“Huh? My life?”
George handed Mack a mug of something hot. Steam tendrils rose from the oily surface.
“Look deeply, my friend, and remember…”
As Mack gazed into the liquid, the shiny oil swirling and shifting, something tugged at his hair.
“Mackey? Mackey?” It was his mother’s voice, and she was crying, pleading. “Please, wake up, Mack. Wake up.”
Mack looked down at his body. He was young, around ten years old, and his face was gray, his lips were blue.
His mother beat against his chest and cried. He was near the water’s edge at the little lake in the Stoneroot Forest.
He had been fishing, gotten hungry, and ran into the woods to eat a handful of berries. They were poisonous.
From the trees, the tall dark-haired man emerged. Wordlessly, George picked Mack up and carried him through the forest, his mother running behind, begging the man to help her and calling out for her son.
At the cabin, a young woman with messy blonde hair stood. She opened the door wide, and George and his mother pushed inside.
Corey and the girl began to play drums.
As Mack hovered over his body, he heard beautiful songs and whispers. The sounds wrapped him in warmth and light. He wanted to go with them, to leave the cold, stiff body on the ground.
But then hands, human hands, took hold of him and drew him toward his physical form.
He tried to resist, but the girl and her father soothed him, sang to him, and soon he had re-entered his body.
His abdomen seized, and he spewed a gelatinous mass of red berries onto the wood floor.
His mother’s face shifted into focus. She clutched him, pressing her wet cheeks into his neck.
The memory started to fade, and he lurched forward in his chair, wanting to see his mother one last time.
The cup of broth pitched to the floor.
George Corey watched him.
“Why did I forget?” Mack asked, staring into the rug where the oils had disappeared.
“Because I asked you to,” George told him.
“But why me? Couldn’t you have called someone else here?”
“Not everyone can see through the stones, Mack. The magic is not in them, it’s in you.”
“You’re sorely mistaken, Corey,” Mack grumbled. “Magic is the last thing I’ve got going for me.”
George smiled and held out his arm. The crow glided from its post to Corey’s forearm.
“When we die, we step through the veil. Our memories of a thousand lives are restored. We See, truly See. When you die and return to the land of flesh, your eye remains open.”
George touched a space on his forehead, near the center of his eyebrows.
“I chose you, Mack, because you can See.”
“And if I refuse to do what you ask?” Mack wondered out loud.
“I will haunt you until you complete the task required of you. And my ghost — well he’s a darker fellow altogether, isn’t he?”
George leaned his head forward, and the crow rubbed its beak against Corey’s ear.
“Am I dead too?” Mack asked suddenly. He wondered if he had drowned in the rainy woods after all. How disappointing that it was not his mother to greet him in the afterlife, but this stranger with the dark eyes.
“You are not dead, Mack Gallagher, but you have been living like a dead man. Fulfilling your debt to me is a new opportunity at life for you. I’ve given you this gift once before. I suggest you do not squander it a second time.”
Mack waved his hand in front of his face. He stuck a finger in his mouth and bit down.
George watched him, an amused expression on his face.
“I can’t be haunted, George,” Mack told him, a gurgle of laughter following the statement. “Diane will never take me back if I have a ghost too.”
George chuckled and stood. When he returned, he held a wooden box.
“I need you to save my daughter, Mack.”
When Mack woke in the morning, he shivered.
He sat up and regarded the cabin.
The fire in the hearth was long burned out. Not hours earlier, but months.
A layer of dust coated the surface of the table and the chairs. The chair George Corey had sat in contained a layer of undisturbed silt.
As Mack moved through the cottage, cobwebs clung to his beard and hair. He pulled them away, trying to make sense of the desolation before him.
The cabin had been warm and bright, filled with the smells of food and the air of life.
Mack spotted the satchel on the table, the leather strap tied tight. He knew all six stones sat inside. Next to the pouch lay the wooden box.
He picked them up and slid them into his bag.
Mack knew what he had to do.
“I don’t understand,” Diane told Mack when he appeared at her apartment the following day. “Why? You can’t commit yourself, Mack. You’re not insane. The… the figure,” Diane stammered.
Mack gazed at her, hair loose and falling over her shoulders, her face clean of makeup, her feet bare.
“The ghost is real, Diane. I’m not committing myself because I fear for my sanity. It’s the only way. George Corey told me. I found his cabin. I thought I had died. I was lost in the woods; I had given up.”
He remembered the moment, his regret at not having kissed Diane, taken her in his arms, and now he stood before her again. Her face tilted up to his, her eyes searching.
“But, Mack, George is dead. You saw his body. You…”
He held up his hand.
“I can’t explain it, Diane. Maybe someday I’ll try. But today, right now, I have to go.” He pulled a small package from his pocket, wrapped in gold foil. “Happy Birthday, Di.” He handed her the gift, and she gazed at it and then back at him. He leaned down and kissed her cheek.
As he walked down the hall, he felt her watching him.
“Mack?” she called out.
He turned.
She had stepped into the hallway.
In three long strides he was back to her. He leaned down, pressed a hand into her back and kissed her. She did not push him away, but sank her fingers into his hair and kissed him back. He leaned his forehead against hers.
“I love you, Diane. I always have.”
He turned and walked away.
Chapter 24
Liv
Liv wasn’t sure when Stephen had begun to drug her food.
During the first days, she’d sniffed it, taken tiny bites and waited to ensure he’d put nothing into the tasteless mashed potatoes.
However, as she swallowed the last of the soupy oatmeal in her dish, she noticed flecks of white powder lining the metal bowl. She wiped her finger along the powder and sniffed it. The substance had no distinguishable smell.
“What did you give me?” she asked Stephen through the grate.
“A little something to keep you calm. I’d like to come in today, and I can’t have you making a scene by running down the stairs like a mad woman.” He chuckled.
Liv considered forcing herself to throw up, but knew it was useless. Stephen would only take more drastic measures the next time. She stood and walked to the little bed, sinking onto the flimsy mattress and lying down. She searched for the crow in the rafters, but he was nowhere in sight.
A short while later, Liv heard the key in the lock. The door swung in and Stephen took a hesitant step into the attic.
Her limbs lay heavy on the bed. She didn’t bother lifting her head as he strode across the room, quickly securing straps to her arms and legs.