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Meg is still grappling with the unexplained suicide of her sister 14 years ago when a mysterious figure enters her life and warns of imminent danger that is not of this world...

PROLOGUE

 

Change is the passage of a season so fleeting you forget it existed. The way a winter chill lingers one day and the summer sun bakes the next.  Was there a spring? You have a vague recollection of one or two pleasantly warm days, of melting snow and blackened pavement.  It is a memory from some other place and time, like a vivid dream that mesmerizes during sleep, but fades into a cloud of ghostly images upon waking.

There is a certain security in your day-to-day activities, and change is an unwelcome visitor to this world.  It is the inevitable encounter with an enemy you have not seen in years.  It sneaks in under the guise of that phone ringing at 3am, or the sight of another woman in bed with your boyfriend, or the knock at the front door by a grim-faced detective.  Change is a cold kick to the gut by someone you thought was a friend.  You are, quite suddenly and all at once, uncertain of your very existence.  You are demoralized to the size of an ant.  Everything you once held sacred is gone--your ethics, your beliefs in God.  And Truth.  What about Truth?  You ask yourself: What is the Truth behind the veil of unspoken words and actions?

It is the start of intuition creeping into your soul, a vaguely familiar acquaintance, one you are not entirely comfortable around, but accept into your life anyway because you think you should. 

I curse my own existence every day.  My ego, a self-absorbed mind belonging to a naïve fifteen-year old, prevented me from breaking through the curtains of lies and denial that cluttered the events of one terrible winter and one agonizing summer.  God cannot judge me.  I would laugh in His face if He dared.  I’d spit at His words, His open-armed forgiveness.  I am judged by a much darker force, one who condemns me for what I did not do.  And it is years of this suffocating regret, of heart-wrenching pain that lingers late into the night, that has wrapped its thorny hands around my soul, feasting on my life and guaranteeing an early demise.  I welcome Death.  It is an old friend coming around for a beer on a hot summer night. 

Hell, it should have been me all along. 

But it isn’t.  And now she lays there, stuffed six feet underground in a broken coffin. Her skin has disintegrated into microscopic bits of powder.  Her vacant eye sockets lead nowhere.  She is condemned to an eternal dark world.

If only I had seen the change that hinted behind her gaze. 

Then I would be free.      

 

ONE

 

Fourteen long years had passed since my sister tossed the rope up and over a thick wooden beam in Mr. Gryzinski’s barn, fixed the loop securely around her neck, and jumped to her death.  Her body dangled over a half-dozen mares for two hours until eleven-year old Helen Gryzinski strolled in to feed the horses.  But even then Helen did not see Laura.  In fact, the little girl was so pre-occupied with singing a tune from The Sound of Music (I believe it was “My Favorite Things”)  that poor Laura continued to hang unceremoniously from the roof beam while Helen cleaned, watered and fed the horses.  She told Sheriff Steinmetz later that she had ignored the horses’ incessant whinnying, assuming they were just hungry.  It was Mr. Gryzinski, out early the next morning to feed the cattle, who finally discovered my sister’s corpse.  And he only found her because of the strange puddle of liquid that had formed on the barn floor.

            All these years later and I still could not hear a phone ring early in the morning without my stomach turning. 

On this day, the anniversary of her death, I gazed out over the valley before me and breathed a long, shuddering sigh.  It was the beginning of another summer.  The Arizona sun grew stronger with each passing day.  There was a distinct laziness to the air; a relaxing, meandering pace that accompanies the onset of summer.  The evening was quiet, the sky a slowly darkening orange.  It was a stark difference to that other day.  An uncharacteristically cloudy and cool one for June.  Thick rain clogged the air.  The winds picked up with force, a sort of cleansing gusto, like the planet knew it had just rid itself of Laura.  Her sins belonged down below, not on Earth, Mother Nature seemed to say as I stood outside the barn with my parents.  Just fifteen and naïve to death, I watched with calm detachment as the police rolled out the bright yellow crime tape, wrapping it around the entire barn.  The wind whipped all around us, the tape a quick flick flick flick against the barn door. 

My mother was on her knees.  Her head tilted the sky, her fingers digging into her face as though she couldn’t bear to look into the eyes of her blessed God, preferring to mutilate herself than face His judgment.  I did not cry.  I knew I should; my father told me it was okay.  But I couldn’t.  My eyes were as dry as the river beds that surrounded us.  I heard muffled voices from inside the barn.  Then Sheriff Steinmetz emerged with a somber look on his face.  His eyes strayed from my mother to my father who had moved to the side of the Gryzinski’s house.  He leaned against the structure for support, his back to us, his shoulders shaking.  Sheriff Steinmetz then turned to me, the dead girl’s sister, dry-eyed and tight-lipped.  My heart pounded in my chest; Steinmetz was an intimidating fellow with his thick mop of white hair and tiny, accusing blue eyes.  He weighed over three hundred pounds, was half a foot shorter than my six-foot father, and his breath stank. 

I stared back into his face, waiting. 

