Collection 1

by Therese A. Kramer

  He mumbled something unintelligible even to his own ears, sat again and came right to the point. “I’m dead,“ he admitted truthfully but he knew the proclamation came out sounding more like a question.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  He swore. “I guess I was hoping you would lie but I know the truth. Do you have any idea when I died? I have no concept about time.”

  Trista gave him a sad nod. The expression on her face looked suspiciously like pity. He waited for an answer losing his patience.

  “Would you share it with me or is it a secret?” he said rather harshly but she was grating on his nerves. “It’s not every day one discovers that he died and is stuck somewhere in another dimension.”

  Trista snapped her brows together and retorted stiffly, “I know you’re angry but you needn’t take it out on me!”

  For a moment Brock’s tongue lay sodden in his mouth before he muttered a half-hearted apology. But she was being too nonchalant and she said she would help him. He swallowed and asked again, trying to compose himself, but it wasn’t easy. He was a jumble of nerves and who wouldn’t be?

  “To answer your question, I believe that it had to be last night,” she replied keeping her tone softer.

  Crap! How could she sit there so calmly? he asked himself.

  Maybe because she’s a spirit, a cold hearted one, I bet! He didn’t like the answer he gave himself and sat there with a million questions not knowing where to start. And he wasn’t sure if she had all the answers, but if not her, then who?

  “Can you tell me why I don’t feel like I’m dead? And why I’m stuck here with you?”

  “To some,” she said, “being a spirit isn’t so different than living. Maybe some ghosts haunt the living for revenge, unable to leave until they take care of unfinished business. Some hang around to help; I’m here for another reason, which I don’t care to elaborate. Not now anyway. But I’d like to ask you my own question. “Do you have unfinished business that could keep you here?”

  Brock closed his eyes and considered her query, wondering if his anger at his x-fiancée might be the sole reason. But as pissed as he was, he had no thoughts about retaliating against Susan or his back stabbing, so-called-friend. Maybe at the time there was the possibility that he could’ve murdered them but now, he honestly could say it was the furthest thing from his mind.

  Answering her, he said, “I have no idea why I’m here or dead. Um… that’s not true. I’m deceased because I was driving under the influence of alcohol. Apparently, a stupid mistake I can’t rectify,” he snickered at himself for his stupidly. “I found the woman I loved jilting me and it left me with a bitter taste in my mouth towards all females. And now I find myself stuck with you, a cold hearted…” He let his sentence dangle and closed his eyes again frustrated, ignoring her gasp.

  What he wouldn’t give for another chance. He’d bet there were many other souls who had wished for the same thing. Cradling his head in his hands he wanted to weep but believed that that would be a waste of time just like his wish.

  “Ms. Walton, do you think you could…?” He lifted his head to find he was again alone and talking to himself. “Damn that woman!” Now he definitely felt like murdering someone!

  He had called her cold hearted. How did one reply to such a remark? She didn’t even try. Trista left because she knew there was no way she’d lose her heart to that man. Some last chance Dream Weaver, the man’s a jerk! Disgusted, she decided to leave that fool to himself; sorry she had a moment of compassion for him. No one helped her adjust to her death he can go to the devil for all she cared.

  Be careful for what you wish for.

  Stay out of my head, you promised not to butt in!

  Three days passed, Trista left Brock alone but she could hear him cursing and grumbling like a bear discovering his honey had been stolen. She watched him umpteen times trying to open the door and she did her best not to break out in laugher at his foolish antics; he was stuck here just as she was. She should tell that to him but she was so enjoying herself and hadn’t had a good laugh in over a hundred years. But then she started to feel a mite guilty, so she showed herself to the frustrated man.

  She appeared and asked innocently. “What are you trying to do?”

  Brock whirled around to glare her down, hearing amusement in her tone. “You know damn well what I’m attempting to do!” he snapped, felling indignant. His pride was sorely wounded knowing she had been watching him make a fool of himself. “And where the hell have you been?” She shrugged off his question in a blithe manor, irking him all the more.

