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Ghost of the Past
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The Mourner's Cradle: A Widow’s Journey Downtown
DOWNTOWNIOn an outeredge of St. Charles, just before the downtown area thinned toward the outskirts, the flickering neon sign of the King’s Motel burned against the night. For Anne, cheap rooms were the motel’s prime selling point. She had almost two hundred dollars in cash left.The mustached man behind the counter, whose name tag read Mike, pretended not to see her at first. She stood waiting for almost a minute before he raised his head to regard her for an expressionless moment.“Can I help you?” he asked.“I need a room,” she said.“How many nights?”“One. For now.”“Eight dollars.”Anne lowered the green pack onto the floor and crouched to open it. She sorted through it until she came up with seven crumpled dollar bills, which she tossed onto the counter along with a handful of change. Mike blew audibly through his nostrils. He took the money and slid a key onto the counter.“Room 26,” Mike said, and turned his attention elsewhere.Anne took the key and exited
The Mourner's Cradle: A Widow’s Journey Hour of Destruction
HOUR OF DESTRUCTIONIAnne stumbled outof her motel room. The sickness lurched in her again with another sudden bout of dizziness. Coupled with the unsteady ground, it almost staggered her.The vibrations in the ground were no delusions. They were as real as the cold feeling that gripped her inside.Why the ground shook, she couldn’t begin to guess. Of the rest, Anne suspected, she was dying.That exhausting climb into the mountains, the loss suffered, and her experience in the pit had not been altogether in vain. The secret of that place was inside her, changing her. She had merely failed to realize it until now.Many of the motel’s other customers stood outside. The vibrations beneath their feet and the rattling of mirrors, windows, and anything that wasn’t bolted down had driven them out. Undistracted by the shouts and excited conversations all around, Anne stumbled away from the King’s Motel.Her feet reached the hard street. She followed the long, dark stretch but cou
The Mourner's Cradle: A Widow’s Journey Minute of Truth
MINUTE OF TRUTHIThe ground steadied across St. Charles. Mike Williams still sat in the storage room behind the front counter of the King’s Motel, watching continued coverage of the earthquake’s effects.“Authorities have reported that the River Bridge has been closed due to the earthquake’s destruction,” the reporter said. “All around St. Charles, especially downtown, we continue to receive reports of damages. While many people around the city are working to pick up the pieces, a few have questioned the possibility of an aftershock. We’ll have more on this later. We will also be on the scene with officers at the River Bridge for a full report on the additional difficulties this catastrophe could mean for the residents of St. Charles in the days and months ahead. Please stay tuned to this channel for further updates as they develop.”Around the River Bridge, blue lights whirled. Police guarded the River Bridge and turned away traffic as it arrived. Below, on both sides of the rive
The Mourner's Cradle: A Widow’s Journey Tragedy
TRAGEDYIAt the frontdesk of the King’s Motel, Mike Williams read a newspaper, absorbing further second-hand details of the quake’s impact along with all of the latest sports updates. The maid came in to work as usual but shrank away from cleaning one of the rooms. The guest there had screamed at her like a lunatic, she claimed.Annoyed, Mike dropped the newspaper and stood up. Since the maid couldn’t be bothered to do her job today, it fell on his shoulders.He snatched the maid’s cart from her and wheeled it to the room. The door stood slightly open, he noticed. He knocked. No one answered.“Anybody in there?” he called. He allowed five seconds for a response before he pushed the red door wide open and walked in.The room was vacant. The comforter lay halfway off the bed. The sheets were wrinkled.The clock radio on the bedside nightstand blared the news. He almost switched it off, but decided not to bother. At least it gave him something to listen to while he took his
The Mourner's Cradle: A Widow’s Journey Cemetery Whispers