He chewed a piece of gum, blew a pathetic bubble that fluttered away between his massive red lips.  “We found a note,” he said to my mother but his eyes on me.  “There’s no question your daughter committed suicide.”

I gave a firm nod, like I heard things like this all the time.  I did, but just on TV, late at night, with Laura wrapped in a blanket beside me, a bag of cheesy, sticky Smart Food popcorn between us and a bottle of Coke.

My mother released a long cry before falling to the ground in a faint.  The sheriff and I knelt beside her, calling her name and patting her hands until she came to a minute later.  My father also returned.  “Give it to me,” he said to Steinmetz.  He held out a hand.

Steinmetz glanced at me.  “Did she ever confide in you, Meg? Ever tell you she was depressed or angry? A boyfriend who’d cheated? A girlfriend who’d backstabbed her?”

I shook my head fiercely, back and forth at each suggestion.  My eyes wide, my heart ready to jump out of my chest in fright.  His eyes betrayed his next words.  “I believe you.”  Then he looked at my father.  “There’s not much to it.”  He withdrew a crumped sheet of paper from his pocket.  “I am deeply sorry for your loss.”

My father nearly tore the paper from Steinmetz. 

I cannot live anymore.

Four words meaning nothing when separated, crucifying a family when strung together. 

Behind Steinmetz the barn door opened and two EMTs wheeled a gurney with a white sheet draped over it. My sister lay ten feet away.  The pain that seared my heart at this realization was enough to choke me.  She was so close, yet I would never see her get up and walk to me, her arms outstretched waiting to give me her trademark bear hug.  Never hear her voice, the type that had a light, airy sound to it, or see her face that was almost never without a smile. 

Except for this last year, I reminded myself. 

One of her immaculately manicured hands slipped from beneath the sheet, trailing through the air like a carefree girl walking through a sunny meadow filled with fragrant wildflowers.  Just as she did on our trip to New England two years ago. 

There will never be another trip with Laura. 

The reality hit me with crushing force.  Thick, acid-filled nausea swept over me.  As the rain began to fall, so did my tears, finally. 

*

I sat at the top of Airport Point in Sedona, Arizona, my old Nikon camera pressed against my chest, the telephoto lens resting on my knee.  I forced Laura from my thoughts and raised the camera lens to my eye.  My subject was a Saguaro cactus perfectly illuminated by the ever-deepening sunset.  Behind the cactus, in the distance, loomed the electrifying Red Rocks.  It was a fabulous shot; the contrasting, multi-level view through my lens gave depth to one of the most frequently photographed sites in Arizona, and using a manual camera allowed me to fool around with the aperture and zoom to create an ideal picture.  I watched and waited for the right merging of colors in the sky before deciding whether to snap the photo.  As lead photographer for the Cave Creek Times, a lot of what I did was watching, anticipating the movement or change in setting that would guarantee the ideal shot.

I’d lived in Cave Creek my entire life, leaving only to attend college in California.  It was during those years that my parents divorced, my mother escaping to Phoenix, my father moving east.  I returned to Cave Creek eight years ago, alone, forever drawn to my hometown with a sense of macabre attraction.  I could not abandon the last place my sister ever existed. 

Cave Creek was a fast-growing town about thirty miles north of Phoenix.  Growing up, it was an old ranch town, complete with abandoned corrals and tumbleweed.  The five thousand residents lived along the outskirts, near the desert border, in slab ranches indistinguishable from the next.  Then the real estate developers from Scottsdale and Carefree descended on the area like a hoard of bees, and before I knew it, my tiny one bedroom bungalow was worth five times what I paid for it.  Cave Creek was now a mini Scottsdale, but with a decidedly New Age edge.  The gem shops and fortune tellers outnumbered the HoJo’s and Denny’s, and the vortex walks on the weekends were consistently sold out.  I missed the days when I could walk through town and barely glimpse another person.  Now, instead of dilapidated structures that hinted of a murderous gun-slinging past, I took pictures of the mayor standing in front of brand-new luxury condominiums.  I craved something more, which was why I frequently found myself traveling to other parts in Arizona looking for something that satisfied the artist in me.  Today I’d traveled the hundred miles north to Sedona, knowing the sunsets up there rivaled any of the ones back in Cave Creek. 

I was alone with the exception of a couple of tourists two hundred yards down the embankment.  I watched as the last of the crimson sank into the horizon and a peculiar white-yellow glow emerged in its place.  This new light created an ethereal shine around the Saguaro cactus, displaying its rugged beauty against the deep auburn of the rocks.  I snapped the picture. 

“Nice shot.”

