“Karen, do just one thing for me, please. It is all I shall ever ask of you on this earth.”
“What is it?”
“I will agree to all you have said. Just promise to meet me here one year from tonight at the same hour.”
I was reluctant at first, thinking how difficult it would be to see him and how bad it would be for us both, as it would only reopen partly healed wounds. But at last I consented.
“Well, I’ll come if I’m alive,” I said, with an attempt at lightness.
Jon grasped me by the wrist. “Don’t say that, Karen. Say dead or alive!”
“All right, then. We will meet, dead or alive.” Thus we parted.
The next year I was on the same spot a few minutes before the appointed time, and Jon arrived punctually at midnight. I had begun to regret the arrangement I had made, but it was a promise. Although I kept this appointment, I said that I really did not wish to do so again. Jon, however, persuaded me to renew it for just one more year, and I consented, much against my better judgment. We again said our goodbyes, repeating the promise, “Dead or alive.”
I had begun to see a delightful man, and late the following spring, we became engaged. The summer was spent boating on Lake Norman, with occasional trips to visit Alex’s family in the North Carolina mountains at Montreat. They were prominent Presbyterians, his father active and respected in the denomination. We were planning a September wedding and a honeymoon that would begin on Labor Day weekend.
By early July I had begun to think more and more about my promise to Jon. The last thing I wanted to do was to meet him in the gardens again. The days sped past with terrible swiftness, and the thought of that meeting hung over me like a dark cloud. I didn’t want to go, but I had promised. I supposed the only thing that could get me out of it was death. Not even that, really, for I had promised to go dead or alive. Dead or alive! What a macabre promise to ask of me.
I knew very well that Alex wouldn’t like me meeting another man in a secluded place at midnight. Should I talk to him with the hope he would understand? Was he likely to understand me once having dated a married man, even one married to an invalid in a sanatorium? Guilt overwhelmed me.
As the last Monday night in July approached, I became more and more apprehensive. If I were to find out about Alex meeting a woman under such peculiar circumstances a short time before our marriage, I would consider calling off the wedding. Would he feel that way if he found out? Finally, I decided I would confide in my long-standing friend and apartment-mate and ask her to accompany me. Sherry said she would go to be sure I was all right.
That night we arrived at the gardens about ten minutes before twelve. I decided I would leave, having kept my promise, if Jon were not there by midnight. The area near the brick terrace was empty, and I did not see a soul. But at five minutes before twelve, I heard a slight noise. It came again. Finally, ever so softly, it was occurring at regular intervals. It was the sound of footsteps on the brick terrace, but they were slower than normal and had just the slightest dragging sibilance. It is he, I thought, for I had heard that walk too often to mistake it. Tonight he was right on time.
I knew that what I must tell him about my approaching marriage would hurt, even though he had surely resigned himself to the end of our romance. The footsteps were coming closer. Soon I would have to break the news about Alex. Sherry was at a discreet distance, but close enough to see me. I stood by the fountain in the brilliant moonlight.
On came the footsteps. Why so slow?
I was not only ashamed to be there but was growing increasingly angry that I had allowed myself to be persuaded to come a second time. This would be our last meeting, and I would not stay long. I could see Jon now, and I watched him make his way into the moonlight at the end of the terrace. On he came, past a large azalea bush and along the drive. It would all be over soon, thank heaven.
When he was close enough for me to see him more clearly, I noticed that he was dressed in dark, formal attire. He must be doing this for its effect, I reasoned, for he knew how handsome I had always thought him in a black coat.
Oddly enough, he seemed about to pass me, and, involuntarily, I reached out my arm with an affectionate gesture to stop him. I was astounded when he walked right through it, and I could feel nothing. As he looked over at me, I distinctly saw his lips move, forming the words, “Dead or alive.”
I even heard him say them, not with my ears but with some other sense, what sense I do not know. But the words were spoken as clearly as if they had been said in a normal voice. I felt my blood turn to ice. Hurrying over to where I knew Sherry was standing, I asked, “Sherry, who passed you?”
“Let’s go. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Sherry, you know who I was coming to meet, and he had to pass you. You don’t mean you didn’t see him.”
“I heard him coming. I’d know that walk of his anywhere, and then he went right by only a short distance away. But Karen, there was something wrong, something so strange about him that it scared me to death. Then I saw him stand in front of you. What did he say?” she asked.
“Let’s leave. We can talk at home.”
And talk we did, for
