Haunt My Heart

by Medley, Lisa

  “I really think you should file a report against your boyfriend, Sarah. Next time, one of us might not be around to help,” Adam said.

  “I know. I’ll think about it.”

  “Think hard.” Adam nodded at Ellie and slipped out the door, presumably back to his friends.

  “He’s just so wonderful,” Ellie said dreamily, watching him walk away. Turning back to Sarah, she fixed her gaze on her. “This is it. You have got to be done with him. What’s it going to take, Sarah? What if he’d gotten you into that car? In his mood? This is more than me not liking him. He’s become dangerous. No more kidding around.”

  “I was scared,” Sarah admitted.

  “You should have been. Let’s get upstairs.”

  *

  Tanner paced, agitated beyond measure. Being a spectator while Sarah was in peril was nearly more than he could bear. The mere manipulation of a piece of paper or small object was far from an adequate weapon. While he’d tried to intervene, his efforts had made no impact. He was virtually helpless to come to her aid. And why no passersby offered assistance on the street, he couldn’t explain. Strangers passed within feet of their exchange but only gawked, then walked away, whispering heatedly to their friends or ignoring the situation completely. His previous misgivings concerning Ellie and even Sarah’s neighbor Adam vanished in light of their continual support and friendship.

  Jason, however, was a different sort all together.

  Many such men had made up the ranks of his battalion. Men like Jason were drawn to battle for the rush of power and the mere pleasure of violence, hand-to-hand combat specifically. Again, his consideration turned back to Sylvia but she was in fact no sort of lady.

  He watched with concern for some time as Ellie tended to Sarah and her wounded knees. His heart ached to ease hers, wishing there was something—anything—he could do for her. She’d taken steps in the right direction today. Cutting the tie to Jason’s phone—her own personal tether, it seemed—was one such step.

  Sarah was a much stronger woman than she seemed to realize, and he credited Ellie with advising her correctly that Jason had to go. The sooner the better. Tanner feared for her safety and wished Adam had, indeed, contacted the authorities.

  “Your knees are really going to be sore, girl. We got all of the brick dust and dirt out of them, but clothes are going to hurt them for a few days. I’m so sorry that happened.” Ellie squirted some ointment onto both knees. “You might want to spread this around. Probably hurt less if you do it.”

  Sarah tried to hold it together, but tears welled in her eyes. She blinked them back and worked the ointment across the wounds, turning it pink with her blood.

  Ellie pressed a large bandage across each knee. “Better?”

  “Yes. Thank you, Ellie. You’re always there for me. I don’t know how I can ever repay your friendship.”

  Ellie smiled conspiratorially. “Oh, let’s see… Break up with Jason for good. Give me your new car. Um, I’m sure there are more opportunities.”

  Sarah laughed and Tanner’s heart leaped at the sound.

  “Done.”

  “Oh? Which part?” Ellie laughed.

  “Both. I’ll send Jason an email. I don’t want him to have my new number. And when the car comes in January, it’s yours.”

  “Um, no. I mean, yes on the Jason bit. Stellar plan that one. But I was kidding about the car. That’s the Tylenol talking. That’s a major prize, and you’re keeping it. You won it, fair and square. Well, sort of fair—you have that whole lucky talisman thing going on.”

  “It wasn’t feeling so lucky tonight with Jason, or last night either, come to think of it.”

  “Are you kidding me? Last night Adam was Johnny-on-the-spot. And tonight? You got both of us. I’d call that plenty lucky. You need a clear perspective.”

  “You’re right, of course.”

  Ellie stood and gathered up the leftovers and trash from her triage work. “So, looks like a Friday night in. I’m cool with that. How about I run out for some takeout, and we watch some television? Supernatural season one? You really need to be schooled.”

  “That would be great. You’re the best.”

  “I am, aren’t I? Back in a jiffy.”

  Ellie gathered her purse to leave, and Sarah hobbled behind her to close the door.

  Before she made it back to her sofa, Ellie called out through the door. “Deadbolt.”