  “Oh, just around,” she rebuked.

  He so wanted to tell the woman to go to the devil but if he was to wind up there, he didn’t want her to join him for eternity. Instead he asked, “How does a spirit get out of here?”

  “One doesn’t, I’m afraid.”

  “Stop deviling me!” Wrong choice of words sport! He groaned and folded his arms. “I’m happy to be your entertainment but I’m serious. I know ghosts can do all sorts of things, because you do. So tell me how can I open the door so I can leave you and this place once and for all,” he insisted in a no-nonsense voice which only rewarded him with her giving him her sweetest smile belied by the coolness of her eyes.

  “I can show you but you can never leave here unless---”

  “Unless what?” he probed. She shrugged in a way he assumed meant she didn‘t want to elaborate.

  “That I cannot tell you.”

  Now as cold as he felt, he began to feel heat creep into his body, but for only a moment. “Can’t or won’t?” he insisted.

  “I cannot,” she rested her hand on the back of the chair. “Sorry,” she murmured and Brock believed her, for now. He didn’t want to tempt fate and have her disappear on him again.

  “Besides, where would you go and why would you want to leave?” she asked.

  That was a good question, and at the moment he had no answer. Nevertheless, it was none of her business. “All right,” he retorted dispiritedly. “I’ll concede for now, since I have no other options anyway. But can we call a truce as long as we’re stuck here.” That thought ran a chill up his spine increasing the cold in his body. He could probably spit ice cubes if he tried. The spirit finally said that he was right and agreed with him that there was no use in sparring with one another and they should make the best of the situation. She also agreed to help him learn the art of grasping objects, but he was still stuck there, for now.

  Chapter Seven

  “No, concentrate!” snapped Trista.

  “Damn!” spat Brock. “I hate this existence, if that’s what you call it! If I had a gun and could pull the trigger, I’d used it!”

  Trista laughed but sobered quickly seeing the look he gave her. “Come, give me your hand,” she hesitated and grumbled, “Look, I don’t bite.”

  When their hands touched, he quickly released the grip and cried, “What the hell was that? I felt like I stuck my hand in a light socket!”

  “Well, you felt something, that’s a start,” she said, making light of the situation.

  Brock reached out to touch her hand once more, knowing that he had to feel something, anything. And what he felt made him shudder again; a tingling in his cold body. He wasn’t too sure that sensation was a good thing and kept his expression neutral. After a moment he decided that he wouldn’t mind feeling it again and again. She was right, it was a start but he wondered if touching her was the only way to warm his body. Then his thoughts began to run along the lines of doing more than just touching hands. He had to admit, she was beautiful with sky blue eyes, and if he weren’t so into himself, he might have admitted that he was attracted to her.

  Can spirits fall in love? Now that was a kick in the pants. He had to die to find real love. Naw, it’s your libido talking.

  He had to remind himself that women were women even in the afterlife. He snapped out of his reverie and looked at her wondering what to say. Finally, he cleared his thr
oat and offered a suggestion.

  “Let me work on this alone for awhile, than I need to rest. All this concentration is making me tired.”

  “Yes, it does drain oneself until you master it. It will also be awhile before you can walk through walls, but eventually it will all come together.”

  She gifted him with a smile and, poof, she was gone making him sigh. But she always left her enticing scent behind, making his nostrils flare. And, he felt an extraordinary void, never feeling so lonely in his life, err, death, or whatever you call this. He had no idea how long he continued his practicing, but he continued until he felt totally drained. And on one last attempt, he was able to grab a vase for a second before it crashed to the floor. If only he had the energy to shout aloud.

  Chapter Eight

  Confused and deeply troubled, back and forth Trista trod the floor in her room; frustration warred within her. The man was quite good looking she thought and maybe, just maybe that sensation she had felt before was the beginning of something. But even so, he had made it perfectly clear that he had no interest in the opposite sex.