1979CEMETERY WHISPERSEven before thecalamity that shook the city to its deepest foundations, St. Charles, a place of some charm and innocence during the late seventies, held its traces of dark history and secrets. As St. Charles expanded, becoming more actual city than town, its shadows subsisted. With industry and developments accelerating the city’s way of life, many of the old tales, such as those surrounding Marion Cemetery, were forgotten by most.“Be careful around Marion Cemetery,” a few of the city’s fading elderly used to say to their children. “Or the shadows might carry you away.”Dominguez remembered. Having seen almost a full century, he was a man of many secrets. Though his frame was frail and his mind aged, he remembered much.As the cemetery’s solitary gravedigger, Dominguez often strolled its outer perimeter during the dark hours. In his way, he walked the boundary of darkness and light.His occasional whispering to the shadows punctured the silence, for
The Mourner's Cradle: A Widow’s Journey Loss
LOSSIIn the spring of ’79, the efforts of Damon Sharpe’s research reached a pinnacle. He had in part been victorious, he believed, in his battle to unearth a truth obscured by time. He had only to look on it with his own eyes to verify the success as more than personal, though it remained a victory few recognized as authentic.The only things that made Damon different to his wife, Anne, were that she loved him and that he was who he was—and he had loved her, even if no one else seemed to remember her. Damon’s wife, they probably called her, the ones who knew he had a wife. The invisible woman. Spring became summer, which faded into early autumn. The leaves turned and fell.Anne lay among the sheets of the bed with her head against a flat white pillow. As the wall clock ticked away, she stared at the empty space on the other side of the bed.At the age of 38, her husband had died of a heart attack and Anne was alone with a house full of things, unfilled wishes, dreams, and remn
The Mourner's Cradle: A Widow’s Journey Intruder
INTRUDERIWhen the manstepped in and saw her there, he froze. Their eyes locked.He was bald, with a flat nose and narrow eyes. The beginnings of a gray-speckled black beard lined his jaw. His frame filled out a navy-blue tee-shirt and black jacket.Anne broke away and ran. The intruder dashed after her. She reached the bedroom door and his hand twisted into the back of her shirt to jerk her backward. The clothing ripped. Thick gloved fingers seized her arm.Anne spun and struck. Her knuckles struck his tender windpipe and he released her, shocked and gasping. He clutched his throat. Anne bolted into the bedroom.She ran to the bag on the bed and grabbed for its strap but fumbled. The bald man charged through the bedroom doorway, running across the room toward her.She turned and popped a vicious kick at him. Her heel glanced from his shin, and his weight slammed her to the edge of the bed. In her struggling, she slipped down to the carpet below. Her head struck the edge
The Mourner's Cradle: A Widow’s Journey Taking Flight
TAKING FLIGHTIThe St. Charles RegionalAirport was only semi-crowded today. Anne rushed across its expanse to the nearest pay phone she could find and dialed Ruben’s number again. This time, he answered.“This is Ruben Ramirez.”“Ruben, this is Anne.”“Anne. How are you?”“I’m at the airport. Can you meet me here?”“At the airport?”“Can you meet me here or not?”Ruben paused. Anne’s voice had remained neutral, but her delivery was concise. She didn’t care to squander the minutes away, not now. If anyone would understand, she thought, Ruben would.“All right,” Ruben said. “Tell me exactly where you will be and I’ll meet you there.”“There is a café here,” she said. “A small one in the airport. I think it must be new. I’ll be waiting for you there. Is your passport current?”“Excuse me?”“If it is, bring it.”“What is this about, Anne?”Finding a beginning wasn’t easy. With everything coursing through Anne’s mind, she ran the risk of spewing it out in an incomprehe
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The Mourner's Cradle: A Widow’s Journey Tragedy
