Mara Purnhagen - Beyond The Grave

I returned his smile. “We have two hours until dinner. Where do you want to go?” “You decide.”

I wanted to be alone with Noah. Someplace cool, with lots of shade, but quiet, as well. An oasis away from everyone else.

“I know a place,” I said as I put the car in Drive. “It’s crowded, but no one will say a word to us. It’s perfect.”

On the evening of my eighteenth birthday I sat behind the wheel of my car, the big present that wasn’t quite new but just as nice, while Noah sat in the passenger seat. We watched the June sun as it sank behind the trees, Noah’s arm draped over my shoulder. After the final sliver of sun had melted into a dark puddle over the hill, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver box wrapped in white ribbon.

“Happy birthday,” he said.

I kissed his cheek and reached for the box, but he stopped me. “Before you open your gift, I need to tell you the story behind it.”

I sat back against the soft leather of the seat and waited. Noah seemed nervous, as if he was afraid he might use the wrong words.

“I heard a story once. I think my dad told it to me, but I can’t be sure,” he began, then shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. A long time ago, there was a group of Apache warriors. They were attacked by a military settlement. Most of the Apaches were killed right away, but there were a few survivors.” He shifted in his seat. “And instead of letting themselves be captured or killed by others, these survivors chose to jump off a cliff.”

“This isn’t exactly a happy story,” I said.

“No, it’s not.” Noah offered me a rueful smile. “But there’s a point, I promise.” He looked at the box in his hands. “Everyone who had loved the warriors—their family and friends—spent a month mourning the loss. And their grief was so real and so pure that God preserved their tears inside special stones.” He placed the box in my hand. “For you.”

I untied the ribbon and took off the lid and there, sitting in a pillow of tissue paper, was a circle of shiny black stones. I picked up the bracelet, marveling at how each stone was different from the others. They were not perfectly round. Each held its own strange shape, but they were silky smooth under my fingers. “I love it.”

“They’re called Apache tears. And the best part—” Noah gently took the bracelet from me. He flicked on the overhead light in the car and held the bracelet up to the light. I could look through the stones, to the very heart of each one, where I could see a single clear tear. “It’s a promise,” Noah said as he fastened the bracelet around my wrist. “I will never make you cry.”

I felt my eyes water. “I think that’s a promise you may have just broken.”

He laughed. “Okay, then. How about this? I will never be the source of unhappy tears. Only good ones.”

And we kissed under the dim light for what seemed like hours. His mouth was warm and his hands even warmer as they circled my back and pressed me closer to him. We were breathing in sync, I realized with happiness. I wondered if we could keep it up forever.

Now I touched the bracelet lightly as Noah and I headed toward a familiar place so that we could be alone.

“We’re here,” I announced.

I had always loved cemeteries. Whereas some people automatically associated the places with rotting corpses and despairing ghosts, I saw them as quiet, peaceful islands slipped inside the forgotten corners of every busy city.

I knew from listening to my dad’s lectures that for centuries, cemeteries were used as parks. Pathways were constructed to be wide enough for horse-drawn carriages to move through, and families would often picnic next to the stones of their deceased relatives. It was considered respectful to lay flowers before the grave and then stay a while to enjoy the afternoon. Now people assumed you were a morbid freak if you mentioned spending a few hours in the company of the dead.

Noah didn’t think that way. When I suggested we spend our precious alone time at a tiny local cemetery, he’d cheerfully agreed. We’d both been there months before and knew the caretaker, Mr. Kitsman. After parking the car we went to his house and rang the bell, but he wasn’t home, so we crossed his backyard and climbed the dozen stone steps that led to the entrance. Just beyond a weathered iron gate, surrounded by slouching trees, were a couple dozen old headstones, their names and dates almost unreadable. But I knew their names.

Noah spread out his jacket on the grass and sat down. I sat with my back to his chest. “You make a nice chair.” I sighed happily.

He kissed the top of my head. “You make a nice everything.”

I settled into him. I could feel his heart beating beneath his shirt. We talked about our days and I told him about seeing Bliss.

“Is that good or bad?”

“Good, actually. I like knowing at least one other person there.”

Noah ran his hand over the back of my head, letting his fingers sift slowly through my hair. I closed my eyes, relaxing at the sensation. We were removed from noisy traffic and hectic wedding plans and crowded school campuses. It was just him and me, and I felt certain I could spend the night like this, warm and calm.

We talked about school and how Mr. Morley had asked Noah to train a new group of freshman boys about to maintain the cameras. Noah mentioned that his computer needed to be replaced soon and that his mom was hinting that she might get him a car before the wedding.

“Which would be great, because then you wouldn’t have to work as my chauffeur all the time.”

“I like being your chauffeur,” I said. “It’s nice to be needed.”

He buried his face in my hair. “I need you for other things.”

I laughed. “A new car would be great. As long as you don’t drive out to the old prison.”

Noah froze. “What are you talking about?” He pulled away so he could look me in the eyes. “Why would I go back to the prison?”

“It’s something Shane said.” I told him about Pate’s potential lawsuit and how Pate was claiming he’d spotted the van and that someone had damaged the interior of the prison.

“I don’t know how he can say that the inside was damaged,” I said. “It was pretty bad to begin with. But he thinks one of us is behind it.” I nudged him. “So where were you on Saturday night?” I asked jokingly.

But Noah didn’t respond right away. “I don’t know,” he said softly. He pulled away from me even more and ran a hand through his hair. “I mean, I was at home, but I woke up at three in the morning. I was standing in the living room.”

“You were sleepwalking? Has that ever happened before?”

“No, not that I remember.” He looked down at the ground. “I keep waking up feeling exhausted, like I haven’t slept at all.”

I felt a rush of concern and placed my hand on his arm. “When did this start happening?”

“A few nights after … you know.”

Noah and I never talked about the night we were attacked. We saw the same things: my dad thrown across the room, my mother struck on the head so hard she nearly died. He had tried to help, but the thing that called itself the Watcher had grabbed Noah by the throat and lifted him from the floor.

The permanent bruise, the sleepwalking—what had the Watcher done to Noah? Again, I made myself stop. A little sleepwalking wasn’t a catastrophe. His interrupted rest was probably the result of stress, not demonic possession. I was looking for problems that didn’t exist. In fact, I decided, the only real problem was me. The past year had been crazy. Maybe I’d gotten used to drama. Maybe my instincts were not as sharp because I had seen too much.