“Poor baby, am I so awful?”
“Oh, shut up!”
Teasing laughter was in his eyes and it did not a thing to sweeten her mood.
“I’ll overlook your nastiness and tell you that falling in love has freed your soul. You can leave here now.”
Trista snorted. “And go where? I’ve lived in this house since, I mean, existed here since my death. I have no intentions of leaving now. So you said I was free, but free from what? You?”
“Your smart; figure that out yourself. C’mon, you’re not going to give up so easily. Where’s your spirit? Sorry, I mean you’re a fighter and persistence sometimes makes things turn out right.” He squeezed her shoulder and she was wondering why he was showing her some affection and support.
“Stop this cat and mouse game, I’m too weary. Besides, what’s the use,” she replied sadly. “You’ve won.“ Looking up at the spirit in the multi-colored robe, his look was inexplicable and she had to admit, “You are very handsome, but not as good looking as Brock.”
Dream Weaver picked up a statue and walked around her room. He paused and said, “I’m going to miss you. What if you were to be given another chance? And what do you mean I’m not as handsome as that man?” He gave her his most put-upon expression, and she was glad she had stepped on his toes.
“You’re wasting my time with your poor me antics,“ she muttered and picked an imaginary lint off her grown. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve had enough, so I’ll pass.” He clicked his tongue. “Are you sure, you haven’t heard my proposal?”
Trista walked to the window and looked out at the world as if she was seeing it for the first time. And maybe she was because it looked beautiful and sunny. But… that was out there and she was in here, this damp, old dusty house that was decaying as fast as her will. She turned, determined to stay here, at least she had good memories now.
“As I said, I’ll pass because I’m certain your alternatives are no better than the last one you gave me when I died. Sheesh! you won! Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Apparently this isn’t the time to explain, so I’ll give you more time.”
She snorted, thinking she had all the time in the world!
Chapter Ten
Brock swallowed the scotch in one gulp thinking that it had been six months since the accident, and he was still confused about all that had happened to him. He recalled the crash and then waking up in the hospital. Susan had visited him tying to apologize again but he was not interested and after her third try, she never came back. His friend Bob also visited explaining to Brock how he was found by someone who happened to come along. He had played the conversation over in his head so many times. Doodling, he recalled Bob’s words again.
You’re lucky to be alive. Somehow you managed to get out of the car and you were found on the side of the road by a woman.
How long was I unconscious?
You were unconscious when we arrived and you died twice before we got your heart to beat again. You were in a coma for two weeks.
Throwing the pencil at the door, he just missed Drew Andrew’s head when the man stepped into the room. Drew ducked, giving him a crocked smile.
“I see you’re still in a mood. C’mon, it’s been six months, don’t’cha think it’s time to get off your duff and do something besides brood. It’s not the end of the world there are other women out there besides Susan.”
Shaking his head, Brock looked into his empty glass. “I told you before, it’s not that. It’s these recurring dreams I’ve been having.”
. “Yeah, I know.” There was a chill to his friend’s voice. “A dark haired lady appears but you cannot make out her features clearly. It’s just a dream probably from the knock on your thick head. Look, I have a favor to ask. I know times are bad, the construction business you own has been quiet, but you have so much old money and its time you spent some of it. Why don’t you get back to doing what you did best before you let me run the business?”
Brock poured himself another drink but Drew grabbed his hand. “You cannot drink away the blues. Now, c’mon boss, this is not you.”
“What the hell do you know?”
“I know your being a damn fool. Jee’zes Brock, you have everything you could ask for or buy. Pay for an expensive prostitute and …”
He pulled away from Drew’s grip and downed the drink. “How’s about I fire you, instead!” he snarled.
“I know it’s the liquor talking and I’ve had enough.” Drew grabbed the bottle, walked over to the terrace and tossed it over the railing. The back of his house was built over a cliff and he heard the bottle smash against the rocks below. His friend retuned and sat, ignoring his murderous leer and said, “Look, I’m not going to be intimidated by the deep scowl on your brooding face. Now that I have your full attention, I will tell you what I want. I bought an old house at the edge of town. I did some investigating and discovered that its over two hundred years old and handed down from generation to generation. Around the nineteen forties some modern improvements were added, like indoor plumbing, for what was called a water closet. The place needs to be renovated inside completely with new pipes and electricity. The outside makes the inside look like a museum,” he chuckled. “How about it pal, help me fix it up?”
Brock narrowed is eyes in concentration. Maybe it was time stop consuming his days with the haunting feeling that something strange happened to him when he was in the coma. If only he could recall what was making him so edgy and get a decent night sleep without seeing that blurred face with the mesmerizing blue eyes. He stood, a bit creaky for sitting so damn long and went to the balcony looking down at his good bottle of liquor smashed to oblivion.
“Maybe I should keep myself busy. Jee’zes, I’m too young to waste away. Life’s too short, of all people, I should know.”
A chill ran though his body and the hairs on his neck rose. He became short of
breath feeling as if he were having a panic attack. He needed another drink to settle his nerves, but he’d had enough, which was probably the cause of his jitters.
“C’mon, Brock, I’ll brew a pot of java and we’ll talk about my plans,” Drew suggested.
