So this is it, I guess. The end, the beginning, the story of how one song can become an anthem for a thousand lives. This is the weakness and strength of pain, the power of love. It’s the limitations of the dark, once exposed to a spark. This is the story of redemption and the promise that no soul is beyond salvation when the very worst of being human encounters the very best. This is my story. A Haunted Melody so deep and tragic it will live on in this life and the next because that’s what love can do. That’s what hope can do. That’s what faith, compassion, and perseverance can do when it’s unleashed on unsuspecting voids.
Often, though, it’s simpler than that. It’s just a song. Just a humble melody of a broken soul who encountered a stubborn angel who loved to dance.
Mystic girl of mine, in time you’ll see your beauty
You’re the song in my head
The heavenly bells that even the dead hear ringing
Oh singing angel don’t let the doubts invade
The space between us, so void of night when your light shines in
Mystic girl of mine, in time you’ll see your shine
Chosen, frozen in time by the love of one who’s eternal
Refine those angel wings for they’ll bring you flight
To celestial heights
To radiant light
To the arms of a sinner like me
“Hey, boss, you got a sec?”
Roy pokes his head into my room, and I look up from the guitar in my hands. Stefan presented me with lyrics from his own journey yesterday, and I promised to start working them into a song. So far we’ll have to make a few tweaks, but they’re not bad. With some work I should be able to get them flowing into a melody.
“Sure, what’s up?” I put the instrument down and stretch my back.
“Well, you’re not gonna believe this but we just got another chest.”
“Wait, what?” I push myself up, brow lifting for clarification. “Ethel got hers three days ago. Who else is close?”
He snorts a laugh. “Certainly ain’t me.”
I cast a wry smile. “Unlikely. I’ll take a look.”
I follow him out, through the hall, past the main rooms, and into the kitchen. We stop at the door to the basement where I pause for a cleansing breath. No matter how many times I do this, I still have to relax my nerves and calm my racing pulse. I open the door, staring down a set of stairs that disappears into the black hole that once owned me. The darkness never changed, only its power over me.
I take the first few steps quickly, always afraid I’ll lose my nerve if I overthink it. The final few are easier, once the initial shock of the dark wears off and the fear fades into comfort. I reach the landing and peer into my old room as I pass. The blankets are still there, untouched and stoic as a monument to my journey. I turn back to the center of the room, and sure enough, Roy was right. It’s the same chest as always but it’s closed again, ready and waiting for the next recipient of its gift. My mind catalogs the possibilities, but comes up blank. Then again, who am I to judge the other journeys in this house? One of them must be closer than I thought.
I approach slowly, searching for clues, when I stop cold.
“Do you see that?” I whisper.
Roy doesn’t respond, and I glance back only to realize he never followed me. I’m not surprised; he hates it down here. Hell, the news of the chest probably came from someone else and he simply passed it along to “the boss.”
No, I’m alone, so I’m the only one who can see the slivers of light crusted around the seal of the chest. My heart starts pounding, my limbs trembling as I take another step toward the familiar box. Familiar and strange because, for as long as it’s been a part of my existence, it’s never looked like this to me. Never invited me with a force that stole my breath away and propelled my legs forward. I drop to my knees, so overcome no other response is possible. With shaking fingers, I graze the smooth wood and test the strength of the light. I feel it. Light. I actually feel the light.
Emotion swells and explodes through my body, everything at once descending in an avalanche of humanity. I am all these things, was all these things. Will be, which is when my hands no longer belong to me. They move on their own to grip the edge of the lid and start to pull. Up it creaks, the light expanding into violent blades that fracture my vision. Heat washes over my skin, the warmth of peace and joy, as I squint into the blinding inferno. There’s no doubt anymore, no question that this is for me. My chest, my forever.
Tears burn my eyes as they widen in anticipation. What is my forever? I’ve never known what the others see in this moment, each journey too personal to relate to another’s. What did Rachel see in her final moments? I like to think it was a golden guitar or a gilded stage she could inhabit for all of eternity. Maybe a sea of the most perfect roses. I’ve thought about it a lot actually, so perhaps it’s funny I never considered my own fate. Never even thought my name would be engraved on one of these things. But here I am, blinded and humbled by perfect light. My light.
Milo.
My heart hammers against my ribs. I force my eyes to stay open, staring directly into the radiance. At first I see nothing but brilliant white. Slowly, a form emerges, strange and familiar like everything else about this moment. Tears streak down my cheeks and my strength gives way as I’m greeted by a sweet, legendary smile and crystal blue eyes. Her dark hair shines, blowing in a phantom breeze, while the scent of roses fills the air around us. I can’t speak, can’t move, overcome by flawless beauty and a love so intense it outshines everything else.
She is resplendent.
“Rachel?” My voice is little more than cracked oxygen, my soul bursting and lifting into the weight of air as she reaches out her hand. Our fingers intertwine, and she giggles at my shock.
