Sarah Gilman: Ghosts of the Falls

“It’s my job.” She smiled, though her chin trembled. “It’s my responsibility to protect people from violent spirits. I could leave and get a normal career as a normal person, but if things in the exorcist community are going to change, I need to be there, pushing for that change. If I keep researching, writing new incantations, maybe I’ll find the best solution for both the living and the deceased.”

He touched her hand. “I’m sure you’ll succeed.”

“Thank you.” She stared at their hands for a moment, then met his gaze. “Would you like to get dinner?”

He blinked. “Dinner?”

Color rose to her cheeks. “I’m asking you out to dinner. I know we just met, but—”

“I’d love to have dinner with you.” He tightened his grip on her hand and stroked her wrist with his thumb. “But… I’m sorry. I won’t be available.”

“Oh.” Her smile faltered.

“The grave is just up here.” He hurried forward before she could question him. Ahead, mist from the falls thickened the air and sunlight filtered through the thinning trees. “Watch your step. The rocks are wet and slimy.”

They approached the falls. After the burial over a century ago, he’d avoided the gravesite the way most people avoided angry grizzly bears. The water cascaded a hundred feet into the gorge, surrounded by rocks covered in bright green mosses and ferns.

He took a deep breath, held it, and let it out. Part of him wanted to convince her to call this off so he could take her to dinner. But he would be a fool. A selfish fool. He wasn’t alive. What did he have to offer her?

Nothing.

And now it was time to leave this existence.

Jade stepped with care across a moist ledge and peered into the gorge. The roar of the water cascading over the rocks and pummeling the bottom filled her ears. The cool mist thickened the air and condensed on her skin. A shudder shook her body—not from the chill, but from the mental image of the spirit’s death. “This is where he fell?”

“Yes.” Dutch motioned her to join him where he stood a couple yards away.

A solitary stone reposed at the base of a gigantic American elm. The roots had crowded the little monument and forced it to lean at a sharp angle to the side. Despite the thick layer of moss that grew in patches on the slate, the inscription remained readable.

Derrick Hutchinson

Died May 23, 1890

Aged 24 years

“Why is there no birth date?”

“I guess the loggers who buried him didn’t know exactly when he was born.”

She ran her fingers over the chilly, damp stone. “No proper cemetery burial? No family?”

“I don’t know. I guess that information is lost to history.” Dutch backed a few feet away, a frown on his face, his arms folded.

“This really bothers you?”

He shrugged. “Naw.”

What a terrible liar. She grinned inwardly. “Dutch.” She stood and took his hand, pleased that he didn’t pull away. “Thank you for showing me the way out here.”

“No problem. It was a pleasure to meet you, Jade Clarence.” He lifted her hand and kissed her fingers, sending her heart rate into a frenzy. The smile faded from his face as he released her. “I should get going.”

“Huh?”

“I assume you don’t want an audience.”

“I don’t mind, actually.”

He smiled, but the expression chilled her. His eyes seemed sad all of a sudden. “Sorry. I have someplace I need to go.” He paused. “Take care, Jade.”

“Okay, bye.” She turned away to avoid watching him leave. Why hadn’t he said something earlier about having plans? He hadn’t acted rushed. Maybe he didn’t really believe all her nonsense, after all.

Her heart sank, but she forced aside the disappointment and focused. Kneeling at the side of the grave, she set the flowers she’d picked at the base of the stone and set a rock on the stems to keep them in place.

“What are you doing?” Shock filled Dutch’s voice. He rejoined her and knelt, his brow furrowed.

“A grave out here all by itself is too lonely. The least I can do is leave him some flowers.”

He stared at her. “That’s…very thoughtful of you.”

She glanced back at the gravestone. Let’s do this . She spoke the Latin words to bind the spirit: “Requiescat in pace, Derrick Hutchinson.”

Dutch choked and collapsed, panting against the ground. His body jerked.

“Dutch! What’s wrong?” She reached out, but he faded before her eyes and vanished.

…

“What the hell?” Jade sat, alone, next to the old grave marker. Dutch’s brown shirt lay in the dirt where he’d fallen. She picked it up and brushed the pine needles away.

Still warm.

She turned back to the slate memorial. Derrick Hutchinson.

D. Hutchinson.

Dutch. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

Dutch is the spirit. She held her head in her hands. What was going on here? He could have stopped her at any point since she had arrived. He’d called her family in the first place, for goodness’ sake.

Did he want to be exorcised?

“I was right, wasn’t I? You played puppeteer with the furniture to clear the motel. What were you trying to do, set up the need for an exorcism? Why would you do that?”

Dutch didn’t answer, of course. She had paralyzed him and bound him to his grave beneath her feet. Acid shot up her throat. The preternatural bindings couldn’t be reversed with words; they were meant to be a one-way street to an exorcism. However, they weakened in time. Strong spirits had broken free in the past when the exorcism had been interrupted or delayed. She just had to wait.

He must have been wearing only the pants and boots when he died if they dematerialized with him. Where had he gotten the shirt? She lifted the soft cotton to her face and inhaled his scent: faint cologne mixed with the fresh air from their walk and the natural essence of his skin.

She imagined curling up at his side under a blanket, turning her face into his hair, and breathing him in. Only minutes before, she’d wanted a dinner date, perhaps a little more. How long had it been since she’d enjoyed a simple walk and conversation so much?

She sat on the ground and leaned against the tree behind the grave. She held the shirt in her lap. Their morning together ran through her mind, every smile, every brush of his hand in slow motion.

He’s a ghost . Jade shut her eyes and shook her head. She pulled a book from her bag and settled in to wait.

…

A rocking motion roused Jade from sleep. She’d fallen asleep? Groggy, she lifted her eyelids. Pitch blackness surrounded her, but so did warmth. “Dutch?”

He held her in his arms. Leaves crunched underfoot as he walked.

“Hello again.” His voice washed over her like a balm, but strain edged his tone. “I’m taking you back to your car.”

The brown shirt he’d worn earlier lay across her chest like a small blanket. Her head rested against his bare, warm chest and his heart beat steadily under her ear. She lifted a hand and pressed her fingers to the pulse point on his neck. “That’s unbelievable.”

“It’s an illusion,” he said, his voice toneless.

She lifted her face, trying to make out his expression in the dark. “You’re damned lucky you came back to question me about the flowers. If I hadn’t seen you disappear, I wouldn’t have realized—”

“I didn’t want you to know who I was. I called you here to perform an exorcism.”

“I was afraid of that.” She paused. “How did you make that call, anyway?”

“There’s a courtesy phone in the park office. I found out about your family in the first place while searching for exorcists on the computer on the desk. I haven’t had much to do over the years except watch people, so I know how to use modern technology for the most part. This was my first time in a car, though. Can’t say I enjoyed that very much.”