The Restless Dead

bigstock-beautiful-woman-with-stone-lik-12160685Lindsay and Michael walked along a back lane to the banks of the river Swale. Other than the sound of birds chattering, it was peaceful, almost like being on another planet. The fire and it’s aftermath still tormented Lindsay’s brain, but the surroundings were soothing. Neither of them spoke as they walked along the well-worn track by the river.

“There’s a clearing up ahead with some big rocks we can sit on, the river is shallower there so if this is a ploy to drown me, you’d struggle.” Lindsay said.

“Why on earth would I drown you?” Michael asked.

“I don’t know. Why are you here?”

They continued in silence until they found the clearing, and found a couple of boulders to sit on. Michael made pebbles skip across the glassy surface. It irritated Lindsay. She was on edge and wanted to know why he kept following her.

“We’re not here to play, what is it you want with me? And who the hell is Colleen? I can’t believe I’m even asking. I must be losing my mind. If it’s not bad enough seeing images of my dead friend, now I’m seeing the ghost of some Irish woman I’ve never met. Is this your doing?”

Lindsay began to cry again, a sad hopeless sound. Michael said nothing until her sobs subsided. He knew she wouldn’t listen. They didn’t know they were being watched. Eventually Lindsay stopped crying.

“Sorry! Sorry for everything. You wouldn’t be able to see any of this if you weren’t tuned in to that sort of thing. I’m not making you see anything. I’d give anything to turn back the clock and not have you suffer like this. I can’t! I’m just trying to help.”

“What are you trying to help with? Do you know who started the fire? Do you know who killed my friends? If you do, why are you talking to me instead of the police?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Nothing ever is with you bloody Irish. You try to blame religion for all of your hatred, but I don’t believe any of it. I thought God was about love not hate.”

Michael dropped his head into his hands and sighed.

“This has nothing to do with religion, or the IRA. It’s about me brother John. Colleen was his wife. She’s dead!”

“I’m sorry, how does that tie up with this….”

There was a loud splash in the water at the other side of the river. Michael jumped to his feet.

“Come on, we have to go.”

“Why it was just a fish jumping?” Lindsay stood up and looked into the water. Two reflections looked back at her. The head of a beautiful, but pale woman peered over her shoulder. Lindsay almost fell as she twisted around to see who was behind her. Michael was the only person there. She looked across the river to see the shape of a man disappearing among the trees. Michael grabbed her hand urgently. “Come on, we have to go now.” He said urgently.

Michael, Michael, where’s my Johnny boy. Why can’t I see him?

Dead of July Another book by Sandra Thompson. Buy it on Amazon.

Dead of July by Sandra Thompson

 

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Does it alway rain at funerals? – Dark Angel

My dad’s funeral was the worst day of my life. Worse by far than my accident and hospital stay. The pain of his loss was unbearable. When my doctor asked me if I wanted Valium to get me through the day I didn’t hesitate. “Yes please,” I said “how many can I take before I sink into a coma?” She looked at me with concern. “I’m only going to give you two, and I want to see you back here next week,” she said.

My mum put on a brave face as we stood by the graveside, but she didn’t know what I knew. She hadn’t seen the awful black shadow hovering outside my window. Why did the Dark Angel linger? Why did she torture me? If she wanted to take my life, let her take it. I didn’t want to see anyone else die.

Does it always rain at funerals? It was miserable, but the raindrops hid my tears.

My brother put his arm around me. “Come on, be brave. He wasn’t a well man. This was his third stroke. We knew this might happen eventually.”

“I never got chance to say goodbye.” I said. My brother hugged me tight. “Say goodbye now, I’m sure he’s watching.”

“Bye Dad, I love you.” I said and looked to the sky. The clouds were dark and ominous. I looked away. My grief tainted my vision and made me imagine things that weren’t really there, or so I hoped.

Dark Wings

 The short stories I post on my blog are writing exercises for me. Dead of July, my first novel is available on Amazon. I’m currently working on a compilation of short stories and then I will write a much requested sequel to Dead of July.

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Dead of July by Sandra Thompson