I can’t believe she almost convinced me she wasn’t an angel. Her fingers squeeze mine and tug me toward the stunning white light. “Hi, Milo.”
Her sweet voice is brimming with the music we found together. She smiles up at me, her eyes reflecting the same emotion exploding inside me. Pure joy. Pure love. Pure light for a soul that was once so dark he couldn’t see his prison. Now, beyond all reason, I’m in the arms of an angel intent on leading me home.
She grins at my reaction, her pace quickening into the adorable skip I’ve come to love. “You coming?” she calls back, yanking me forward. I nod, slipping eagerly into my assigned destiny: following forever in the shadow of the sun.
Her laugh fills the heavens as she pulls us along, as bright as the light around us. Beautiful and melodious, sure, but it’s the mischief in her eyes when she looks back at me again that seals my fate.
“Oh, and Milo? You were right. It’s amazing. Just wait until you hear the acoustics of this place!”
Epilogue
“Come on!”
“What?” I groan. Yes, even in eternal bliss Rachel moves at a breakneck speed. She pulls me up, and I almost stumble from her frenetic pace. “Whoa, slow down! Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” she says with a laugh. Her face pinks with a blush, her gaze turning coy. “I have a surprise for you.”
“Really?” I ask skeptically. “What is it?”
“Why do people always ask that? It’s not a logical question in response to that statement. If a person says they have a surprise, then why would…” I can’t hear the rest as she bolts on ahead of me. I grin and shake my head, practically running now to catch up with her. When we reach The Gate, she stops and stares up with reverence at the imposing monument. I do the same. It’s impossible not to with all it represents.
“What is this?” I ask, casting her a suspicious look. “What’s going on?”
“We have an assignment.”
“Huh?”
“You’ll see. You just have to trust me.”
She grabs my hand, and before I know it we’re passing through one plane and landing in another. I flinch at our new surroundings, surprised to find an ordinary-looking bedroom. We
ll, not exactly. Something’s off about it. There’s an unbalanced weight to the atmosphere, as if its function and intent are out of sync.
“A kid’s room?” I whisper.
She nods, her expression shifting into concern as her eyes settle on the small bed. I follow her gaze, my heart stalling in my chest. A little body lies motionless under a blanket, guarded by the familiar sight of devastated parents. My heart breaks, emotion building in my throat and confusing the moment into old, painful memories.
“What are we doing here?” I ask. She looks over, softening at the tears in my eyes.
“You’ll see.”
“Who is that?”
“Just—”
“Eeeek!” A high-pitched shriek erupts behind us, and I turn in surprise. I barely have time to process the sight before Addie Rose comes bounding toward me, tiny arms open wide. I laugh and fall to my knees, catching her against me when she jumps. “Uncle Milo! I missed you so much,” she cries, squeezing me tight. “Did you come to take me home? Mommy said when the angels came I was supposed to go with them. I knew you were an angel. I knew it!”
The tears become too much to hold back, and when I glance up to meet Rachel’s wet, glossy stare I don’t even try.
“Yes, squirt. We came to take you home. You ready?”
She pulls back, face scrunched into her signature duh look. I laugh again and swat at my eyes. Addie Rose shoves her hand into mine and starts pulling. Where, I’m not sure. Not knowing doesn’t seem to slow her down, though, and I have a feeling between Addie and Rachel, there won’t be a moment’s rest for me.
“Will they have coloring books there?”
“Um… Probably.”
“What about cake? Definitely cake. Not even just the chocolate or vanilla kind but the one with the sprinkles right in the cake. You know what kind I mean, Uncle Milo?”
Rachel takes her other hand, and I mouth a “thank you,” as we start walking. She smiles back and offers a smug, “told you so.”
I smile and do my best to tune back in to the chatterbox now jumping and swinging between us.
“Oh and ponies! There’s got to be ponies. A white one. No purple! Are there purple ponies, Uncle Milo? If not maybe we could paint the white ones…”
There’s more. So much more, and I squeeze her hand to acknowledge the monologue as it pours out. I decide right then that there’s no better soundtrack than the sweet melody of innocence to guide us home.
The End.
For more Milo and Rachel, click here for an exclusive Haunted Melody bonus scene.
More from Alyson
Alyson Santos is a writer, musician, and cat lover. You will find evidence of her obsession with music in most of her books, many of which are now available in audio and/or Kindle Unlimited. Have you faced the music in these emotional and powerful stories about finding the light in the darkness? Explore love in a new way by checking out these other titles by Alyson. Happy reading!
THE NSB ROCKER SERIES
NIGHT SHIFTS BLACK (NSB #1)
TRACING HOLLAND (NSB #2)
VIPER (NSB #3)
LIMELIGHT (NSB #4)
AN NSB WEDDING (NSB #5)
STANDALONES
YOUNG LOVE
TRAITOR (TWISTED FATE #1)
Playlist
So many songs and artists inspired me while writing this book. Although the genres and styles may vary, music speaks a universal language that transcends boundaries and touches lives. For more on the specific songs that inspired Haunted Melody: A Ghost Story’s, follow this playlist, along with many others, on Aly’s Spotify channel.
