“Sure. And thanks.”
“Anytime,” he said.
The agony of the moment was nearly killing Quinn. A voice in his head was shouting for him to kiss her. Just move closer in and kiss her.
But he couldn’t. A thousand what-if scenarios played in his head. What if she rejected it? What if she gave him the “Let’s just be friends” speech? Or maybe he was most frightened by the prospect of her kissing him back.
You are not in high school anymore, Quinn O’Brion, the voice said. You are damn near 30 years old. It isn't like you haven’t done this before.
And maybe that was it. He had done it before and look how it had ended. Sharon, the very old-fashioned Geraldine, and Meredith. All had started well and ended up…
“Goodnight, Quinn,” Kate said, as she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.
“Goodnight,” he said.
She walked to the door.
Quinn walked home thinking dark thoughts about himself. Fortune favors the bold and he had run scared. She liked him, right? He liked her, right? It was a simple thing then to kiss her and see what happened.
But he wondered if the weight of the past was too much. Or was it something else? Was it that he felt so damned unstable lately-the nightmares, hearing horse-hoofs and constantly fearing what was around the corner?
I’m going crazy, he thought. That can’t be good for a relationship. Quinn laughed out loud. That seemed to be a gigantic understatement.
It wasn’t like he was the only one with baggage either. Her mom had been killed and she was out for revenge on a person who might or might not still be around. Granted, compared to him she appeared stable enough.
But what was he supposed to do? Just pretend he did not feel an attraction because he did not think this was a good time? Maybe that would be a smart thing to do, but it was not what he wanted to do. He needed some kind of positive sign on the horizon to keep him from giving up altogether-maybe that was true for her too.
We are afraid to be alone and scared of what happens if we’re not. Hadn’t he read that somewhere? Some English poet? Crowley-that was it. He only vaguely recalled the whole poem, but that line had stuck with him.
As he walked up to his own door, it came to him again:
We are afraid to be alone and scared of what happens when we’re not.
It was too much. Maybe tomorrow would be a different kind of day. One where he didn’t spend all day thinking about murderers and fictional ghosts.
Tomorrow will be different. The nightmare could end-the cloud above him might lift.
When Quinn woke up the next morning, he felt relaxed and ready to face the day. His optimism last night seemed to be right.
The nightmare had lifted.
But it had really only just begun.
Chapter 12
“ Where will you find ghosts? Forget the cemetery. There are nothing but corpses there and believe me-those are very different from ghosts. By far the most common place to find spirits is in funeral parlors or battlefields. But it isn’t the dead that cause them to reside there, rather the living. Most ghosts are nothing but imprints, a memory left behind that occasionally plays itself back. But those imprints are caused by the most powerful energy force in the universe-emotion. Enough of it in a concentrated place and there is no telling what might happen. ”
— Terry Jacobsen, “The Truth About Hauntings”
This is what it feels like to die.
His lungs were screaming for air, his legs begging him to stop running. Behind him there was a steady drumbeat of a horse rapidly gaining on him, one that was desperate for neither oxygen nor rest. In the still cold air, he could hear a ringing, the sound of a sword torn from its scabbard and held aloft. In a moment, it would begin its arc downward with a near-silent swish and its steel would rend his flesh. There is no escape, nor hope of it. He was finished.
Quinn couldn’t stop his mind from racing even as he continued to run, despair filling him. He fought the urge to give up and kept running.
Just as the horse seemed to be on top of him, he darted suddenly to the right, jumping off the road and stumbling down the soft red clay that covered the hillside. Behind him, he heard the rider stop the horse briefly and turn.
Quinn kept himself moving as he came to the bottom of the hill. He dove into the forest, desperate to put distance between him and his pursuer. The trees were a thick knot of pines and as he ran he could feel their dead branches slicing into him.
He was cut, bruised and shaken, but he kept running. There was no time to stop, barely time to breath and he prayed he could find the right direction. He couldn’t think with the sound of his heart pounding.
The moon’s light was obscured through the dense forest, but Quinn pushed on toward what he thought must be north. North was the bridge and his only hope for safety.
Behind him, he heard the crash of the horse coming through the trees. Quinn didn’t know how that was possible. He only moved forward, hearing the ever louder sounds of something large hacking its way through.
He chanced a brief glance back. He could make out a shape moving preternaturally fast toward him.
There had to be a way out. Quinn jerked himself to the left, crouching low to the ground to avoid branches. He tripped and his hand fell onto a large branch as he tried to stop himself from falling. He stifled a scream and kept running.
The bridge. He had to reach the bridge. He plowed on before reaching a small clearing in the woods. He looked behind him, but he didn’t see anything. Worse, he heard nothing. The night was silent.
Where the hell was it? He tried to be quiet and just listen. But he could only hear the sound of his own breathing. There was nothing alive out here, only an endless parade of dead trees.
“Hey Quinn,” a voice said.
Quinn screamed.
He had no idea where the voice was coming from. He looked around the clearing and saw nothing.
“Over here,” the voice said, and it sounded like it was behind him.
He whirled around but there was nothing. Just the dark forest all around him, fencing him in. All of this felt familiar, very familiar, but something was wrong. He was supposed to start running toward the bridge.
He turned to leave.
“Please wait a minute, Quinn,” the voice said, coming from behind him again.
He turned and this time there was someone. A man stood at the edge of the clearing. He was dressed in a black suit, as if he had been to a formal dinner. But Quinn could not take his eyes off the man’s face. He had piercing blue eyes, which reminded him of someone. But the eyes demanded control. They demanded he pay attention.
The man came forward. Quinn tried to step back and found he couldn’t move. This isn’t right. I’m supposed to run for the bridge. The horseman is supposed to chase me. There is no man here.
“I am sorry to interrupt,” the man said.
There was nothing wrong with the man’s appearance. He shouldn’t have been intimidating in the least. He appeared to be Quinn’s height and approximate build. He looked older and his face bore a small scar. But Quinn was afraid. He was almost as anxious to run away from the man as he had been from the horseman.
“What do you want?” Quinn asked. He couldn’t run, move, or even look away. He felt trapped.
“What do I ever want?” the man asked. “To make a deal.”
“No,” Quinn said. It was automatic, reflexive. There were no good deals with this man. He knew it in his soul.
“Come now, Quinn,” the man said, and his voice was gently chiding. “You didn’t hear me out.”