  “Having second thoughts over the man?”

  Her head snapped up at the deep voice and she wondered why she hadn’t noticed the corner of the room brighten. That damn spirit chuckled as if he was sincerely amused. “Okay, I’ll yield for now. I can see by the dangerous glare in your eyes, you’re in no mood to talk about Brock. I know what your thinking and I had nothing to do with what transpired before. Admit it, your attracted to the man.”

  She said nothing, just then but forced herself to quiet her tattered emotions. She was tired of battling wits with another spirit and she knew she couldn’t win. “Honestly, I don’t know what I feel for sure. He’s very good looking, but he has a chip on those broad shoulders and…Oh, shoot!”

  Trista shook her heard confused, she had felt something also when she and Brock touched but she had no idea what a light socket was. She groaned inwardly. You better not be playing games, Dream Weaver!

  Damn, if only she could tell Brock about Dream Weaver and her predicament. She fought back the urge to cry. Damn, she hadn’t had a good bout of weeping in a long time. Dream Weaver faded away without her knowledge

  and Trista felt mentally exhausted, something she hadn’t felt in a long time and took to her bed. But sleep eluded her because her head was filled with thoughts of a handsome man with dark eyes.

  Trista stood there looking down at Brock; she no longer fought the attraction she felt for him. He opened his eyes and gazed at her and she was pleased when he looked her over seductively. She was right when she believed that once his bruises were healed, he would be handsome. Would he shun her if she fell into his arms? By the look in his dark eyes, she didn’t think so. It had been too long since a man regarded her lovingly.

  She knew what he wanted, his invitation wasn’t hard to resist and she had no qualms about giving herself to him. This was the moment she had saved herself for, the time she had been waiting for over two centuries. She dreamed of being crushed into his embrace and was ready to be cherished. If her heart had a beat it would be doing double time, but she could feel a warmth travel though her, sending sensations all too new. So this is what love feels like; now she knew that it had been worth waiting for.

  He stood and his large hands took her face and held it gently, whispering how lovely she was before his lips slowly descended to meet hers. Trista felt his hand brush the hair from her neck and she succumbed to the forceful domination of his lips. It made her feel a wonderful emotion for the first time in over two hundred years. When they parted the kiss left her weak and her mouth trembling. She touched his face, he was so handsome and she knew that eventually she could love him. Although she wanted so much more, she felt this was not the time.

  Brock noticed Trista‘s eyes show something he hadn’t see before. Was it sympathy? He hoped not, he didn’t want pity for what he had foolishly done. She was not at fault for his driving under the influence; she wasn‘t to blame for anything in his life. Was it possible to make love to her? How many times had he made love to Susan wondering now if it were just sex? Not love.

  “Trista, I’m sorry for being such an ass,” he apologized and to his amazement she smiled warmly at him. It was a beautiful transformation making him feel as if he had been forgiven. She was so lovely she held such an earthly aura around her that that notion almost made him laugh. It pained him to think that he had to die to find a woman who set his soul free.

  If there’s a God, please let me love her if only once before I shake hands with the devil.

  He pressed his mouth to hers again. Funny how a kiss could make him feel alive and again he thought, how ironic to feel alive when he was dead. Of course, his mind had never been as befuddled as it was at that moment. He had kissed many girls since the young age of ten, when the opposite sex was no longer silly, giggly skinny, tag along, pain in the rump females. As soon as a few began to bud, and nature made boys gawk and act like their not staring, it was then he began kissing the fairer sex.

  Of course, French kissing came later, but kiss women he did. No female, alive that is, made him feel such divine ecstasy that sent shivers down his spine like the one in his embrace did, and she was a spirit. Damn, why did he have to die to feel such bliss? Her mouth was unexpectedly warm, and when he deepened the kiss, she tasted oh, so sweet. She returned his kiss with reckless abandon, and as he roused her passion, his grew stronger.