I’d like to give a special shout out to Boyce Avenue. The pure, haunting vocals and stripped down acoustic style, particularly in “Say Something,” deeply inspired Milo and Rachel’s musical connection in this book.
Stay in Touch
Thank you for taking this journey with me. I would love to hear from you! For updates, reveals, and more subscribe to my newsletter and join my fun, laidback reader group on Facebook: Aly’s Breakfast Club.
Alyson Santos
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Trexlertown, PA 18087-0577
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Acknowledgements
From the start of my journey, I’ve been blown away by the amount of support from new friends, readers, bloggers, and fellow authors. I can’t possibly see this as my accomplishment, but as an incredible blessing thanks, in large part, to all of you. There are so many people in my heart, and I wish I could list every one of you, even though I know it’s impossible. Please know that I treasure you all and take nothing for granted.
To my amazing husband who is always there to support me. Without you I would not be writing these words.
To Hazel James, Lindsey DeCastro, and Jayne Frost: Thank you for believing in my words even when I didn’t. You gave me the courage to keep going when I needed it most.
To Sunniva Dee: Thank you for your encouragement, patience, and helping me sculpt these words to be the best they can be. Love you, AB.
To Nicola Tremere, Darlene Avery, Kali McQuillen, and Brenda Travers: Your friendship and feedback mean so much to me.
To Emily Kidman: Thank you for the title idea and marketing guidance.
To Monika MacFarlane (Ampersand Book Covers): Thank you for designing the perfect cover for Milo’s story.
To Ryan and Alli Anderson: AKA Dr. Ryan (and nurse Alli). Thank you for sharing your medical knowledge and patience for my many questions!
To the “epic” members of ABC (Aly’s Breakfast Club): I can never thank you enough for your encouragement and support. You always bring a smile to my face and remind me why I do this. I love you hard!
To all my readers, I wish I could thank every one of you. Thank you for taking this journey with me and I would love to hear from you!
Excerpt from NIGHT SHIFTS BLACK
NSB Series, Book 1
Just a simple picture. Innocuous to anyone else, but horrifying to those who recognize that ugly, battered, vacant diner chair.
Day One.
I’d be lying if I said I don’t notice him enter the restaurant. We all do. It’s impossible not to.
He isn’t drop-dead gorgeous or anything. In fact, I can’t describe a single trait I haven’t seen before. He’s not particularly tall, nor is he memorably short. His hair is messy in an intentional kind of way that makes you think he cares a little, but not too much. At the very least, he used to care and old habits die hard. He’s dressed similarly, casual, but uncomfortably so, like this is his one pair of jeans in a closet full of suits. Although really, his jeans are too expensive to count as jeans anyway. He hasn’t shaved in a couple days but it suits him and makes you pretty sure it’s an intentional look. No, it isn’t any of that.
It’s the way his eyes scan the café. The chairs, the walls, the ceiling. The way what should be a very confident young man cowers in the entrance, the cold air blowing in behind him, interrupting our breakfasts with his personal drama. Stan Hemford even mutters something about moving in or moving out, but I don’t worry about Stan. I can only stare at our intruder’s clenched fists and the way they mirror his set jaw. He’s here, but he doesn’t want to be.
And then, his eyes seem to find what he’s looking for.
Me.
I almost choke on my tea as he begins his approach, and my brain launches a frantic index of the last few years, trying to piece together why I’d have any role in this person’s life. Maybe he kind of looks familiar, but I don’t think I know him. He isn’t the type you’d forget so I believe myself. In a brief moment of absurdity I even consider the possibility that this is a
real live hit. But he doesn’t look like a hit man, at least not what a girl who’s spent most of her life in a rural Pennsylvania town imagines a hit man to look like. He looks more like the guy who would hire the hit man. Actually, he looks like the actor who would play the guy who hires the hit man. A hit man? That’s my working theory? I swallow.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” he begins with an obvious accent, which is actually the first thing about the scene that doesn’t surprise me. Nothing about him fits here, at this place, in this moment. It’s all so foreign that, for a split second, I feel like I don’t fit either.
“Can I help you with something? You look lost.”
His eyes change again, filling with a heavy sadness. Fear, maybe. No, terror. I don’t move. Everyone is watching us.
He shakes his head. “I’m not lost. I was just hoping I could have your chair for a bit.”
“My chair?”
“There are many others available.”
“True.”
There’s one right across from me. I really don’t have a good reason not to move, nor can I imagine denying the simple request with him looking at me like that.
“Sure, no problem.”
I push my saucer across the table and stand with great ceremony. He stares at me in shock, maybe a hint of amusement, as I skirt around him and drop to the other side of the table.
Haunted Melody: A Ghost Story Page 21