  “Got it.” Sarah clicked the lock into place.

  Gingerly, Sarah settled into the couch, obviously trying to find a position that didn’t bring pain to her fresh injuries. She pointed a handheld device at what he’d learned was called a television and the box flared to life. The differences between it and the computer eluded him, other than the lack of a lettered typing board. Tanner sat beside her and lay his arm across the back of the couch. She readjusted again and stretched her body out, unknowingly laying her head in his lap. The unintentional intimacy so surprised him, he froze in place, daring not disturb her from her position. His heart raced, thumping so loudly in his chest he fancied she might even hear its treacherous gallop.

  No such acknowledgement ensued from her repositioning, however, and his hopes were quickly dashed. The only one who seemed to notice him at all was the cat. Bitly jumped up into an arch and stared straight at him with a baleful glare. After a bit, the cat settled again and curled against Sarah’s stomach, clearly choosing to ignore him. Certainly an improvement over the beast’s previous displays. Maybe he was growing on the old cat.

  Ellie would return soon and who knew how late she would stay. The only bright point in an otherwise devastating evening was that he was home alone with Sarah. At least for the interim. He hoped Ellie would eat and then take her leave. Already he had come to appreciate spending time with Sarah, even if Bitly was less than impressed with him.

  They watched the images flicker across the television, and he tried to follow the storyline. Distracted by Sarah’s slow breathing and proximity, he was mostly at a loss, but from what he could gather, a group of scantily clad vacationers had been stranded together and were slowly voting one another off the island. Occasionally, they had strange competitions and received an idol of protection. It was the most bizarre situation he’d ever encountered. Next to his own.

  A soft sigh hissed from Sarah, and he realized she’d fallen asleep. He couldn’t resist reaching out and stroking the hair along the side of her face. When it fluttered at his touch, he froze again.

  The sheet of paper had been one thing, but the thought that he could touch her—really touch her—filled him with hope. Under duress earlier during Jason’s attack, he hadn’t been able to manifest so much as a breeze. Now he focused with all of his concentration and hooked his finger beneath a lock of hair, then pulled it back and away from her face. Excited, he tried again. Another strand realigned according to his ministrations.

  Tanner placed the back of his trembling hand to Sarah’s cheek and drew it across her face. She shifted beneath him at his touch, and Bitly took exception this time, sending him a warning hiss.

  A rapid series of knocks at the door woke her, and she sat up with a start.

  “I’m back. Open up,” Ellie called.

  Sarah opened the door, and Ellie set a brown paper bag full of food on the long, low rectangular table in front of her couch. The food smelled delicious, although it was nothing he recognized. Ellie moved to sit on the couch, exactly where he currently reclined. She passed through him as he rose and tried to get out of her way.

  “Do you feel that?” Ellie asked.

  “What? Are you cold?”

  “No. It’s something else. A vibration almost. Weird.” Unknowingly, Ellie stared right at Tanner, making him uncomfortable with her strange appraisal.

  “It’s probably the grinders downstairs. Sometimes you can almost feel it through the floor when they grind the coffee beans,” Sarah said.

  “Maybe.”

  He quickly scooted out of the way and wal
ked to the windows to watch the revelers pass.

  His mind raced as he considered the possibilities. If he could manipulate a piece of paper and a lock of hair, even the slightest of physical touch—how much longer before he was corporeal once again?

  All of his hope was pinned to the promise of a cryptic hex.

  “Lest true love fill his spirit shell, his body rot while soul’s in cell.

  Upon this mortal coil may stay, if somehow love does find a way.”

  How could Sarah or anyone ever love him if he remained a spirit shell only? And what was the definition of love? A feeling? A proclamation? What would it take to bring him back?

  He prayed for answers.

  Chapter Ten

  Sarah couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer. The adrenaline dump had abandoned her hours ago, leaving her weak and shaky. While she appreciated the food and Ellie’s attempts to cheer her up, she was more than ready for a good night’s sleep and a long weekend of hibernation. Right now, the farthest she planned on venturing was downstairs for coffee and a pastry in the morning. Then she’d curl up in her chair by the front windows and read the weekend away.

