When she’d been sad earlier, he’d been struck by a powerful need to offer comfort. He’d longed to make her smile, and when she had, the grief and anger he always carried with him diminished. For a short while he’d basked in her warmth, and now he craved more of the same.
He’d kept enough distance between them all day to prevent her from shivering from the cold or shuddering from the horror of his presence. Aye, he’d been aware from the start the effects he and the linger of ghosts in Garretsville had on the living. The revulsion, the shivers, shudders, and the fear nearly broke his heart—or would have if he still had functioning internal organs. He didn’t deserve those reactions. It was no fault of his own his life had been cut short, nor had he chosen to become a scáil to haunt Garretsville.
Though most of his companions denied being dead, he never had. The others carried on as they always had in life, working their claims, drinking and gambling—even visiting the few ghostly whores who’d remained earthbound. Daniel had fully realized his own miserable situation from the moment his life had been brutally taken. He’d do anything to break the chains that bound him.
Phantom candles and kerosene lamps lit the interior of the saloon. The pianist tapped out a lively tune, and the men and ladies of the night gambled and drank. When death had still been new to him, he too had sought comfort in pretending. The resulting hangover had been one of heart-rending regret for the life he’d never live. He’d never experience the love of a good woman or hold his wee children in his arms. His biggest regret though was that he’d never own that dreamed-of home where he might bring his family back together to begin anew.
Because of his foolishness, his dear mother, brother, and sister had likely remained destitute for the rest of their lives. He’d wept buckets of bitter ghostly tears over that fact, and perhaps he would continue doing so for all eternity. Was this purgatory after all?
The door creaked open, and Meredith entered, awash in the very real golden light from the lantern she held aloft. The heart he no longer had flipped in his chest and all thought deserted him. He stood up from his chair. Meredith smiled as she caught sight of him, and he swore his non-existent pulse quickened. These sensations where she was concerned were disconcerting to say the least. Still, he did his best to smile back.
“Wow,” she said as she set the lantern on the table and sat down. “This place really rocks once the sun goes down.” Meredith scanned the interior, pausing on different scenes unfolding around them. Her brow rose. “I’ve never experienced anything like this. It’s like watching an old western movie in black and white.”
Not knowing what an old western movie might be, he said nothing. Instead, he drank in the vision before him, all the while resisting the imperative to move closer to her warmth. What did she smell like? Sweet, no doubt, like the wildflowers that bloomed in the fields of Ireland.
Her gaze came to rest on him. “They’re ignoring me, which is also a first. By now I’m usually surrounded and inundated with pleas for help.”
“That is my doing.” He took his seat again. “I asked that they leave us be this one night.” He studied her, his curiosity piqued. “How do you hear me when I’ve no voice? What is it like for you?”
“I hear your words as whispers inside my head. I can’t really explain how that happens or why, because I don’t really know. My older sister, father and aunt can also commune with the dead. We’ve often worked together to help spirits move on. We’re ghost whisperers; it’s a family thing.” She bit her lip and her brow creased as she once again surveyed the goings on inside the saloon.
“I’ve never met a spirit so aware of their own ghostly state as you seem to be.” Meredith folded her hands and rested them on the table, and her attention returned to him. “Maybe if you tell me more about how you came to be here in Garretsville, your story might help me figure out how best to help you cross.”
“Gladly, and I sincerely hope the telling will help.” He heaved his ghostly version of a sigh. “You’ve heard of Ireland’s Great Potato Famine of ’45, aye?”
“You mean 1845? Yes I have. From what I understand, that particular famine mostly affected the poorest families, those who subsisted on tenant farms or held the lowliest jobs.”
“Aye, that is so, and it fell to those of us who were better off to aid the starving as best we could. During the terrible years of the potato blight, the British continued to export our much needed grains rather than help alleviate the suffering taking place right under their noses. Thousands upon thousands died while the British profited from Irish crops planted in Irish soil and tended by the very laborers who were starving to death.” Once again anger consumed him, and if he’d had solid teeth, he’d be gnashing them.
“My family were among the more fortunate. We owned a farm in County Meath along the banks of the River Boyne. Ours was the prettiest farm you ever did see, and there I lived with my mam, dad, younger brother, and two younger sisters.” The anguish of not knowing what had become of his remaining family tortured him. Dead for as long as he’d been, the memory of his mother’s tears the day he’d boarded the ship to America still haunted him. Oh the irony—he was a haunted ghost.
“Go on,” Meredith encouraged.
“We had plenty at a time when
