Page 17 of The Mare Rider of Cornwall Cove
In all honesty, I would be surprised if there weren’t at least one given the things that had taken place here. The land itself could hold dark memories. The earth is very much alive, and it can absorb malice and agony just like a sponge. Take historic battlefields for instance. The soil in such places as say Gettysburg is thick with the ghosts of the soldiers who died there. The very dirt under their feet, the soil that they bled out on, drinks in the blood and the terror. Many psychics know grounds can and do hold a negative spiritual residue.
We moved with haste but on silent feet back to our little base camp, shut the door, and then stood there staring at each other as a few glow-in-the-dark balloons bounced around in the draft of the door closing. I wanted to scream at Phil to turn off the camera, but this was what the subs were here for. The urge to go Russell Crowe and shout out to ask if they entertained or not was strong, but I held it back and worked on not puking on the shoes.
“Right, sothatwas an unexpected turn of events,” I said to the viewers, taking a second to run my cold hand through my hair, which probably did marvelous things to the unruly mess. “I’m so sorry if seeing that poor animal upset anyone. Obviously, there are other people here or possibly a predator of some sort?” I looked at Phil.
“Could have been a fisher. They’re pretty common around here, but they’re secretive and solitary, so he could have been scared off in the middle of a hunt and dropped his kill.”
“Yeah, yeah, that makes sense.” I gave my guy a feeble smile. “I think we need to bury the animal if we can.”
Phil gaped. “But you said you didn’t want to go near the asylum’s cemetery.”
“That still stands.” I thought back on the spirits I’d seen here already—shy and timid—they didn’t seem to be unfriendly, just wary. Totally understandable. They’d probably never encountered a human with the seeing eye before. Just rowdyteenagers and drunk college kids ventured out here. God, I sounded like Grandpa now. Next, I’d be telling the Connor boys to stay off our grass. Not that we had any to keep off of. “I think we can find the groundskeeper’s shack easily enough, perhaps locate a shovel or something, and bury the opossum around the side, far from the burial plots.”
My phone was buzzing like a nest of agitated yellow jackets in my front pocket. Phil seemed wholly unconvinced.
“I’m not sure we can dig a hole, babe. The ground is probably frozen solid this time of year.”
Oh shit. Yeah, that was true. I reached up to rub my temples, the odd tingling of something unknown growing inside my head as the night wore on. “But we can maybe place it in a snowbank. You know, cover it up, and then nature will take care of it.”
I gave him a peck on the cheek. “You’re very smart. Let’s do that. Okay, supernatural enthusiasts, we’re going to give Oliver Opossum a winter funeral. Let’s go grab that old sweater in the head nurse’s office to wrap the poor thing in, then we can head outside to lay him to rest.”
“Okay.” Phil gave my butt a pat off-camera. Football players. They do like to tap backsides when something pleases them. With his warm handprint on my ass, I girded my loins and threw open the game room doors. Several apparitions flew off like frightened deer.
“They’re curious,” I said over my shoulder. “There are some spirits lingering here on the grounds, inside the hospital itself, which leads me to think they’re possibly residentiary phantoms who passed while inside the asylum. What a terrible place to be forced to wander for eternity.”
As I walked and talked, I checked the texts flowing in from K&K central. All from Roxie, all in capital letters, and all sent at least ten minutes ago. Phil was right. The internet here waschoppy to say the least. Rural infrastructure was sorely needed, legislators.
SUBS R RISING!
DO NOT TURN OFF THE CAMERA!
SAD COMMENTS FROM THE SUBS ABOUT THE OPOSSUM.
MANY ARE GLAD U ARE BURYING IT.
CAN WE TALK TO ONE OF THE FRIENDLY GHOSTS?
A GIF ofCasperfollowed the last comment of the last block of texts. If only all ghosts were as affable as that cartoon one. To be fair, Reggie was pretty friendly as were the others in our neighborhood, not including the twins on that list, sorry not sorry. I sent a text in reply, but it sat there, the little blue circle spinning as my phone searched for a signal. After a moment, I just pocketed my cell in frustration. Great. Internet interruptions would make the viewers angry. Maybe there was something Phil could do to boost the signal, so I asked.
“Already on it,” he said and pointed to a small white device he was attaching to his camcorder. “Wi-Fi extender. It should help a little bit but may cause the stream to slow at times. Better than nothing, though.”
We found the sweater with the tarnished buttons. I lifted it from the chair and felt nothing in the way of psychic energy. That was not one of my gifts. Some people were blessed with ESP or psychometry in the form of being able to touch an item and pick up impressions from the person who had owned it or touched it last. That would be incredibly cool, but I was not that sort of medium, and so we used the old, chewed sweater to roll around a dead forest animal.
Cradling the dead opossum in my arms, we headed back outside via the lobby. Pale gold auras of curious phantoms peeked at us as we moved through the once-glorious reception area.
“I suppose many of you are wondering if I can see the ghosts of animals.” I was jabbering now, just trying to fill the air with random shit to entertain. Or, hopefully, entertain as we ventured back into the wind and snow. My toes were chilled now despite wearing my best winter boots and two pairs of Grandpa’s wool socks. What I wouldn’t give for a warm shower, a hot toddy—and I rarely drink—and a toasty electric blanket to curl up under with Phil. “The answer is yes, with some stipulations. Most of the animals that I can see or converse with—as much as anyone can talk to an animal—are domestic pets. Dogs and cats mostly. There are mediums with more focused skills in communicating with dead creatures, but I’ve not been gifted with that skill to any great extent. I do interact with the phantom of a dead healer’s familiar cat and the grim of our local churchyard, but wild animals require more natural empathy than I possess. So, no, I can’t ask this dead opossum what killed it. Most wild animals dart off when seen, either alive or in the afterlife, instinct and all that. Although when I was younger, there was a squirrel—”
We rounded the corner of the asylum and walked into a bitter cold wind that made my head ache more deeply and my nose started to run. Standing in front of a large, rundown shack of what was once a grand-looking implement shed was a specter. A lanky man dressed in coveralls and a straw hat, leaning heavily on a garden rake. I skidded to a halt so fast Phil ran up on my heel.
“Sorry,” he grunted as he peered over my head, the light on the camera showing nothing other than blowing wind. “What do you see?”
“A spirit standing in front of the equipment shed. Possibly one of the groundskeepers?”
“Figured. Is it looking like it wants to drown us?”
“No, I mean…not yet?” I glanced back at Phil. He looked understandably tense. And cold. His nose was red, andsnowflakes clung to his gold lashes and brows. “I’m going to try to speak to him and ask if he minds if we borrow a shovel.”
“Sure, yeah, asking permission is always good.” We moved forward. Phil with the camera aimed at the dilapidated outbuilding and me cradling a dead opossum. This night was already weirder than I had imagined it would be, and I’d imagined it to be pretty damn weird. “Arch, be careful.”