  Yeah, that was a plan.

  Her silent go-home-please vibes finally made their way to Ellie and she frowned. “Okay, I’m going already. Far be it from me to keep you from bed, Grandma.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Quit apologizing. I’m kidding you. I can’t believe you made it this long.” Ellie gathered up the trash. “I’ll dump this downstairs so it doesn’t stink the place up any more than it already has.”

  “That would be awesome. Thanks again. For…everything.”

  Ellie slipped past the door and turned to give her a motherly look. “Dead—”

  “Bolt,” Sarah finished.

  *

  Hours later, Tanner made sport of testing his newly acquired abilities, pushing papers around the desk, nudging toiletries across the vanity, rearranging the framed photographs along the mantle. Each manipulation was a small victory and one step closer to his goal. Just past three in the morning, he struck upon an idea.

  He managed to retrieve a fresh piece of paper from a stack upon Sarah’s desk and then worked until he could deploy a writing utensil into an upright position. He found no jars of ink, but had watched Sarah utilize a similar tool for writing at her office. After several awkward attempts, he began to get the flow of the instrument, and began again.

  It would take the utmost care for his plan to come even close to fruition. Even then, the chances were slim at best. He’d once been considered something of a wordsmith, but he’d never had to write for his very life. His real skills of persuasion worked better in the flesh, man to man—an admirable trait that had led him to become involved with the Brothers of Peril, and then straight into his position as the Major General’s supernatural liaison. A few good negotiations and one poor one had led to his downfall.

  Tanner wrote the greeting of his missive and then agonized over the first sentence for the next hour, pacing, deliberating and finally committing to a course of action. Much later, as the sunrise began to lighten the sky overtop the buildings across the street, with great effort, he managed to fold the paper in half and push it onto the floor. Little by little, he shuffled the letter to her doorway, and slid it underneath so that it lay halfway into the hallway.

  Bitly leaped from Sarah’s bed to investigate his offering, sniffing at it and giving it a halfhearted paw. Finding it of little interest, he mercifully abandoned the effort all together. Tanner’s stomach churned at the thought of Sarah discovering it, and then even more abhorrently, reading it. If he frightened her away before he even had a chance to convince her, all would be lost.

  For the first time since his reawakening, he was thankful he was not with body or appetite, for surely if he were he would find himself sick with the worry that roiled within him. He offered the only other weapon he had—prayer. And he sat heavily into the overstuffed chair by the window and waited.

  *

  Sarah woke, forgetting her injured knees. An over enthusiastic stretch reminded her with alarming sharpness as the now-scabbed skin pulled at its new seams. Flipping the covers back, she struggled to readjust slowly enough not to reopen the wounds. She hunched and hobbled her way into the bathroom to relieve herself.

  Her apartment filled with light, belying the severe cold that blew outside and howled down Princess Anne Street. She was thankful she wouldn’t have to experience the weather at all when she popped downstairs for a hot coffee and pastry.

  Once again, she’d passed a fitful night of dreams and it had her curious to research a bit more of Chatham Manor’s role in the Civil War. Images of the Lieutenant—a rank she knew only from the concerned calls of his men when blood bloomed across his chest—had haunted her since her trip to Chatham. Why that particular soldier starred in her mental reel, she had no idea. She’d never scanned as much as a brochure of the battlefield or the war all the past few months she’d lived in Fredericksburg. History was less than exciting to her. Boring was the word that came to mind.

  The only other explanation she could think of was that the Ale House walls were filled with Civil War photos, postcards and memorabilia. Perhaps she’d seen him there and subconsciously ascribed him to her dream soldier. Nothing else made sense. She couldn’t have conjured him from thin air.

  She dressed and pulled on a soft, oversized fleece top against the impending cold of the hall and stairway, then grabbed her wallet. Maybe she’d find a book downstairs to ease her troubled mind. Greysmith’s purported quite an expansive Civil War and History section, or so their sign proclaimed, and while it wasn’t a library, the staff often let her borrow books if she wanted. She’d mostly perused the romance section and had bought several, as was evident from her overflowing to-be-read collection on her bookcases.