I lowered my camera and swung around on my right foot.  A man, probably one of the native Yavapai Indians, stood just slightly off to my right, ten feet behind me.  His face had that rough burnt look; he’d lived his entire life outside beneath the punishing southwestern sun. He had a long graying ponytail�"it nearly reached his backside.  His forehead was lined with years of stories and experience.  When he spoke, his voice was low, calculated.  I sensed he was a teacher at one point in his life.  His voice held a slightly commanding, though not patronizing, tone.  When he complimented me on the picture it was spoken with a level of pride, the way a teacher tells a student struggling with a math problem “Good job!” when he finally solves it.  A sense of calmness emanated from his eyes, which were two of the bluest eyes I’d ever seen.  In fact, I wasn’t aware Native Americans had blue eyes by nature. And his eyes were not just blue, more like tanzanite in their brightness, but with a depth found only in sapphires.  They were, as paradoxically as it sounded, equally light and dark.  I didn’t answer him right away, taking the time to contemplate him. 

Although I had been thinking of Laura, I was surprised I didn’t hear the Indian hiking to the mesa where I sat. He would have had to literally tip-toe up the rock to avoid loose pebbles and porous sand.  Also, my spot afforded me the opportunity to view the entire lookout area; the parking lot was down two levels to the right.  The only parked cars were my Honda and a Toyota I assumed belonged to the two tourists.  The Indian could not have driven to Airport Point.  

“Thanks,” I said, guarded.  I got to my feet and reached for the camera bag, loosening the telephoto lens from the camera in the process.  I glanced down and noticed the two tourists had reached the Toyota and were tossing a backpack into the trunk.   

The Indian moved within five feet of me, his eyes never leaving my face.  I could tell he was intrigued by me. Or else…I reminded him of someone.  A fleeting look of familiarity passed over his face as he observed me.  Instead of being reassured by his looks, I felt on edge.  He was staring too intently, too long.  I broke the staring contest as I swung the camera bag over my shoulder.  “Take care,” I said, turning to head down the mesa.

His hand was around my forearm before I even had a chance to turn completely around.  I let out a gasp and swung my camera bag up into his face.  He anticipated this move and broke the swing with his other arm, knocking the bag hard into my hip.  A scream was on my lips when he pulled me close and stared deep into my eyes. 
            “Do not yell, Meg,” he said.  “You do not need to yell.”

 Meg.  He spoke my name so casually.  I realized his grip was sending a sharp tingling sensation up my arm.  I looked down.  He held me by only three fingers.  Each carefully yet skillfully positioned.  I should have been able to fight him off, but he was pressing very deliberately into me;  I was frozen. 

I looked back into his face.  “What do you want?” I whispered.  “How do you know me?” Standing so close, I caught vague whiffs of burnt sage. In my heightened state of panic, another impression came to me�"confusion. The sage I smelled was an ancient, powerful herb meant to help initiate one’s connection with the universe. So what was a spiritual Indian doing threatening me? Inflicting harm on a fellow human would most definitely produce negative karmic results. 

You’re screwed, Mister.  Have fun returning as a coackroach in your next life.

A brief smile passed over his lips.  “You will understand that I don’t plan to inflict harm.  I have no intention of returning as a coackroach.”

I jerked my head in surprise.  He quickly added,  “Listen to me, Meg, and know that this is the only information you need worry about:  your life is not as it seems.  Do not trust easily; there are destructive energies in your future.” 

“What?” I said.  My head felt like it was about to explode; I felt queasy. “What do you mean?”

He released my arm.  Yet I still could not move. My legs had become the earth beneath my feet; they had become part of the mesa.  With the sun now set, the full moon began its ascent above the horizon, throwing a blue-white halo across the area.  I did not see the Indian’s shadow.  In fact, it was distinctly missing.  He backed away from me, his eyes still on mine.  “Remember what I said, Meg.  You need to remember it.” He turned and entered a shadowy cluster of Mulberry trees, gone.

 

  

TWO

 

Blackness. 

It was all I knew when I awoke.  My head pounded with excruciating force, a migraine jackhammering its way into my frontal lobe.  I looked up into the sky.  The moon was directly above my head.  It must have been near or slightly after midnight.  When did I fall asleep? My memory was fried.  I couldn’t even remember where I was.  Then my camera bag, serving as a hard pillow, reminded me.  Airport Point. 

The Indian. 

I jumped to my feet, feeling instantly sick and dizzy by the blood cascading from my head.  I dry-heaved, then vomited, into a low-lying crop of Prickly Pear cacti to my left.  The vomiting only increased the throbbing pressure and pain, causing me to vomit again.  Ten minutes later, I was back on the ground, hugging my camera case against my stomach, pleading with the moon to take a break and leave the stage so darkness could prevail, and fighting to come to terms with the events of the night.  There had been an Indian.  I saw and spoke to him and the pain on my arm was very real.  I pushed up the sleeve of my shirt to see if he’d left marks.  He hadn’t.  I climbed unsteadily to my feet, knowing with an unquestionable sense of intuition that if I looked, there would not be any footprints in the sand other than my own. The moon was helpful for this; it shone enough light for me to see my own footprints, scuffed in the sand but clearly my size.  Mine only.

Why didn’t he leave prints?          

Wait, I told myself.  Wait until you develop the pictures. 

It was time to leave Airport Point.

