried to figure out what Blackwell''s motives were, or what he ultimately wanted. I was just happy that someone was willing to help me without apparently wanting anything. Perhaps it is time to find the answers to some of my questions, I told myself.


    We continued walking side by side. The only sound was that of Blackwell¡¯s steps. I frowned, wondering what Blackwell wished to speak with me about. It had been a while since I had seen him. About the only times I saw him was when something had occurred or was about to occur. Yet this time, my mentor seemed to have no desire to speak with me about anything. The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    I was wondering what that meant when Blackwell turned to me and abruptly said, ¡°When you visit The Oracle, I want to go with you.¡±


    My steps came to an immediate stop. There was so much information packed into such a simple sentence. While there were other oracles, there was only one Oracle. What confused me was that she had gone into seclusion years before I died. I stood there, my thoughts racing. Also, while I was curious how she had obtained the book, I really hadn¡¯t planned on visiting her. Then again, I probably would visit her since I wanted to know how she had obtained my mother¡¯s diary. I was definitely curious about The Oracle.


    Did that mean she had come out of hiding? Was that even possible? There were rumors that her seclusion wasn¡¯t exactly voluntary. Also, when did she give the Book of Poems to The Keeper? How did Blackwell know?


    I turned to ask him when I noticed that he had disappeared. I didn¡¯t even hear his trademark footsteps, that sounded like the steady tick tock of time, counting away the second left before oblivion. I repressed a shiver as the thought crossed my mind, wondering why even I was becoming uneasy in my mentor¡¯s presence these days.


    Something had changed, although I wasn¡¯t sure what. Still, I was determined to find out what was different. Unfortunately, somehow I knew that I wouldn¡¯t like the answers that I would find.


    Trying to ignore such thoughts, I walked down the street. Actually, that was technically correct. A street did exist in Acedia, but it varied minute to minute. One moment, it was just barren, lifeless ground. Then it would become a newly paved street before deteriorating into a rubble strewn path.


    The same was true for everything else I passed. The only constant was the presence of the mist, stretched endlessly in all directions. The sky above wasn¡¯t dark or bright but a muted gray that seemed to press down upon the city like a leaden shroud. Faint whispers, usually indecipherable, sometimes formed random words. I had long since stopped listening to them. Some things were better left unknown in Acedia.


    As I walked, I became acutely aware of the subtle changes in the fog. The whispers seemed louder, more insistent. The faint, sour scent of decay grew stronger, clinging to my senses like a memory I couldn¡¯t shake. It wasn¡¯t unusual for the mist to play tricks on spirits, but this was different.


    For the first time, I wondered if Acedia possessed some type of consciousness.


    As I walked, the mist seemed to thicken around me, almost like fingers curling around me. For a moment, I thought I saw movement within it. Of course, this wasn¡¯t new. What was new was that the shadowy forms shifting and writhing in the mist appeared to kneel, their heads bowed low as though in reverence. The sight chilled me.


    That¡¯s new, I thought. While I had heard stories about the mist occasionally acting stranger than normal, this was my first time encountering such an event. It made me wonder, Why did it do that? What does it mean?


    Before I could focus, the mist swirled violently, erasing the figures and leaving only a faint, metallic tang in the air. But even as the vision faded, I caught a glimpse of something beyond. It was a man encased in shadows that pulsed like a heartbeat. The image vanished as quickly as it came, leaving me with the unsettling feeling that Acedia was not just a prison for lost souls, but a reflection of something far darker, something tied to me in ways I couldn¡¯t yet understand.


    I quickly moved onwards, eager to put distance between myself and whatever had just happened. My steps took me toward the house where I had lived with my grandmother, my father, my sister, and him. I had a lot of fond memories of that place, but the house also contained memories that still haunted my dreams.


    The thought disturbed me more than it should have. If Acedia was conscious, what did that make us spirits who dwelled within it? Were we simply memories ourselves, fragments of consciousness floating in a vast, ancient mind? I had seen how memories could be shared, shaped, and even consumed ¨C perhaps Acedia itself fed on these exchanges, growing stronger with each transaction between spirits and the living.


    I remembered something Blackwell once told me about the nature of our existence here. "Acedia," he had said, his voice carrying that familiar gravelly resonance, "is like a mirror that''s been shattered and reassembled wrong. Each piece reflects a different version of reality, a different memory of what was or what might have been." At the time, I had dismissed it as one of his typically cryptic observations, but now I wasn''t so sure. The way the mist moved, the way it seemed to respond to certain spirits more than others, it suggested a pattern that went beyond mere random occurrence.


    These contemplations stirred memories of conversations with other spirits who claimed to have glimpsed something vast moving in the depths of this realm. Most had dismissed such sightings as hallucinations born of loneliness and fading memories. But what if they were glimpsing the true nature of our existence here? What if Acedia wasn''t just a place between Heaven and Hell, but something alive, something that had been watching us, learning from us, perhaps even guiding us toward some unknowable purpose?