  She kicked something protruding from under her doorway. Curious, she retrieved it and unfolded a letter, written in a large and looping hand. The script wandered across the page at an increasingly precarious slant until the closing barely fit on the page.

  Sarah opened the door and peered into the hallway but saw no evidence of who might have left it. It was signed Tanner. She didn’t know anyone named Tanner. Puzzled, she kept the letter to read with her coffee downstairs. It would take some time to decipher the script, if she even could. Good thing she liked working puzzles.

  Of course, the current puzzle was how to navigate the stairs without falling or bleeding to death from her wounds. She’d worn her yoga pants, the most comfortable and loosest fitting pants she owned. Still, the stairs presented a challenge. Hanging onto the rail for dear life, she staggered down at the pace of an eighty-year-old. Each step a reminder of why she needed to send that breakup email later.

  Greysmith’s bustled with what she recognized as several Saturday morning regulars. She knew them only by sight and hadn’t struck up conversation with any of them. Still, they often nodded or acknowledged her as a same-said regular. It was comforting to be a regular somewhere, and she appreciated the security of routine. Of course, the staff all knew her by name. Living so close, the temptation to stop was nearly impossible to ignore most mornings. The smell of coffee had her stomach demanding attention, so she ordered a café mocha and a raspberry pastry, then settled into a back corner chair by the gas fireplace. She had no desire to be on display up front, exposed to passersby, on the remote chance Jason wandered in, looking for her.

  Finally finding a comfortable position, she sipped her drink and unfolded the letter to begin her translation efforts. It had been so long since she’d read an actual physical letter from someone—let alone one written in cursive—that doing so would be quite the trial.

  Dearest Sarah,

  After much consideration, I now endeavor to humbly and with utmost trepidation, reach out to you and profess my new, although deserved, smitten state. I came to notice you many days ago in the coffee shop below and have not been able to occupy my busy
mind with much else since. Please do not be alarmed with my forthrightness. I begged a servant of the store for your name and nothing more and then contracted for his utmost discretion and secrecy. It was only later, as we were both taking our leave, that I realized you lived upstairs.

  Not that I have anything to hide, I only wanted to assure you that I mean you no harm nor would I ever intrude upon your safe abode. It’s only that I’m in the coffee shop nearly every evening and have already developed a habit of hoping to spy you there as well. I knew no other way to contact you, and so I resorted to the one way I do know. The written word.

  I’m sure it shall fail miserably in conveying my delight in discovering you, a bright light in an otherwise dark winter. You see, I’m quite new here and everything seems to overwhelm me as of late, but when I saw you with a smile so lustrous and a way so obviously kind, I said to myself, there is one to know!

  Perhaps we have little in common? I do love to read, mostly of the nineteenth century. I’ve not dabbled in anything of this century. Is that much too odd? Seeing that you live directly above a bookshop, I must conjecture you might also enjoy the same pastime? How could you not? Is there any author in particular who might strike a chord?

  Please tell me more about yourself. What leisure activities do you most enjoy? Where, if anywhere, have you traveled? To New York, ever? I am from there myself, although I’m sure it has changed much since my absence. Do you have family near? Mine have all passed away, long ago and as of late I find I miss them dearly. I have lost much and now hope to—not regain what was lost, which is entirely impossible—but to live for what is possible.

  I yearn to learn more about you. I feel… I feel a heavy weight on my heart as I write this and hope that we might somehow cut through this thin veil of our separate existences and make contact of a substantial sort. In time, perhaps we may even… no I dare not dream it.

  Yet…

  It is simply that I have discovered, as many before me, that life is invariably short. A fact I’ve come to appreciate in alarming clarity these past few years, months, and days especially. I have determined to act upon and participate in Horace’s age old admonition to pluck the day. A philosophy from henceforth I intend to employ with gusto.