*

The 24-hour pancake house was nearly deserted when I entered thirty minutes later.  I found a small table in the back and order a stack of pancakes with a side of scrambled eggs and hot coffee.  The drink arrived first, in a generous carafe, and I poured a full cup.  Then I rifled through my bag until I found Excedrin, popped three and washed it down with coffee.  I closed my eyes and let out a deep breath.

The restaurant had a wall of mirrors on the left, convenient for me to see that I looked like hell.  I had smudges of dirt on my forehead, my shirt was stained and my hair a mess.  But it was also clear that I was, without a doubt, a pretty girl.  Beautiful had even been uttered by one or two boyfriends in the past, but beautiful described Victoria’s Secret models, not me.  I was definitely unique looking---the frequent stares from men and women alike told me nothing I didn’t already know.  My long jet-black hair, perfectly straight, reached mid-back.  I wore it with subtle layers to help accent my high cheekbones. My skin was a soft pink no blush could replicate. I stayed in shape with daily hikes in the desert behind my house.  I was taller than most women by three or four inches.  But it was my eyes that stopped people.  They were a dark gray, a strange hue that mimicked a summer afternoon thunderstorm.  Dark clouds, ominous, swam within my irises.  Laura had had bright blue eyes and thick golden hair blessed by Helios’ sacred wand.  My parents, too, were both blond, blue-eyed.  I was an anomaly.  A recessive gene had surfaced with my birth, my parents explained.  But even the distant third cousin had had chestnut brown hair and brown eyes.  My hair was as black as a starless, moonless night, my eyes puddles of acid rain.  I didn’t buy the recessive gene theory; I believed someone goofed in the maternity ward.  

The food arrived and I dove into my pancakes with a force that made the departing waitress widen her eyes in surprise.  I hadn’t realized how famished I was and thought back to when I last ate�"a granola bar while atop Airport Point at four o’clock.  Before that, a bowl of raisin bran at six o’clock that morning.  It was now twelve-thirty at night.  No wonder.  Two more cups of coffee later and I felt like a new woman.  I sat back in the booth.  The Indian.  I did not understand how he knew my name, let alone why he warned me about impending doom.  Destructive energies�"what did that mean? And no footprints or even a shadow.  Was he a goddamn vampire? I did wonder.  But even vampires left footprints.  Despite the questions, I was 100% certain the event had occurred.  At twenty-five, I was mentally and emotionally strong;  I was not in the habit of having hallucinations.  There was no point in reporting the incident to the local police.  He’d kept his word about not harming me; I sensed he was more protector than criminal.  And since he appeared to have honest motives, I did not want to betray him by reporting him.  Perhaps closer to the truth, I hoped he would visit again. 

I paid the bill and left the restaurant.  The moon was still overhead, a silver-colored pearl set against a piece of black velvet sky accentuated by glistening stars.  I drove the hundred miles back to Cave Creek that night, propelled by adrenaline and caffeine. My headache had all but vanished, leaving behind an energy I hadn’t felt in long time--if ever.  I was completely wired, ready to run a marathon or jump from a rooftop.  I smiled at the thought. 

My cell phone rang.  It was Jo Harris, my best friend since senior year at Cave Creek High School, when she was new to town and I was bored of town.  We had General Science together, her sitting in the front of the room and me in the far back, writing my name in big, black block letters all over my bright blue Mead five-subject notebook.  She was curious to me.  Unlike the rest of the girls in Cave Creek, Jo had character.  She was tall and thin with bright blond hair cut short to her chin.  It was styled with sticky, tangy-smelling gel.  Her outfit matched.  Pink stretch jeans and a white tank.  She wore bright fuchsia-colored flats.  She screamed Big City, I just didn’t know which one.  Later, I found out she was a transplant from Chicago, dragged unwillingly to Cave Creek by her parents’ desire to raise their child in a safe, small all-American town.  As much as her parents tried, Jo had never lost the city attitude.  And even though she still lived near Cave Creek, she maintained that balance by traveling to all the major cities for work.  Jo painted portraits.

            “Meggy!” Jo exclaimed as a greeting.  “How’s it going?”

            I propped the phone on my shoulder so I could turn down the radio.  “Where are you?” 

            “Boston.  There was a networking event at the College of Art.  I might have a couple of jobs!  I’m here until Tuesday.  Didn’t I tell you?”

            “You probably did.  Things have been weird today.” 

            Jo fell silent. She had an uncanny sense of intuition and had been proven right enough times for me to pay attention to what she said. “I had a dream about you last night. Tell me what’s happened.”  

I quickly filled her in on the details.  

            She breathed deeply.  Her words came out as a murmur. “A telepathic Indian who warns of danger.”

            “It sounds crazy hearing it like that,” I agreed.

            “I think he was your spirit guide, Meg,” Jo announced.  “I’ve read about them, you know.  And the Yavapai are no different from any other Native American tribe---they all have rituals that help connect them with the spirit world.  The stories are everywhere in their culture.  They base their entire religion around what we call the supernatural.  They worshiped gods and goddesses….Even the ability to fly has been widely reported.  Anyway, these cultures believe that those who have died return to counsel those still living…they become their spirit guide to help them achieve higher consciousness.  This man is your protector, Meg.  I bet my career on it.”