    I didn¡¯t know why I was going back to that house. I wouldn¡¯t find out more about Blackwell or the book of poems there. In fact, the only thing that awaited me there was memories. I could already feel those memories swelling up inside me like a wave, crashing upon my consciousness, wearing away my will to resist. Finally, coldness seeped into my soul, as did memories of the past.

 Chapter 7 - Memories of the Past

    I woke to coldness, despite the light blanket in which I had slept, cocooned inside its protection. The house was almost completely silent, just the opposite of how my mother kept her house. I was sure that my father would have preferred the house be filled with sound, but my grandfather was sick and treasured silence. My grandmother often complimented me on how quiet I was whenever we were at her work, or whenever my grandfather was around.


    Except for the silence, the house was exactly like father preferred, cold and bright. A vent hummed from its place on the floor against the wall and a chill wind blew outside, as if seeking desperately to dispel the one source of warmth amidst a frozen world. The drapes moved slightly, like ghostly shrouds. The window panes were frosted, obscuring what might wait outside.


    I sighed, and levered myself up, grunting as I kept the red afghan blanket wrapped tightly about my shoulders. With one hand clenching the blanket around my neck, I used the other to straighten up my bed. I always laid on top of the covers so that in the mornings, I could simply tidy the bed up quickly and neatly. I inspected the edges, ensuring they were tightly tucked beneath the mattress, and adjusted the pillows, so that the bed could pass any inspection before moving toward the vent.


    I allowed the blanket to billow out, the warm air rushing upwards, only to be trapped beneath the blanket. Then I sat down upon the vent and pulled the red blanket over my head. After that, I tugged the shirt tail outwards and bent my legs so that I could pull them underneath the shirt.


    Then I leaned my face forward until I could stare down at the vent and feel the up-rushing warmth upon my cheeks. I peered into the depths from which the heat was being blown, but couldn''t see anything in the darkness. I just sat there, content for the moment.


    After a few minutes, I pushed myself erect and dressed quickly after neatly folding the blanket. I reluctantly left his room and walked down the bright hallway, glancing at the flickering light coming from the living room. My steps faltered for a moment, but gathering my courage, I moved forward again after only the briefest of hesitations. My hands were clenched behind me and my heart beat just a little faster.


    Ignoring the goosebumps that had risen on my skin, I entered the living room and glanced at the television, although I didn¡¯t really pay attention to what was on. The black and white television was turned all the way down and the words Roe V. Wade and 7-2 were all I caught as he passed the television. Considering the station had just started broadcasting not long before I woke up, it had to be something important since it had already been brought up in the morning news segment.


    However, I was more interested in watching the fireplace. If I was allowed to do so, I would have sat and stared at the flames for hours. The flickering flames glowed a gentle yellow and orange, hinting at the warmth closeness to it could provide. The embers burned as if from an inner source of heat, as if they were willing themselves to survive.


    Then, as if they were spirits so inflamed with hatred that they wished the world to burn with them, expended themselves to bring a finger of destruction to that which was around them. The crackling of the fire and the embers was like the breaking of bones, each one a piece of life slowly stripped away as it broke the silence of the house.


    Looking into the flames, I remembered those times when my father had changed the flames from yellow and orange to red, blue, or purple with but a magician''s gesture, casually splashing dust into the flames, which eagerly devoured the new life offered unto it. I would have loved to use the dust, but my father said that he was the only one who could use them.


    A lone shard of gold seemed untouched in the fire, as if refusing to die or submit to the flames. However, as I watched, it slowly blackened before brightening as it caught fire and spread the flames that would consume all that was near it. Hearing my father moving in the kitchen, I ignored the dying fire and started moving again. Although not as bad as Mondays, Tuesdays were almost as bad since that meant my father still had most of the week to work.


    I opened the back door and silently wished that one day my father would replace the lightbulb on the back porch. I was sure that if he had to come outside, the bulb would have already been replaced. I shivered as the frigid air hit me. Then, hugging my arms around my thin frame, I moved toward where the dogs'' bowls would be.


    I wanted to mutter to myself, but I was afraid my father would overhear me. Instead, I took an angry look at the clouds that were obscuring the moonlight, which left me entirely dependent on the sliver of light coming from the kitchen window to see. I stumbled, arms flailing slightly to keep my balance, while my fingers were already growing numb.


    I reached down and felt around timidly, finally finding the first bowl. Feeling the ice covering the frozen water, I tried to break it, but found it too thick. Picking it up, I carried it to the water spigot. After turning it on, I held the bowl underneath the spigot and allowed the water to flow over it. My teeth chattered, clicking together so loudly that I worried my father would come outside and tell me to be quiet.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    As for my fingers, they were already numb as the water and ice mixed. I held it there for a few more moments, just long enough to make breaking the ice possible. After doing so, I refilled the water bowl and then repeated the process with the other water bowls. By this time, I was silently muttering to myself about the hunting dogs, about the cold, and everything else, but never about my father.


