Spiritus, a Paranormal Romance (Spiritus Series, Book #1) by Dana Michelle Burnett
Authors: Dana Michelle Burnett
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I was that Rebecca, and Alastor was back—
Why was he back?
And that brought me to the most important question of all. What did it mean if it all was true?
If I was that Rebecca—an idea that still seemed ridiculous—was Alastor back because of me like he said? And what did he mean by that?
As I stepped through the gate of Cedar Hill Cemetery, I knew none of this changed anything. I couldn’t tell anyone about this. I could scarcely accept the idea myself; anyone that I told about this would have me in a straitjacket by dinnertime.
I couldn’t do anything, not really. Besides, if this spirit was here to harm me in some way, he had done nothing evil or sinister yet. Actually, he seemed to be trying to save me at the quarry. If he wanted to harm me, why wouldn’t he have just let me drown?
I didn’t know what I was doing. One minute I’m walking across grassy paths and the next I was staring down at a headstone.
ALASTOR SINCLAIR
1840-1878
The stone was really there, gray and mossy, sticking up out of the ground like a bony knuckle. I read the name aloud, noticing the way the afternoon became silent as if even the birds above were waiting to see what I would do.
I was trying to comprehend the fact that right under my feet was the physical body of the ghost. He wasn’t part of my imagination. I could read his name. If I dug down in the earth, I could touch his bones.
That other Rebecca was not buried next to him and I didn’t seek her out. Me or not, I had no desire to see her grave.
Reading his name again, I knew that none of it mattered. If I was that Rebecca, I obviously couldn’t escape him. Because when I thought of the spirit, of his handsome face, his luminous eyes, the very feeling of his presence, I wanted nothing more than to contact him again. I reached my hand out and touched the name with my fingertip.
I turned and walked out of the cemetery with my mind made up. I wouldn’t be afraid of him anymore. After all, he wasn’t a nameless spirit anymore. He had a history and for whatever reason I was now part of it.
The house was squatting behind the oaks when I walked up. The afternoon was fading a twilight was creeping in from the shadows of the yard. I heard the chirping of crickets welcoming me home as I stepped up on the front porch and went through the front door.
Inside, the house was dim in the fading day. The only light came from the living room and poured out into the hall. I stepped through the doorway and there was Dad asleep on the couch as the television echoed the day’s events across the world.
I left him sleeping there with a peaceful half smile on his face, perhaps he was even dreaming of my mother. It seemed cruel to wake him.
As I was walking out of the living room, my hand touched the door casing and I stopped. I looked at the carved frame, coated in many layers of paint. Was this something Alastor touched at one time?
It was suddenly very crucial I touch something he had touched. I had to know if I would be able to feel it when it happened. I wanted to feel some sort of connection to him, but all I felt was the carved moldings under my fingertips.
I left the living room then crossed to the other side of the house, running my fingers along the walls as I walked. I got to the end of the hall and stepped inside the office. It was dark and quiet in there with unpacked boxes still stacked about. I shut the door behind me and turned on the lamps on either side of the desk.
There it was, the spot on the floor that gave me that electrical jolt of visions that first day I came here. I knelt beside it, knowing now that the white boards were from where his blood had stained the floor and people had tried to scrub it away over the years.
I reached a tentative finger toward that spot. I vowed that I would not pull away, no matter how terrifying the images were.
Taking a deep
Why was he back?
And that brought me to the most important question of all. What did it mean if it all was true?
If I was that Rebecca—an idea that still seemed ridiculous—was Alastor back because of me like he said? And what did he mean by that?
As I stepped through the gate of Cedar Hill Cemetery, I knew none of this changed anything. I couldn’t tell anyone about this. I could scarcely accept the idea myself; anyone that I told about this would have me in a straitjacket by dinnertime.
I couldn’t do anything, not really. Besides, if this spirit was here to harm me in some way, he had done nothing evil or sinister yet. Actually, he seemed to be trying to save me at the quarry. If he wanted to harm me, why wouldn’t he have just let me drown?
I didn’t know what I was doing. One minute I’m walking across grassy paths and the next I was staring down at a headstone.
ALASTOR SINCLAIR
1840-1878
The stone was really there, gray and mossy, sticking up out of the ground like a bony knuckle. I read the name aloud, noticing the way the afternoon became silent as if even the birds above were waiting to see what I would do.
I was trying to comprehend the fact that right under my feet was the physical body of the ghost. He wasn’t part of my imagination. I could read his name. If I dug down in the earth, I could touch his bones.
That other Rebecca was not buried next to him and I didn’t seek her out. Me or not, I had no desire to see her grave.
Reading his name again, I knew that none of it mattered. If I was that Rebecca, I obviously couldn’t escape him. Because when I thought of the spirit, of his handsome face, his luminous eyes, the very feeling of his presence, I wanted nothing more than to contact him again. I reached my hand out and touched the name with my fingertip.
I turned and walked out of the cemetery with my mind made up. I wouldn’t be afraid of him anymore. After all, he wasn’t a nameless spirit anymore. He had a history and for whatever reason I was now part of it.
The house was squatting behind the oaks when I walked up. The afternoon was fading a twilight was creeping in from the shadows of the yard. I heard the chirping of crickets welcoming me home as I stepped up on the front porch and went through the front door.
Inside, the house was dim in the fading day. The only light came from the living room and poured out into the hall. I stepped through the doorway and there was Dad asleep on the couch as the television echoed the day’s events across the world.
I left him sleeping there with a peaceful half smile on his face, perhaps he was even dreaming of my mother. It seemed cruel to wake him.
As I was walking out of the living room, my hand touched the door casing and I stopped. I looked at the carved frame, coated in many layers of paint. Was this something Alastor touched at one time?
It was suddenly very crucial I touch something he had touched. I had to know if I would be able to feel it when it happened. I wanted to feel some sort of connection to him, but all I felt was the carved moldings under my fingertips.
I left the living room then crossed to the other side of the house, running my fingers along the walls as I walked. I got to the end of the hall and stepped inside the office. It was dark and quiet in there with unpacked boxes still stacked about. I shut the door behind me and turned on the lamps on either side of the desk.
There it was, the spot on the floor that gave me that electrical jolt of visions that first day I came here. I knelt beside it, knowing now that the white boards were from where his blood had stained the floor and people had tried to scrub it away over the years.
I reached a tentative finger toward that spot. I vowed that I would not pull away, no matter how terrifying the images were.
Taking a deep
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