            “Don’t do that,” I said, aware of the pit in my stomach. “I’d hate for you to go bankrupt.”  I forced a laugh.

            “Don’t toss this off.  There is a reason that man came to you.  You must be in danger, like he said. It has to be something major, too; I’ve only heard of spirit guides appearing in the physical form if their subjects have taken drugs. You don’t have something to tell me, do you?”

             “Not since high school, when I got them from you.”  I turned serious. “Listen,  I want him to return.  Have you read anything in your books about summoning them? Because I need answers--if you’re right about this whole thing.” 

            Jo paused.  “I don’t remember anything in particular.  Maybe you should try meditating and ask him to come to you again.  That could work.”

            Meditation was one of those things that I had a bittersweet relationship with.  I once dated a guy who’d opened up his own meditation and yoga studio in Phoenix.  Anxious to impress him, I’d tried both, hating yoga but definitely feeling a sense of peace with meditation.  With insomnia plaguing me since Laura’s suicide, I’d meditate before going to bed, hoping to calm my mind down enough to sleep through the night.  It worked, and I kept with it�"until one night in December two years ago.  As cliché as it sounded, there was a full moon that night, and I’d felt particularly on edge all evening.  I thought meditation would relax me.  Almost immediately, something went wrong.  I felt a strange dark energy enter the room and I knew it was there for me.  Why, I couldn’t say.  I forced myself to move my arms, and when I did, they were like lead.  Terrified, I threw open the bedroom door and slept on the living room couch that night.  After that, I never meditated again.  Something or someone had been in the room with me, and that disturbed me.  My boyfriend explained that I’d opened a portal for other spirits since I had foolishly forgotten to incite a prayer of protection.  It was critical for one to do so while meditating.  Catching my boyfriend in bed with a thinner, more flexible, yoga student two weeks later, I quickly forgot about all things New Age-y.

            “You sound like Billy,” I said dryly.

            Jo snorted.  “Seriously, Meg, you should try it again.  Just make sure you protect yourself�"I don’t want you to end up dead because some evil spirit possessed you.”

            “Maybe,” I relented.  “But not tonight.  I have to develop these pictures I took at Airport Point.  There might be something on them that I missed earlier.” 

            Jo was a fountain of supernatural information this night.  “If the Indian is your spirit guide, he may show up in the pictures as an orb of light.  Or, there’s a good chance the pictures will come out blurry--that indicates that a non-living person has visited, and not a sign of a bad photographer,” she chuckled.  

            “Good to know,” I said sarcastically.  “I’ll call you later.”

            “I’ll pray for you,” my atheist friend said. 

             I arrived home an hour later, the clock reading two forty-five.  The night was young; sleep could wait.  I grabbed the camera and headed into the small dark room I’d created in the back of the house.  Once used as a pantry, the windowless room contained an old-fashioned laundry sink two feet deep.  I’d hung a red safety light from the ceiling and installed a clothesline against the farthest wall, out of the proximity of the sink so the photos could safely dry. 

I prepared the room before dismantling the roll of film.  I set three trays on the table bordering the sink; a tray for the developer solution, one for the “stop” solution (I just used bottled water), a third tray for the “fix” solution.  I pulled rubber gloves and a face mask out of a drawer and put those on before I mixed the chemicals in gallon-sized containers.  Next, I placed the containers in a sink filled with hot water, trying to get the exact temperature of 100 degrees Fahrenheit.  After I loaded the film onto the film reel�"a cut and paste process that took nearly a half-hour because I needed to perform the task in complete darkness�"I dropped the film wheel into a developing tank.  I brought the tank over to the sink and tested the temperature of the chemicals.  Exactly 100 degrees.    It could not be a degree more or a degree less or else the film would be destroyed.  The rest of the development process took the greater part of an hour.  Most of that time was spent agitating the solution with tongs to ensure fresh chemicals were washing the film.  Another fifteen minutes was spent leaving the film under running water. Finally, I separated the film from the film reel and carefully hung the negatives up to dry.

Dawn was on the horizon when I checked the negatives two hours later.  I didn’t waste any time transferring the negatives to paper.  I had ten pictures of the mayor at some charity event in Phoenix the night before, and fourteen pictures were taken at Airport Point.  I carried the developed photos out of the dark room and into my home office.  Laying the pictures next to one another in no particular order, I grabbed a magnifying glass from my top drawer.  A desk lamp provided bright, fluorescent light.  I leaned over my desk, peering just inches from every picture, looking for any sign of the Indian.  The first six pictures were of distant cacti and the sunset, one was my prime shot taken right before the Indian spoke to me, and several others were of nearby cacti and bushes, some of the same cluster of Mulberry trees the Indian disappeared into.  And that’s when I saw it�"so faint I had to squint to see it.  In the last picture, a figure, standing perfectly parrellel to one tree.  A woman.  In what looked like a white dress.  I looked closer, deeper, trying to discern features.  Around her neck, a gold necklace.  A cross.  I jumped away from the desk, dropping the magnifying glass on the floor.  I trembled.  My eyes shot to the framed photograph on my fireplace mantle.  She, in her white prom dress, her long blond hair pulled off her face.  A gold cross necklace glistening from her neck.  My sister.  Alive, the night of her prom.  Now dead, peering out from beside a Mulberry tree.  At me. 

