he—”
“Ladies!” Mr. Richter bellowed from behind the counter, slamming a fist down in emphasis. “I will not have talk of that… that man in my store!”
“Why, Mr. Richter,” Mrs. Grimwald said, puffing her chest up in outrage, but she fell into silence when Stella’s basket crashed onto the floor, its contents spilling over.
Stella’s body was trembling, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t temper her shallow breathing.
“Why, Stella dear,” said Mrs. Pierce, “you look something pale. Are you all right?”
“Excuse me,” Stella managed shakily. She turned her widened eyes to Mr. Richter and whispered under her breath, “I’m sorry,” before she stumbled toward the glass door, pulled it open with a clumsy arm, and ran. Out of the store. Down the streets with its craggy old buildings and slow traffic. Past the “For Lease” posters and glaring “Gone Out of Business” signs. Away from the talk, away from the people, and away from the images gnawing at the edge of her mind, demanding entrance.
She couldn’t outrun those dark, tormenting thoughts, but she always tried.
They came in flashes, in unexpected moments, tumbling one against the other. Some were old, some new, but all of them as vivid as if they’d happened yesterday, as if she’d lived them in the flesh.
But she hadn’t. Couldn’t have.
Those visions weren’t hers. Those were not her thoughts, and not of her own making. How could they be? She was an optimist at heart, and only a masochist would have a mind to relive those phantom visions over and over again…
Only recently had Stella begun to suspect to whom those thoughts belonged.
As if with a mind of their own, her feet took her there in long, hurried strides. To the lonely cemetery, with its thin and crooked trees, bare of all leaves this time of year. The sun had begun its descent, the light waning to a muted red, filtering through the clouds and stroking the graves like the flames of a burning fire.
She had been here before. Something never failed to call to her. Perhaps curiosity about the stories so often told, or something else. Something eerie and maybe even unholy. It had started out as a vague interest in her at first, spawned by those stories, now so familiar, and yet through the years the pull had grown. Growing fiercer still as each day went by.
Now it felt all-consuming. The need to see, to know .
Slowly, she made her way to the grave where the crows gathered, watching dozens of them flutter to the air, cawing in protest at her approach. There was a small, ragged chip on a corner of the marble headstone and a lone white lily lying at the base, so fresh it could’ve been laid there only moments before.
Still out of breath from the run, Stella gazed down at the inscription that read: FAITH HARRISON 1930-1958. Kneeling before it, she ran the tips of her fingers down the cold stone.
“What do you want from me?” she asked, her throat clogged with emotion.
There was no answer, except the creaking of a nearby gate that startled her. Her eyes briskly scanned the cemetery, her ears attuned to the crackling sound of dried leaves as the wind swept them across the ground. Turning back to the grave, convinced she was alone, Stella took the flower in her hand, only to swiftly drop it when a vision attacked, shocking her body as it took hold.
It was a dark, murky night, and rain pounded on his back—a man’s back—as he clawed his hands into the dampened earth. The sounds he made. They were so wretched, so full of misery and despair. Sounds that came from a place so deep and hollow, it was like an empty pit inside him.
She could see his back, head bent, and she could hear him sobbing like she’d never thought a human could. There were scratching noises as he toiled with the wood coffin, and suddenly he stood. He threw his head back to the rain, a small, limp body in his arms as he roared up at the skies, cursing God with such fierceness it chilled
“Ladies!” Mr. Richter bellowed from behind the counter, slamming a fist down in emphasis. “I will not have talk of that… that man in my store!”
“Why, Mr. Richter,” Mrs. Grimwald said, puffing her chest up in outrage, but she fell into silence when Stella’s basket crashed onto the floor, its contents spilling over.
Stella’s body was trembling, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t temper her shallow breathing.
“Why, Stella dear,” said Mrs. Pierce, “you look something pale. Are you all right?”
“Excuse me,” Stella managed shakily. She turned her widened eyes to Mr. Richter and whispered under her breath, “I’m sorry,” before she stumbled toward the glass door, pulled it open with a clumsy arm, and ran. Out of the store. Down the streets with its craggy old buildings and slow traffic. Past the “For Lease” posters and glaring “Gone Out of Business” signs. Away from the talk, away from the people, and away from the images gnawing at the edge of her mind, demanding entrance.
She couldn’t outrun those dark, tormenting thoughts, but she always tried.
They came in flashes, in unexpected moments, tumbling one against the other. Some were old, some new, but all of them as vivid as if they’d happened yesterday, as if she’d lived them in the flesh.
But she hadn’t. Couldn’t have.
Those visions weren’t hers. Those were not her thoughts, and not of her own making. How could they be? She was an optimist at heart, and only a masochist would have a mind to relive those phantom visions over and over again…
Only recently had Stella begun to suspect to whom those thoughts belonged.
As if with a mind of their own, her feet took her there in long, hurried strides. To the lonely cemetery, with its thin and crooked trees, bare of all leaves this time of year. The sun had begun its descent, the light waning to a muted red, filtering through the clouds and stroking the graves like the flames of a burning fire.
She had been here before. Something never failed to call to her. Perhaps curiosity about the stories so often told, or something else. Something eerie and maybe even unholy. It had started out as a vague interest in her at first, spawned by those stories, now so familiar, and yet through the years the pull had grown. Growing fiercer still as each day went by.
Now it felt all-consuming. The need to see, to know .
Slowly, she made her way to the grave where the crows gathered, watching dozens of them flutter to the air, cawing in protest at her approach. There was a small, ragged chip on a corner of the marble headstone and a lone white lily lying at the base, so fresh it could’ve been laid there only moments before.
Still out of breath from the run, Stella gazed down at the inscription that read: FAITH HARRISON 1930-1958. Kneeling before it, she ran the tips of her fingers down the cold stone.
“What do you want from me?” she asked, her throat clogged with emotion.
There was no answer, except the creaking of a nearby gate that startled her. Her eyes briskly scanned the cemetery, her ears attuned to the crackling sound of dried leaves as the wind swept them across the ground. Turning back to the grave, convinced she was alone, Stella took the flower in her hand, only to swiftly drop it when a vision attacked, shocking her body as it took hold.
It was a dark, murky night, and rain pounded on his back—a man’s back—as he clawed his hands into the dampened earth. The sounds he made. They were so wretched, so full of misery and despair. Sounds that came from a place so deep and hollow, it was like an empty pit inside him.
She could see his back, head bent, and she could hear him sobbing like she’d never thought a human could. There were scratching noises as he toiled with the wood coffin, and suddenly he stood. He threw his head back to the rain, a small, limp body in his arms as he roared up at the skies, cursing God with such fierceness it chilled
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