TRAGEDYIAt the frontdesk of the King’s Motel, Mike Williams read a newspaper, absorbing further second-hand details of the quake’s impact along with all of the latest sports updates. The maid came in to work as usual but shrank away from cleaning one of the rooms. The guest there had screamed at her like a lunatic, she claimed.Annoyed, Mike dropped the newspaper and stood up. Since the maid couldn’t be bothered to do her job today, it fell on his shoulders.He snatched the maid’s cart from her and wheeled it to the room. The door stood slightly open, he noticed. He knocked. No one answered.“Anybody in there?” he called. He allowed five seconds for a response before he pushed the red door wide open and walked in.The room was vacant. The comforter lay halfway off the bed. The sheets were wrinkled.The clock radio on the bedside nightstand blared the news. He almost switched it off, but decided not to bother. At least it gave him something to listen to while he took his
The Mourner's Cradle: A Widow’s Journey Minute of Truth
MINUTE OF TRUTHIThe ground steadied across St. Charles. Mike Williams still sat in the storage room behind the front counter of the King’s Motel, watching continued coverage of the earthquake’s effects.“Authorities have reported that the River Bridge has been closed due to the earthquake’s destruction,” the reporter said. “All around St. Charles, especially downtown, we continue to receive reports of damages. While many people around the city are working to pick up the pieces, a few have questioned the possibility of an aftershock. We’ll have more on this later. We will also be on the scene with officers at the River Bridge for a full report on the additional difficulties this catastrophe could mean for the residents of St. Charles in the days and months ahead. Please stay tuned to this channel for further updates as they develop.”Around the River Bridge, blue lights whirled. Police guarded the River Bridge and turned away traffic as it arrived. Below, on both sides of the rive
The Mourner's Cradle: A Widow’s Journey Hour of Destruction
HOUR OF DESTRUCTIONIAnne stumbled outof her motel room. The sickness lurched in her again with another sudden bout of dizziness. Coupled with the unsteady ground, it almost staggered her.The vibrations in the ground were no delusions. They were as real as the cold feeling that gripped her inside.Why the ground shook, she couldn’t begin to guess. Of the rest, Anne suspected, she was dying.That exhausting climb into the mountains, the loss suffered, and her experience in the pit had not been altogether in vain. The secret of that place was inside her, changing her. She had merely failed to realize it until now.Many of the motel’s other customers stood outside. The vibrations beneath their feet and the rattling of mirrors, windows, and anything that wasn’t bolted down had driven them out. Undistracted by the shouts and excited conversations all around, Anne stumbled away from the King’s Motel.Her feet reached the hard street. She followed the long, dark stretch but cou
The Mourner's Cradle: A Widow’s Journey Downtown
DOWNTOWNIOn an outeredge of St. Charles, just before the downtown area thinned toward the outskirts, the flickering neon sign of the King’s Motel burned against the night. For Anne, cheap rooms were the motel’s prime selling point. She had almost two hundred dollars in cash left.The mustached man behind the counter, whose name tag read Mike, pretended not to see her at first. She stood waiting for almost a minute before he raised his head to regard her for an expressionless moment.“Can I help you?” he asked.“I need a room,” she said.“How many nights?”“One. For now.”“Eight dollars.”Anne lowered the green pack onto the floor and crouched to open it. She sorted through it until she came up with seven crumpled dollar bills, which she tossed onto the counter along with a handful of change. Mike blew audibly through his nostrils. He took the money and slid a key onto the counter.“Room 26,” Mike said, and turned his attention elsewhere.Anne took the key and exited
The Mourner's Cradle: A Widow’s Journey Ghost of the Past
GHOST OF THE PASTIShe came alonefrom the mountains. Thin, frail, and ashen, she appeared the ghost of a woman.The people of the small countryside village watched her as they had before. They didn’t recognize her from the previous occasion. She spoke little, only dropping a few items in trade for provisions.They muttered among themselves. Those who passed her closely enough saw something in her eyes they could not comprehend, and it disturbed them. Was it madness? Evil? Who or what was this woman and where had she come from?They were happy to see her go. Her presence frightened the children.In other towns along her route, she stirred similar reactions. Some were openly guarded. Others kept their eyes averted and lips sealed. Many maintained their distance.In contrast, few noticed her on the crowded streets of Lima. It was the same within the airport unless she presented herself in a direct fashion, as she had to do when securing a flight back to her home country of t