 

 

THREE

 

Achieving the sleep I needed was only possible with a dose of over-the-counter sleep aid washed down by a double shot of whiskey. When I awoke late the next afternoon, the events of the previous day were a foggy mass of impressions I didn’t know what to do with. I was left with a prophetic Indian, a massive headache of unknown origins (OTC drugs and a hangover probably didn’t help, I had to admit), and an image of a ghost.

            “What the hell,” I murmured at her picture. “Laura, what’s going on?” I wasn’t exactly expecting a response, but it was enough to ground me and make me realize that maybe Jo had been right�"maybe something negative was trying to get at me, somehow…maybe Laura was trying to warn me. She stared back at me from her photo, her gaze bright and focused on the camera, watching and posing perfectly. It was in the hindsight that only time affords that I could now detect a distinct edge of detachment behind her smile. She’d been keeping secrets no eighteen-year old girl should have to keep�"my family knew this through her horrible and desperate actions�"but we had no idea what those secrets were.  We never bothered to ask, preferring instead blissful ignorance. None of her friends�"which was pretty much the entire senior class�"were any help. But that wasn’t a mark against them; it seemed that no one could remember Laura being sad or mad about anything. 

            But the mind of a fifteen-year old is a curious thing. It has the ability to block out events with seamless ease and replace them with benign, unimportant facts in order to protect everyone involved. That’s exactly what my mind did, until a few years ago when a memory came powering back into my head, a blinding, blasting remembrance that was like a déjà vu episode in its paralyzing way but so much more electrifying. It happened while I was at work, typing a crappy caption to a photo I’d taken of the Cave Creek mayor at another big charity function at the hospital. My boss, Shalene Moore, strolled past my desk and peered over my shoulder. 

            “Check him out,” she said wryly, gesturing to the mayor, smiling pearly whites and tugging at his new suit, “It’s gonna break that his wife cheated on him with some campaign intern. His job there? Smiling and looking all genuine when his personal life is in the toilet? I kinda feel bad for him. It must get lonely.” 

            And it was that simple statement�"it must get lonely�"that threw me back more than a decade to a time when a younger sister’s natural envy for her older sister’s popularity and beauty was also the tipping point to the elephant in the room, so to speak. A cool chill broke out over my body and I couldn’t respond to Shalene; I was held  captive instead to a memory that played without a stop or pause button.

 

It was right after the prom, maybe a night or two. It was incredibly hot out, more than ninety at eleven p.m. Though Mom and Dad had the air conditioners running, I preferred to keep the bedroom window open so the night air could waft in. Below my second-story window Laura and her friends sat on the back steps. One girl smoked a cigarette while the other two stretched lazily across the porch stairs, thin tanned limbs in summer dresses and bare feet. I knew Laura was in her favorite aqua dress, the one she said complimented her eyes. Knowing Laura’s beauty, I was certain that even if that was the only thing she did�"put on a simple dress and not even bother with makeup or hair�"that her friends would instantly be envious. Laying in bed, listening to their chatter echoing late into the night and hearing Laura laugh loudly once in a while, I remember thinking, “It must get lonely.” Because despite my age and lack of life experience, I knew that being the popular one, the perfect one, was a lonely experience. And in that peculiar zone when you’re fading into sleep while still being aware of life around you, I knew her friends eventually went home while Laura remained  on the porch. All was quiet and it was during this period that I drifted asleep. Then, a new voice spoke�"a man’s that I never identified and never thought to tell Sheriff Steinmetz about it because, as I said, I managed to conveniently block it out until now. 

Laura’s voice was tight.  Her words came out in a fierce whisper. “What am I supposed to do with this?” Panic filled the night air.  I could almost taste it, my eyes shut, body limp, in that weird state of sleep, a thin bed sheet covering only my feet.

Then the man’s voice, aggressive, firm. “You’ll know after tomorrow night. If you don’t go, none of this will work. Do you understand me?”

And Laura’s resigned voice.  “Fine.”

A car door slammed, the engine started and faded away into the night. Laura

remained on the porch for a few more minutes�"I could feel her presence out there. Then, reluctantly, she came inside the house and trudged to her room, closing the door tightly behind her.

I fell back into a deep sleep and never acknowledged this memory again, until now.

                       *

The office of the Cave Creek Times was in a former jail that dated to the mid-1800’s, prime Gold Rush times. Shalene, my boss and editor, had framed faded photographs from those days and hung them around the building as a way to pay homage to the past. Or else she thought it would inspire the otherwise creatively-barren Times photography department. I guess I say department a bit freely. The only other full-time photographer on staff was Michael Grace, who Shalene hired a month earlier. I’d only met him once, though, when Shalene offered him the job, because our schedules always seemed to conflict.