Brock agreed and after two cups of strong brew he asked, “So what made you buy an old, dilapidated house?”
“I really dunno,” Drew chuckled. “I was at the local bar a few nights ago when a good looking dude sat beside me.”
He looked at his foreman as if he’d lost his senses. “Since when are you interested in a dude, pal?”
Drew snorted rudely. “You know damn well I’m not gay, but…if I were, that stranger was very handsome.” He chuckled. “Now, listen to me. The man introduced himself as Weaver. No other name, just Weaver, like Chere, and Madonna. He said he knew that I work in a construction company for you.”
Brock opened his mouth but his friend quickly held up his hand anticipating his question.
“I dunno how he knew, the man was very strange but I was curious, just the same. He then described the house that sat on a few acres of land, way off the main road. It’s been empty since the eighties and a lawyer in town holds the deed. He said I could purchase it for a song and a dance.”
He sat back into his chair and twirled his thumbs, now interested. “How much?” he asked.
Drew continued, after clearing his throat. “I sang and did a little shuffle,” he grinned.
Brock snorted. “You’re a real comic, dude. So funny I forgot to laugh.”
“What happened to your sense of humor? Never mind,“ Drew waved his question away. “It cost me eighty grand, and that’s a bargain. I can fix it up and when the market turns around, get at least three times as much. And anyway, I can live in it in the mean- time. So what do you say, boss?”
He massaged the back of his neck mulling over his foreman’s words. “Why the hell not!”
Chapter Eleven
Trista was ready to commit hari-kari; she was so damn bored these past months. Dream Weaver had
made himself scarce and that irked her more, even the spirit’s sarcastic drivel and company was better that nothing. Although, she had men in the past that amused her, they never made her feel the way Brock had. It made her wonder how she had managed to spend the last two hundred years. She picked up vase and threw it across the room but all she accomplished was many pieces of shattered porcelain.
And where the hell was Dream Weaver?
She had tried calling for him but he didn’t come. And now she was curious as to what the man wanted to tell her the last time they spoke. Well, she had no one to blame but herself, she finally admitted the truth, but that did not cheer her up any. The truth hadn’t set her free.
Chapter Twelve
Brock surveyed the land as Drew drove up the dirt road leading to the house his friend had purchased. “This is certainly no-man’s land,” he commented, wiping the sweat from his brow. “I pay you enough to get yourself a truck with air-conditioning, buddy.” Before Drew could give him the same old excuse, he answered himself. “I know this was your father’s truck, an antique. So store the damn thing and buy a new one for goodness sake!”
Drew patted the weather-beaten dashboard. “Ah, now you hurt old Betsy’s feelings, dude.”
Brock glanced sideways at Drew and rolled his eyes.
“I know that look all too well,” Drew grinned. “She’s the only female who has stuck by me, through thick and thin.” he patted the dashboard again. “Aren’t you, sweetheart?”
He held back a snort, the man had a point. The old truck was loyal, more so than all of Drew’s girl friend’s, not to mention his own x-fiancée.
After five minutes of spine bruising joggling over the road, the big old house came into view. He removed his sun glasses to get a better look and wished he hadn’t. The place was surely run-down, more than he expected. Oh, we’ll, as his friend claimed, they have plenty of time on their hands. If the economy didn’t turn around soon, he might have to sell the business and live on his inheritance. Putting back his sun glasses because the glare hurt his eyes, he’d had noticed lately that brightness was causing pain behind his eyelids and he had had a few bad headaches. He chalked it up to his accident and thought nothing more about it. But he would mention it to the doctor on his next visit.
Brock carried his tool box up the front porch steps, hoping the rickety boards would not collapse. He felt as if he had done that before with almost the same thought. De-javu hit him hard, but he shook his head, the minor incident wasn’t important to dwell on just then. Once inside he looked around; the place was dark and damp. Drew mentioned that it was furnished with old, antique furniture, and he wondered what it was about antiques, and his friend?
Right now everything was covered with old sheets, old dust and old cobwebs. Drew came up behind him and patted him on the back, asking, “Well what do you think?”
He lifted his shoulders disconsolately and replied, “I’ll let you know later if this job is ever possible.”
“I know you’re not thrilled over the place but it has possibilities. And stop with the rolling of your eyes! Now, I suggest we clean it up first, as best we can, then make notes on what needs to be worked on first.”
He made it known to Drew that that would be impossible and maybe they should start up stairs and work their way down if the place didn’t collapse around them. His friend retorted saying that his attitude needing fixing also. The more he looked around, he figured the house might be worth fixing. There was something strange about that place, he felt at home in it. And in every room he thought that he smelled roses. Even in the dimness of the rooms, he felt as if a lost shadow was following him. He could swear that he wasn’t alone. When he entered the small room behind the staircase, for some strange reason he knew that it was a room for servants at one time. Another bout of de-javu hit him. This time his flesh pimpled with bumps.
