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Scene #71
As Adrienne slunk barefoot between the headstones, wondering if the
squelching of the slippery mud between her toes would be enough to
wake the dead — or if she would have to employ more obnoxious means
— she could feel a tangible shift in the viscosity of the murky air
around her and knew the hands of the clock had dragged themselves
past twelve. It was the Unknown Hour, when the darkness was
at its most dense and the dead at their most restless. Even as she
sought the grave of her client's former lover, she could sense the
agitation of the spirits residing here, eager to be recognized,
consulted, and released from the eternal rest imposed upon them by
their deaths. Adrienne neither feared them, nor was she
comfortable amongst them. She wondered briefly if anyone who made
their living trudging barefoot and half-dressed through overgrown
and under-tended cemeteries in the middle of night were ever truly
comfortable in those circumstances, but a cobweb brushed against
her cheek and all rational thought vanished. She had not
planned to awaken the souls of the departed with her
arachnophobia-induced shriek, and had only intended for — she
checked her left wrist, where she'd written his name — Adam to
arise, but no sooner had she swept the offending sticky threads
from her face than she felt the semi-permeable, mottled hand of an
angry old woman clutching at her shorts. Adrienne battled the bile
rising in her throat and pried the fabric from the woman's
inordinately strong grasp, already apologizing for calling out more
ghosts than she'd intended and generating excuses to offer for
rebuking their requests. So few psychics really could summon
or speak to such specters, Adrienne knew she was destined to be the
most popular breathing being — really, the only breathing being —
in the cemetery every time she appeared, and always came dressed
for the occasion: the deceased could not lay a hand on living
human flesh, so Adrienne wore only the most minimal amount of
clothing, including a pair of her shortest shorts teamed with a
sports bra…and nothing more. She dodged half a dozen more of
the dearly departed demanding conversation, favors, and updates on
current events, but froze in place as she felt a hand caress her
long red locks, knowing that not a soul present had the power to
touch her. Slowly she turned, her heart in her throat, and
found…the quivering branches of the massive weeping willow against
which she was standing. With a shaky sigh she continued on,
increasingly irritated by the idiot spirits blocking her view of
the names etched onto their tombstones, when a deep male voice from
one row over gave her pause. “You're looking for me, aren't you?”
he boomed. She looked toward him over one shoulder, and then
turned bodily when she noticed the supernatural handsomeness of his
partly-transparent form. “Adam?” she asked, apprehensive about
engaging the ghost in conversation before confirming his identity.
“I knew she'd send someone,” he began, ignoring her query. “Never
in my life have I had a lover I cared for so little, love me so
ridiculously.” He shook his head gently. “Please tell her
whatever she wants to hear, will you? ‘I'll always hold dear that
night at the Hilton during the HR conference, I think about her
every moment of this pathetic — sorry, peaceful — existence…'
Whatever you think will ease her pain…and get her to leave me be!”
Adrienne was in shock. Her client, had spoken about Adam as
though they were soul mates; she'd talked about her lover like
they'd shared an eternity of passion in the short time they'd had
together. Instead, she was a passing attraction for him, and he
was a desperate fixation for her. She examined Adam's ghostly
form for another moment without speaking. He had been tall,
well-muscled with beautifully sculpted cheekbones and a strong
chin, possessed of a dark, heavy brow, and eyes that drew her in,
open, earnest and alluring. She shook her head. “Can you
confirm her name for me? I don't want to get this wrong,” she
teased, raising one eyebrow. He cleared his throat. “Please
tell Heather I'd like her to move on…though, you're more than
welcome to return for a chat any time you'd like,” he said, a smile
blossoming on his striking countenance. “Particularly if your
wardrobe consists primarily of items like those…” Adrienne
colored. “I'll tell her,” she huffed, narrowing her eyes, “but
don't expect to see me again anytime soon.” She blinked. “Not
unless you've willed something to me.” He laughed, wondering
aloud why he'd never known her in life, and she rolled her eyes,
taking a step backward toward the graveyard entrance. She was so
busy watching Adam, however, she didn't notice the in-ground marker
right behind her, and immediately tumbled backward onto her behind.
“Are you okay?” he asked, taking a few floaty steps forward.
“Fine,” she mumbled as she pulled herself back into a standing
position. She brushed the mist-moistened dirt from her shorts…and
found herself staring up into the eyes of Spirit Adam. Her breath
caught. “I…I said I'm fine.” But someone tell me why all the good
ones are dead, she thought irritably. He gazed at her.
“Thank you for coming. She needed to put me to rest.”
“That's why I make the big bucks,” she shrugged, heading back
toward the cemetery gate. “Have a nice…” She struggled to find
the right word. “Death!” she called over her shoulder, breaking
into a run. Had she been good at anything else…yet here she
was, prowling through graveyards at midnight. Being a psychic is
not all it's cracked up to be, Adrienne grumbled to herself, eager
to get home and climb in bed. Her client would have to wait…at
least until dawn.
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