            When I arrived at the office around five-thirty that afternoon, I wasn’t surprised to see Shalene in her office editing the latest stories from the wire, but I was surprised to see Michael going through his digital photos on the computer.  He glanced up when I entered the room.

            “Hi,” he said. “We’re actually here at the same time. Imagine that.”

            Tall and slender with a shock of dark curls and even darker eyes, Michael’s looks were striking in a unique way; he didn’t look like any of the guys I’d known. I didn’t know anything about his background, except that he wasn’t native to Arizona. Shalene couldn’t remember what state he’d said he was from, but the lure of almost year-round sun was his impetus for moving to the state only six months earlier. Beyond that, he was a mystery. I wanted to find out more.

His eyes stayed on me as I moved to my desk.  “I know,” I said. “It’s funny that you’ve been here a month and I’ve met you just once.  How’s the job treating you?”

            He pushed back in his chair, propping his arms against the back of his head, his gaze never leaving my face. “It’s been interesting so far. I don’t care for the crime scenes, though.” He paused. “The car wrecks are the worst.”

            I empathized. “I started off doing that, too. Kind of changes your perspective on driving, doesn’t it?”

            “Sure does.” His eyes flicked from my face to his computer screen for a moment, then he blew out a breath. “I’ve been here for hours. I have to get out for a bit, grab something to eat. Have you eaten yet?”

            I’d come to the office to blow up the photo and get a better look at the woman standing next to the Mulberry tree. Yet Michael was curious to me. “I’m starving,”  I admitted, thinking of my last meal at the pancake house. Then I thought of Laura. “But I really need to blow up a photo, so I’m going to pass.”

            He studied me in a way that I was quickly finding disarming. “I have to run an errand. How about I come back in a half-hour. Will that be enough time?”

            My heart pounded. “Perfect,” I managed to say.

            “Hey, look who the cat dragged in,” Shalene said from her office doorway. “You look like s**t. Where have you been?”

            I turned, the moment between Michael and me promptely vanishing. I self-consciously touched my hair and mentally cursed that I hadn’t freshened up my eye makeup since the day before. I probably had raccoon eyes. Real hot. “Thanks, Shalene.” I shot her an annoyed look.

            Michael moved past me on his way to the front door. “I think you look fine,” he said.  “I’ll see you in a half-hour,” he said, closing the door behind him.

I turned back to Shalene, who folded her arms across her chest.

            “No office romance, Meg. You got that? That kid is new and I don’t want you breaking his heart.”

            I guffawed. “Yeah, that’s me. I haven’t dated anyone since Billy, you know.”

            Shalene passed her hand through the air. “Still, keep your hands to yourself. You’ll hurt his productivity. He’s taken more photos in these four weeks than you have all year.”

            “Because taking pictures is a real in-demand job.” I rolled my eyes.  “Seriously, Shalene. Did you get a bad lead on a story or something?”

            Shalene glared. “Now don’t make me mad, Meg. I should be asking you that question. I wasn’t being a b***h earlier; you literally look like s**t. I know you well enough�"you probably haven’t slept in days, right? What’s the deal?”

            I smirked. “I slept last night. For hours, in fact.”

            She stared. “Not naturally you didn’t.”         

            I averted my eyes. Bloodshot, I was sure. “Whatever. I’m fine; I went to Sedona yesterday and didn’t get home until late. That’s all.”

            Shalene’s phone rang. “You’re not telling me the truth, but that’s your prerogative. Just don’t let whatever is going on to impact your work. You’re supposed to be at that Mayor’s symposium tomorrow, remember? Do me a favor�"take a shower and go to a tanning salon. You need it.”

            “Duly noted,” I said, giving the finger to her departing back. She closed her office door and left me to my task.

            I placed the negative through the photo scanner and waited until the software program loaded. The negative popped onto the screen and I zoomed in on the individual slide I needed. Then I amplified the focus to zero in specifically on the Mulberry tree and my sister.

            “You’re kidding me,” I said aloud, vocalizing the disbelief and fear that I felt  when I saw what else was on the slide. I hadn’t been able to put my finger on it the night before, but looking at it more closely and on a larger scale, I noticed that Laura was not alone as she stood at the Mulberry tree.  She was watching me as I unknowingly snapped the photo, but someone was watching her�"without her knowing it, I felt sure. His form was almost perfectly parallel to hers, which was why I missed it on a conscious level the night before. Subconsciously, I must have spotted the thicker and taller outline. I say he because I am assuming it was a male, though I suppose technically I couldn’t be sure. All I saw was a solid form of a dark shadow with two glowing red eyes staring at Laura. A demon?

I didn’t hear Michael returning.  Not  until he spoke at my back.

            “That’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen.”

            I turned to face him. It was pointless to exit out of the screen. “I know,” I admitted.

