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An Excerpt From: GHOST WIND
 CHARLOTTE BOYETT-COMPO, 2007.
All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave
Cleanly kept, the pioneer cemetery was surrounded by a
wire mesh fence, and from the looks of the two gates across the
semicircular pathway leading into and out of it, the little country burial
ground most likely was locked after dark.
Lannie got out of the car, pulling on her car coat for
there was a stiffening breeze blowing from the open field across the gravel
road from the cemetery. Clouds were building to the southwest and there was
a hint of moisture in the air. Snuggling the coat’s collar up against her
neck, she began walking through the gravestones.
For over an hour she surveyed the markers then looked
off to the east where rolling hills dipped lazily behind the wire fence.
The trees were spectacular in their fall foliage and she strolled over to
the fence to get a better look at the valley beyond and a farm house
sitting far off to the north of the hills. She was about to turn away when
she noticed two gravestones that lay outside the perimeter of the fence, on
the property upon which sat the deserted house.
Barely viewable through the thick bushes growing up
around them, it was the stark white of the slabs against the weeds that had
drawn her attention. Over the markers grew a large white oak tree with
spreading branches—some of which dragged against the slabs, scraping across
the surface like skeletal fingers.
She walked over to that side of the fence to see if she
could read the markers but was surprised to find the slabs bare of any
lettering. Why, she wondered, would someone go to the trouble of providing
a burial slab but leave it unmarked? And why would the two graves be
outside the borders of the cemetery proper on what must be private
property?
Curiosity got the best of her and she scaled the
fence—ripping a hole in the leg of her jeans.
“Shit,” she said, looking down at the tear in her
clothing. Sighing heavily, for the jeans were practically new, she dusted
off the rent in the material and shook her head. “That’s what you get for
trespassing, Lanelle,” she chastised herself.
Hoping nothing deadly was slithering along the ragged
prairie grass surrounding the graves, she went to stand over them. Around
her, the wind moaned through the black walnut trees and set the few
remaining leaves on the arching branches to rustling.
There was no indication at all of who could be buried in
that place so she turned to look at the side of the farmhouse. From that
angle she could see the wraparound porch ended in a screened room that
faced what had to be a gorgeous view of the little valley beyond with its
vibrantly colored ashes, maples and beech trees. Once more she looked out
across the road to the west side of Jewel Street, admiring the wide-open
space and the privacy the farmhouse had.
It was then she noticed the For Sale sign half hidden
amidst the rambling bushes that had overtaken the front yard of the
farmhouse. Handwritten in red letters on a weathered white board, the sign
looked as though the ravages of the harsh Midwestern weather had half torn
it down over time. It wobbled back and forth as the wind pushed against it
and, as she watched, finally fell to the ground to be buried among the
underbrush.
For the longest time she stared at the place where the
sign had fallen. Brought up to believe nothing ever happened without a
reason, she had the strongest notion she had been meant to find this house
out in the middle of nowhere. As though it had been an omen, she had been
shown the For Sale sign only moments before it disappeared into the
underbrush. Chewing on her lip, she looked about the property and knew she
would find peace here. She knew she could do her writing without
interruption and that appealed to her. But not as much as thinking perhaps
her ex would have a hard time finding her in the boondocks of Iowa.
Nodding at her thoughts, she turned to retrace her trip
over the fence but the glint of metal made her snap her head around. The
sun had taken that moment to pop out from behind the scudding clouds
overhead and had shone its light on something hanging from one of the oak’s
branches. Carefully making her way through the dense clusters of weeds
encroaching on the grave slabs, she looked up at a medallion dangling from
a golden chain.
Swinging in the breeze, the chain was snagged on a twig,
the medallion twisting and turning back and forth. By jumping up a few
times, she was able to reach the chain and pull it off, thankful the chain
didn’t break in the process. With the necklace clutched in her palm, she
stumbled against the tree as the first drops of rain began falling. Looking
across the road, she saw the clouds had darkened considerably and now
flashes of lightning could be seen.
Stuffing the necklace into the pocket of her jeans, she
climbed carefully back over the fence, making sure she did not do more
damage to her clothing. She had to sprint to her car for the rain started
in earnest.
As the rain slashed brutally down on the windshield of
her borrowed car, Lannie fished in her pocket for the medal. Opening her
palm, she saw three initials on the back of the medallion—R.B.D.—engraved
into the gold in block letters. Turning the medallion over, she found it
was a Saint George medal with the saint sitting astride his mount as he
slew the dragon with a broadsword.
Tracing the design with her index finger, she felt a
chill spread up her arm and shivered. A ferocious boom of thunder shook the
ground beneath the car and she turned fearful eyes to the storm. Hanging
the medallion attached to its gold chain over the rearview mirror, she
cranked the car and drove slowly out of the cemetery, retracing her trip
out to Highway 6.
He watched her driving out of the cemetery, his amber
gaze locked on her car as it turned the corner onto North 39th
Avenue East and disappeared over the hill.
He slowly closed his eyes.
For a long time he stood there with his eyes shut,
his mind centered on the fleeting glimpse he’d had of her face. It was a
face he longed to touch. He wanted to place his lips against the
soft-looking flesh of her lips and taste the sweetness he knew lurked
there. He wanted to hold her in his arms, press her cheek to his chest and
hear her soft breathing as he stroked her back. He ached for something he
had not known for many years.
Opening his eyes, he stared out over the rain-swept
cemetery and the one grave that had drawn him to it every day for the last
sixteen years. He had lost track of the times he had knelt before that
black marble slab, spoken softly to the one lying beneath the soil.
Pain lanced through his chest and he hung his head, a
single tear slowly falling down his cold cheek.
Memories could be evil and his were destroying his
immortal soul.
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