The Mourner's Cradle: A Widow’s Journey Into White
INTO WHITEIRuben opened hiseyes. He thought he might have heard something. A heavy sleep weighed on him. He struggled feebly to hold it at bay.Who was there? Was it Anne?He drew a slow breath. He waited for Anne to come into view. She never did.Maybe he had only been hearing things, deceiving murmurs of the wind. He had a strange feeling then, a feeling that Anne hadn’t returned coupled with the feeling that he might never see her again.He hoped she was all right. He had no way of knowing.Ruben’s thoughts meandered, and he stared into white.IIThe passing of time was impossible for Anne to gauge in the darkness of the hole. She waited there at its bottom, alone with her thoughts in the surrounding blackness. She could hardly bear it. She had to get out of this place. Anne searched for some sense of direction through the dark pit, and almost lost her footing several times on the bones covering the ground.The flashlight flickered on and off. She shook it until th
The Mourner's Cradle: A Widow’s Journey The Pit of Bones
THE PIT OF BONESKeller’s life drained across the cavern floor. His final wet choking sounds faded away. Anne had cut deep. It didn’t take long.She waited for the peace to wash through her now that this man, the one who had made it his life’s mission to ruin her husband’s life, who had tried to kill Ruben and her, died at last. The peace didn’t come, but silence did.She stood and looked over the blood-tipped bone in her hand. She tossed it aside. Looking up, she saw a point of light.The tunnel that she, and presumably Keller, had fallen through appeared to be a twisting one. It seemed unusual that she could have fallen straight downward without striking solid rock at some point, but here she was at the bottom of the deep pit, injured, but still standing.Shining the flashlight around, she spotted a supply pack against one wall and knew it had to be Keller’s. She walked over to it.At least he had brought his supplies. She had nothing.Would Ruben come for her? Surely he would
The Mourner's Cradle: A Widow’s Journey Into Darkness
INTO DARKNESSIAnne flung herarms out to grab anything she could, but found nothing in the open darkness. She screamed. There was nothing else she could do. When she hit the ground, she would die a quick death at best, or else she would break both of her legs and suffer until she perished.She threw her arms out again and, to her surprise, caught something with one hand, but her descent was too rapid to be halted by this mere action. Her hands ripped free from the rough, rocky surface with a sharp sting.She grabbed out again in that general direction with both hands, and her hands slapped against a solid surface. A wall? An unexpected moment later, her fingers caught onto some indented portion of the surface, almost by accident, but she latched on and fought to better secure the handhold she had gained.Her body swung and her hands slipped away. A new wave of panic hurled through her mind. When her feet hit the ground, her mind was quick, firing a command to her body to ro
The Mourner's Cradle: A Widow’s Journey The Mountain Mystery
THE MOUNTAIN MYSTERYIAnne didn’t thinkshe would ever get used to the soreness. Her body wasn’t used to this. Regardless, she forced herself out of the makeshift shelter. Ruben didn’t stir. She put a hand on his shoulder and gave it an easy, but firm, shove.“Ruben, wake up,” she said. “We have to start climbing again.” The wind had worsened. She had to lean near his ear so he could hear her.“We have to keep moving, or we’ll freeze to death.”Ruben’s eyes opened. He blinked, gave her a single nod, and made a sluggish effort to climb out. Anne waited for minutes until he stood on uncertain feet in the snow.“Are you all right to climb?” she asked. He nodded again and walked toward the upward-slanting face. She started to ask if he was sure, but stopped herself. He could decide for himself, couldn’t he?Ruben, as if hearing the passing thought in her mind, turned to her. “I’ll be all right, Anne.”Anne looked up at the mountain. “I don’t think we have much higher to climb