            “Who are they?”

            I swallowed hard. I pointed to Laura. “She was�"is�"my sister.” I paused. “She died fourteen years ago yesterday, when I took this photo.”

            His eyes widened. “Really.” He was not asking a question. “And what about that other thing?”

            I let out a shuddering breath. “I don’t know. And that scares me.”

            He glanced at me. “Why?”

            I let out a sarcastic laugh. “Not to dampen the mood, but suicides aren’t exactly destined for Heaven.” I glanced at him to see his reaction. He blinked and pursed his lips, but didn’t say a word. I closed out of the software program. Suddenly food was the last thing on my mind. “I should go. I’m going to skip our dinner.” I walked out of the room to his protestations at my back, but I tuned them out. I had more important things on my mind.

 

Need to transition here; I deleted what I had before. The story continues below:  

             

I turned to my car and fished for the keys in my left pocket. As I did, I felt a powerful rush of electricity come over me. It raced through my veins, invigorating me and creating a heightened sense of awareness. The night, even, seemed less dark; my vision seemed to morph into a nocturnal animal’s keen sense of sight. I suddenly felt so much more than myself.

            “Meg.”

            His voice broke through my reverie. I whirled around to face the Indian. He stood against a tree, relaxed, his arms folded loosely over his chest.

            “You!” It was all I could say. The electricity coating my body increased. I realized that the Indian was definitely the cause of it; he emanated a power that I hadn’t thought was humanly possible.

            He stepped forward, closer to me. This time I was not afraid. He smiled. “I am glad,” he said. “You should not be afraid of me.”

            “That’s good to hear.” I hesitated. “Who are you? What are you?”

             “I don’t have much time,” he said. “This dimension is difficult for me to visit; it drains much of my energy.” He paused. I caught the very slight movement of his hand rising into the space between us, palm extended towards me. “I wish I had more time, Meg, because I understand that I speak cryptically and it confuses you. This is not my intention. I merely try and convey what is most important. You see, I am a channel for the greater Spirit, and as it moves through me, it oftentimes emerges as riddles. But know this: I am here to warn you, Meg. You need to believe what I say. You are in grave danger; you don’t have much time. And as for who I am�"I am your friend.” He paused, his eyes falling to the ground for just a second before refocusing on mine. “A friend from a very long time ago.”

            I tried to comprehend his words. “Who is looking to hurt me? In what way?”

            “Just know that you must be on guard. I am unable to tell you the specific name of the person who endangers you; you must discover it for yourself. But, conversely, you have a purpose in this life; you cannot be harmed or you will not realize your duty. Many are depending on you but you must open yourself up to the lessons you need to learn. It is a paradox, but the universe is a paradox.” He gazed distantly over my shoulder. “I must leave now. Be safe..” He smiled once more, a kind, slightly sad smile, and vanished before my eyes.

            I let out the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding and fumbled for my car keys. I got in, locked the doors and stared out the windshield in disbelief. I eventually drove home, but I don’t remember much of the ride. I remember sitting on my living room couch and contemplated calling my mother. My vulnerability, my confusion, my fear craved a mother’s protection.

            She was not a huge help. When she answered, her voice was thick with liquor. “Oh baby,” she greeted me, “I miss you.” Her words slurred.

I felt the disappointment rising into my heart. I sighed. “How are you doing, Mom?” I asked. 

She began weeping. “I couldn’t bring myself to visit the cemetery yesterday,” she said. “I’m so mad still. Why doesn’t it get easier?”

I bit my lower lip to fight my own tears from falling. “I don’t know, Mom. But I should come and visit you now. You sound like you need company.”

“It’s late, honey. Don’t worry about me; I’ll be okay.”

But she wasn’t okay and we both knew it. In fact, my sister, in her selfish need to rid herself of her traumas, was systematically murdering my mother every time she reached for the bottle. The loneliness, the guilt, the pain was tearing an acid-filled hole in my mother’s soul. Death stood on the doorstep of her basic slab ranch, waiting to enter. I felt a sense of responsibility for my mother. It angered me that my sister still had this much control over her, more than a decade later. Why did you, Laura? How could you? I did not fault my mother for reaching for alcohol to numb the pain. She was never a drinker until my sister took her life.

I hung up the phone and cried my own tears, hugging the couch pillows against my stomach and trying to understand what the hell was happening in my life.

                                   *

I awoke suddenly in the middle of the night. The clock on the mantle read 3:50am. It took me a fast second to realize what had startled me. Then I heard it; howling across the desert. Coyotes. Agonal in their cries, a thousand infants shrieking in unison. The hairs on my arm stood straight. A flashback to that night when I attempted meditation. Like that night, I could feel a dark presence near me. I began to pray, feverishly, desperately, and didn’t stop until the presence vanished, ten minutes later, at four o’clock.

                                   *

Author's Note

This is in-progress. The yellow highlighted parts are clearly where I either neither to add more or create a transitional segment. It is roughly the first 30 pages of either a novella or maybe a full-length book. Thank you!