He rubbed his aching temples, he was due for another one of his spitting head-aches, for sure. He reached in his pocket for a couple of aspirins, wanting to consume the whole damn bottle because two never did the job. He’d make sure he’d talk to his doctor about getting a prescription for pain pills. He went into the kitchen and spied an old red water pump. He opened a cup-board and reached for a porcelain cup, swatting at the cobweb and a few dead bugs that the spider hadn’t eaten as of yet. Foolishly, he blew into the delicate cup and inhaled the dust. “Blaaack!” He spat out a few foreign objects he knew were also insects. He then proceeded to pump the handle of the water pump but it rattled and squeaked adding to the pain in his head. And all he accomplished was a dribble of rusty water.
“Great! Just freaking swell! Ah, hell! He turned around thinking he had heard a noise and discovered a bucket of water sitting on the table. “Son of a bitch!” he swore aloud. “Where in hell did that come from?”
“What?” asked Drew entering the room.
“That!” Brock pointed to the table with his chin.
Drew leaned against the door frame. “I dunno, but there’s a well in the back yard. Maybe it’s been there for ages.”
“No way, It wasn’t there a minute ago.”
Drew‘s smile turned into laughter. “Well, I’ve been told that people think this place is haunted. Booo…booo,” he made ghost-like sounds.
“Grow up! He snarled and Drew laughed harder when Brock cursed him for his childish behavior. He left, forgetting about taking his pills and walked around feeling creepy. Every room he looked into, his nostrils flared at the odor of perfume he felt he had smelled before but damn if he could recall when and where. It was certainly not Susan’s, she liked Lady Stetson this was an aroma of roses.
He sat on an old lumpy couch that reminded him of his grandmother’s furniture and another bout of de-javu struck him. He leaped off the sofa and looked at it, feeling the hairs on the nap of his neck rise. He was no longer sure if he wanted to stay and help fix up the old place.
Chapter Thirteen
“Dream Weaver!” she called. “Damn it, show yourself! Is this some kind of a joke?”
It had been awhile since the spirit had shown his face; in fact Dream Weaver had not come back since the day Brock left. At first she had been confused by Brock’s disappearance so many months ago, but when Dream Weaver told her that the man did not die, she learned to live, no she merely continued to exist with the truth.
“You rang, m’dear?” he said dryly his tone disapproving. There was a slight rise of his left brow, just enough to mock her. The spirit was such a…oh, what was the use? she reprimanded herself.
“Why did you send him back here?” Trista waved a finger at him and that damn brow went up a smidgen more. And then he pursed his lips together as if he were actually annoyed and shook his head.
“I am sorry, m’dear, but I had no hand in his reappearance.”
She harrumphed and folded her arms and did a little brow raising herself. “Are you telling me that it is a coincidence that the man came back here?”
“I dunno if I’d call it that, but I, err, um, I accidentally met his friend in a bar one night and mentioned that this house was for sale.” He raised his hand and lowered his voice. “Now before you draw your claws, I had no idea he was friends with your fella.”
“Yeah, I bet, you didn’t.” She sat with an exasperated huff. “Well, your little game did not work, because he cannot see me this time. You said I was free to go, and maybe it’s best that I do. So tell me, why did you let me believe that he was dead?”
Dream Weaver shrugged with indifference. “I am as completely baffled as you. I knew he had to be either in a coma or dead to see you. I’m sorry for how this turned out, I truly am. I told you once that you have another choice, but at the time you were not interested.”
Trista forced herself to settle down. She knew she was a fool to ask, but she did anyway. “All right, how much deeper can I dig my hole? I have a feeling that soon the fires of hell will greet me.”
“Ah, such sarcasm m’dear,” he snorted. “Tsk, tsk!�
�
“Oh, go to hell and stop calling me m’dear. I am not your anything!”
Dream Weaver’s dark eyes met hers disparagingly. “Look, I’m not your enemy, you are. Be reasonable and hear me out.”
Damn, he was right, but she’d not tell him so. That spirit had an ego big enough to plug a hole in a dam. “Okay, let me hear it.”
She tried not to sound uncertain but she failed.
When Brock returned to the old house the next day with Drew to work, he felt different about the place. He couldn’t put a finger on it but the structure seemed to have become colder inside, as if the house had lost some of its character. It felt empty, really empty and the pleasant aroma of roses left the premises.
“Are you okay?” asked Drew in passing. “You’re standing here and appear as if you’re looking for something or someone.”
Brock lifted a shoulder and sighed. “If I tell you, you’ll just call me crazy.”
Drew chucked. “I already think that my friend.”
He punched Drew’s arms. “Let’s get started. We have lots of work to do and I know I’ll have one of my splitting headaches again by the end of the day. And no lectures about seeing the doctor, I will.”
Drew raised his hand. “Dude, you are old enough to know what’s right. But are you smart enough,” he murmured under his breath.
“I heard that!”
Chapter Fourteen
Trista had spent the last month in a Hospital. After she had agreed with Dream Weaver that her only chance to be with Brock was to join the living, she woke up in some woman’s body. And the ironic thing was that this female had been in a coma for six months. The day Trista opened her eyes, she knew who she was mentally, but she had no idea whose body she was in. All she knew was a young man was holding her hand and weeping. She must have made a sound because he looked up, his brown eyes grew large and he gasped.
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