  This time the kiss jolted him, causing pain in his chest. Did he actually suck in a deep breath? The kiss was so powerful it sent a jolt through his chest causing him excruciating pain. Did the dead feel pain? And why when just a second ago, he was feeling pleasure. What happened? He wasn’t sure if he was grateful about the fact that he could feel anything. He gasped as another painful shock blasted into his chest.

  Give him another jolt, we lost him again. He heard a voice and pulled his mouth from Trista’s lips.

  “What did you say?” he asked, but she merely gave him a blank stare.

  “Huh? What?” she asked looking annoyed that he left her swollen lips so fast. “I didn’t say anything, as you know we were in a passionate lip-lock.” She ran her tongue over her lips confessing she never experienced such a wonderful kiss before. “Are you all right? Why are you looking at me so strangely?”

  He shook his head and murmured, “I thought you had spoken to me. I guess I must have imagined it.”

  “Now I’m really frightened. Brock, what is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she laughed at her pun. “Sorry, just trying to lighten the situation because you’re making me uneasy. Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”

  “Aw, it’s nothing, I suppose. Besides, I don’t know how I should feel, if anything, except that I want to kiss you again.”

  “Brock, I’m also confused. I’m thinking it might be best to slow down our love-making, even though I’ll regret this decision.” She took his hand. “Please, let’s take it slow, to get to know each other better. What do you, I mean, what did you do for a living?”

  Brock blinked. Well, she certainly knew how to kill a moment. Kill? Jee’zes he had to get his mind off death. Yeah, right! Why was she interrogating him now? He thought he was making headway? Maybe he was coming on too fast, but he definitely wasn’t in the mood for pillow talk. He knew how fast she could disappear, so he answered her. “That’s funny question. Are you after my money?”

  Trista laughed. “A lot good it would do me.”

  He ran a finger down her cheek “You have bewitched me, my beautiful spirit. I wish we could have known each other when we were both alive.”

  She laughed harder. “I was born over two hundred years ago.”

  “Wow! That’s a bummer! I never kissed an old woman before but you can teach a few young girls how to. I felt a shock go right through me.”

  “Why Brock, is that a compliment?” she winked.

  He gave her a saucy grin, and replied, “Yep.” And he
kissed her again. And, once more the pain attacked him full force. Hit him again, turn up the voltage. This time Brock realized that the voice was in his head. Confused and totally drained, he collapsed onto the couch. His body jerked as if he were convulsing, making him gasp in excruciating pain. Brock felt himself floating and it frightened the hell out of him. Bravely, he opened his eyes to see himself lying on the wet ground and he was being tended to by medics. This cannot be, he thought. His mind was completely boggled.

  “Give him another jolt, Sam,” he faintly heard one medic suggest.

  “Bob, I see no reason to,” grumbled the one he believed was Sam.

  He recognized Bob’s voice. “Just do it! I know him!”

  Oh, God, Bob. Please don’t give up on me, I’m here! Brock wanted to shout what was screaming in his mind.

  “Clear!”

  He felt the paddles on his bare chest. The burning pain was unbearable and he saw his body jerk. He hurt all over and his chest felt as if on fire; he wasn’t sure now if he wanted to live. He wasn’t given any time to ponder when he felt as if his body was being sucked towards the ground.

  Chapter Nine

  Trista was worried; she had to speak to Dream Weaver. She had left Brock lying there determined to get to the bottom of this. Before Trista opened her mouth, Dream Weaver raised his hand warning her that he’d have his say. “Look, apparently it wasn’t the man’s time and I cannot do a damn thing about it, he’s gone back to the living. Perhaps, you tipped the hand of fate and your true love came too late. So before you throw a hissy fit, I had no hand in this man’s coming here, so…”

  She sat, her shoulders slumped in despair, feeling colder than ever, knowing that the only man who had ever warmed her was gone. “Spare me the excuses because I don’t care anymore and now I assume that I’m stuck here with you. I know now what it’s like to be caught between the devil and the deep blue sea.”