    I continued to work in the darkness, wishing that my father would allow me to hammer the ice, but knowing that he would not let me. His excuse was that it might disturb the neighbors. I grimly finished the first task of filling the water bowls and then tiptoed to the shed, hoping that I wouldn¡¯t step in any of the presents the hunting dogs had left.


    I fumbled at the door to the shed with fingers that felt dead. The actual act of opening the door was a relief. I felt around in the darkness, searching inside for the dog food bag. I then struggled to lift the bag which weighed almost as much as I did.


    Staggering outside, I carried the bag to the porch, trying not to appear as if I had noticed that my father was watching me silently from the window, coincidentally blocking some of the remaining light. I gritted my teeth together, trying to stop the clicking and the shivering as I poured the dog food into the bowls.


    The dogs crowded up, trying to get the food even as it left the bag. One of the dogs almost knocked him over. Grimly, I continued pouring the dog food into each bowl until I was finished. Then I returned the bag of dog food to the shed before seeking warmth and refuge within the cold dark house.


    I paused just before entering the house, my eyes now somewhat adjusted to the absence of light. Crystal clear spears of ice hung from the overhanging roof like miniature swords of Damocles, waiting to be painted red with the blood of those who passed beneath. I could easily imagine breaking a large icicle off, a weapon to protect myself in the night. I knew that it would steal the little bit of warmth left in me, but it would be worth it if I could kill my enemies. I shivered again, only this time not from the cold air.


    My father let me pass without a word as I went to the bathroom to clean my hands, the warm water bringing tears to my eyes. I cleaned his hands thoroughly, making sure that the dirt under my nails was extracted, and that my fingernails were not too long. Nodding to myself, I looked in the mirror and examined the small boy I saw looking back at me.


    Dark rings of worry almost made it seem like he had black eyes. His long dark thin hair was combed neatly with but one exception, which I flattened hastily. I didn¡¯t want to give my father any reason to touch a single hair on my head. My mother loved my hair, as did the ladies who cut my hair.


    They were always commenting on how I had a natural curl that any girl would love to have. They told me they wished their own hair would curl up at the shoulders like his own. Of course, I saw them only rarely, mostly because my father always forgot to take me since he was always busy doing something. Hence the length of his hair.


    I blinked furiously for a moment, telling myself it was only a speck of dust, or the cold, but knowing that the tears I fought back were not from these things. I straightened my back and raised my chin, my teeth clenched together and my eyes narrowing. I then left the safety of the bathroom and entered the darkened hallway before returning once again to my bedroom.


    Soon, my grandmother would leave the main house and come pick me up from the guest house. Then she would drop me off at daycare, who would take me to school. After that, my grandmother would come and pick me up again. Hopefully, she would take me to Burger King after school. I needed a new gold crown since my father had used my old one as kindling for the fire.


    I wondered what my sister was doing. She might not be going to be eating at Burger King later since our mother didn¡¯t believe in wasting money by eating out, but at least she wasn¡¯t having to repeat a year. My father hadn¡¯t been the best at getting me to school after the divorce, and since my grandfather was sick, my grandmother was often busy.


    That might also be the reason why no one noticed my ear infections. At first, my father had simply told me to stop being a crybaby and suck it up. Other times he accused me of making it up for attention. Eventually, my grandmother noticed something when she realized I couldn¡¯t hear what she was saying.


    At least my father wasn¡¯t mad at me after he found out. The teachers at the academy had even suggested I take an intelligence test. They had suspected I was one of those special kids. When the results of my intelligence test came out, though, my dad had told me how proud he was of me. It made me feel warm inside, at least for a few days.


    Of course, that didn¡¯t matter. I still had to repeat first grade. Of course, he told everyone it was because of all my visits to the hospital. In fact, many mornings, my father just hadn¡¯t wanted to get up and take me to school. Instead, I would stay at home and watch television, swim in the pool, or explore the woods.


    For all of their differences, my parents were similar in some ways. They both left me alone most of the time. Every other weekend when I visited my mother, she would be working most of the time, leaving my sister in charge. Considering that, I bet my sister was waiting for the school bus by herself. She was probably heating up a piece of bologna on the stove.


    The thought of her making me a piece warmed my heart for a moment as I gently shut my bedroom door before moving toward the vent. This time, I just sat on top of it, not wanting to stretch my shirt and risk my father''s anger. I bowed my head as if in prayer, closed my eyes, and enjoyed the warmth of the air on my face. Sighing, I let my thoughts drift. My thoughts were like smoke, drifting in the wind, carried to and fro, without direction, wondering where the future would take me.