contact with him. He glanced around, expecting to see one or two hovering nearby, respectfully waiting for the coffin to be carried into the crypt before speaking with the medium who was now in their presence.
There was no one there, absolutely no one.
He'd never been in a cemetery and not encountered a wayward spirit. He frowned and closed his eyes, letting his psychic abilities flow out like little feelers, searching for a wisp of ghostly residue.
Cold invaded his body, wrapping itself around his heart and not letting go. Strong prickles of pain radiated out to his fingers and toes, making his arms and legs burn. He gasped loudly, his eyes flying open, at the sensation of sharp stabbing pain invading his body.
The fellow mourners stared at him, their disapproval evident. He tried to get hold of himself, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, silently reciting mantras to expel whatever it was that had grabbed hold of him. His hands shook, and his legs felt like jelly as he continued to dart surreptitious glances at the ornate crypts and statues set around the cemetery grounds.
There was no spirit in sight, no shape or form, no bright lights or circles of energy.
Martin clawed at the tie around his neck. None of the people around him gave off any indication that something was amiss other than the sadness they felt on Stacy's behalf. The priest waited nearby, worrying the beads on his rosary as Stacy spoke quietly with the undertaker.
He feels it too. That makes two of us.
Martin lashed out at the presence, which tried to invade him. His breath came in short, shallow gasps, and whatever had grabbed hold of his heart was squeezing now. The pain radiating down Martin's arm grew more intense as he clutched at it. He wondered if he would make it to the front gate without having a heart attack.
A better question was whether the evil lurking in this cemetery would let him go; would let any of them go. Martin glanced around again, licking his lips, feeling the fine layer of sweat that now dotted his upper lip.
The man standing next to him clasped his arm “Are you all right?"
Martin looked up into his worried glance. “Can't ... breathe ... need...” He stumbled and the man grabbed him, yelling out in a mixture of concern and surprise.
Martin felt another set of hands grasp him as he tried to wheeze in a breath, the air not making it into his lungs.
"He's having an asthma attack!” The first man held him firmer. “Let's get him away from the flowers."
Martin nodded, clutching at hands, trying, and failing to fight whatever was clawing its way into his body. The silently tense air of the funeral turned frantic. Someone was yelling to check his pockets for an inhaler, and another person was screaming for an ambulance.
"Out...” he wheezed again, the movement of his lungs making his chest ache more. The blood vessels in his eyes pounded with the increase in his blood pressure. “Outside."
"Help me!” Two large sets of hands grasped Martin's body then he felt as if he were flying. He watched the blue sky above him as they ran toward the entrance of the cemetery. Each step they took provided Martin with a little relief.
The pain inside him lessened, and feeling returned to his feet and hands. By the time they'd stepped outside, the pressure on his heart lessened and his breathing slowed.
"Sit him down!” Stacy's voice rang out. Martin's rescuers deposited him on a bench as she knelt down before him. “Martin?"
The fear in her voice hit him in the belly. He should never have come here. Still, he'd never had an experience like this before. Never encountered a spirit that was purely evil, like the one lurking inside the Orleans.
"I'm so sorry,” he whispered.
"My father?"
He looked down into her eyes, so full of pain and fear. “No, not him.” He gave her a reassuring pat, even though his own hands were still shaking. “I promise you Stacy, it wasn't him."
The sound of a siren rent the
There was no one there, absolutely no one.
He'd never been in a cemetery and not encountered a wayward spirit. He frowned and closed his eyes, letting his psychic abilities flow out like little feelers, searching for a wisp of ghostly residue.
Cold invaded his body, wrapping itself around his heart and not letting go. Strong prickles of pain radiated out to his fingers and toes, making his arms and legs burn. He gasped loudly, his eyes flying open, at the sensation of sharp stabbing pain invading his body.
The fellow mourners stared at him, their disapproval evident. He tried to get hold of himself, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, silently reciting mantras to expel whatever it was that had grabbed hold of him. His hands shook, and his legs felt like jelly as he continued to dart surreptitious glances at the ornate crypts and statues set around the cemetery grounds.
There was no spirit in sight, no shape or form, no bright lights or circles of energy.
Martin clawed at the tie around his neck. None of the people around him gave off any indication that something was amiss other than the sadness they felt on Stacy's behalf. The priest waited nearby, worrying the beads on his rosary as Stacy spoke quietly with the undertaker.
He feels it too. That makes two of us.
Martin lashed out at the presence, which tried to invade him. His breath came in short, shallow gasps, and whatever had grabbed hold of his heart was squeezing now. The pain radiating down Martin's arm grew more intense as he clutched at it. He wondered if he would make it to the front gate without having a heart attack.
A better question was whether the evil lurking in this cemetery would let him go; would let any of them go. Martin glanced around again, licking his lips, feeling the fine layer of sweat that now dotted his upper lip.
The man standing next to him clasped his arm “Are you all right?"
Martin looked up into his worried glance. “Can't ... breathe ... need...” He stumbled and the man grabbed him, yelling out in a mixture of concern and surprise.
Martin felt another set of hands grasp him as he tried to wheeze in a breath, the air not making it into his lungs.
"He's having an asthma attack!” The first man held him firmer. “Let's get him away from the flowers."
Martin nodded, clutching at hands, trying, and failing to fight whatever was clawing its way into his body. The silently tense air of the funeral turned frantic. Someone was yelling to check his pockets for an inhaler, and another person was screaming for an ambulance.
"Out...” he wheezed again, the movement of his lungs making his chest ache more. The blood vessels in his eyes pounded with the increase in his blood pressure. “Outside."
"Help me!” Two large sets of hands grasped Martin's body then he felt as if he were flying. He watched the blue sky above him as they ran toward the entrance of the cemetery. Each step they took provided Martin with a little relief.
The pain inside him lessened, and feeling returned to his feet and hands. By the time they'd stepped outside, the pressure on his heart lessened and his breathing slowed.
"Sit him down!” Stacy's voice rang out. Martin's rescuers deposited him on a bench as she knelt down before him. “Martin?"
The fear in her voice hit him in the belly. He should never have come here. Still, he'd never had an experience like this before. Never encountered a spirit that was purely evil, like the one lurking inside the Orleans.
"I'm so sorry,” he whispered.
"My father?"
He looked down into her eyes, so full of pain and fear. “No, not him.” He gave her a reassuring pat, even though his own hands were still shaking. “I promise you Stacy, it wasn't him."
The sound of a siren rent the
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