The Darkest Part Page 4

  “Is this why you’ve been coming to me more often?” I ask. I’m afraid to voice my real fear. That he’s starting to fade, becoming like the other ghosts I’ve read up on. I don’t think I can bear to watch him wander aimlessly, a lost soul.

  My heart constricts as he turns toward me, his face pinched in worry. “When I’m with you, things are more vivid. I remember almost everything. My life. Who I am. Who I was . . .” He trails off.

  I swallow. “Where do you go when you’re not with me?”

  He shrugs. “Someplace dark. Full of shadows. Somehow, time doesn’t exist. I’m there for only a short while, and when I find you again, so much time has passed.” He looks at the floor. His shoe scuffs the carpet, making no mark. “And I remember less.”

  Suddenly my head is light, my breaths coming too quickly. The room closing in. How can I be so selfish? With a shake of my head, I summon the nerve to go and grab one of my books.

  Where the Internet was filled with accounts and speculations and ridiculous theories, it was in a small bookstore that I found the information I needed. I drop to my knees and pull out the collection of books from under my bed.

  Pushing the pile over, I fan them out, and grab the one with a worn black cover and faded white lettering. The binding creaks as I open it, and the musty smell of old books hits my nose. Scrolling my finger down the table of contents, I find the chapter I’m looking for.

  With a deep breath, I flip to the section labeled Intelligent Spirits.

  I only skimmed the chapter before, not wanting to think about or know Tyler’s possible future. He’s nothing like other ghosts. He surpasses all other accounts of hauntings (I hate that word; makes what is happening sound creepy and not at all like what we are together). He’s Tyler. Just Tyler. Not an impression, or something left behind after a traumatic event. And so I never wanted to know any more than that. It was enough to know that he was really here, and that I wasn’t crazy.

  “Sam?” Tyler’s voice pulls me out of my reading. I look up as he kneels beside me. “Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. Nothing can take me away from you.”

  An aching lump forms in my throat, and I swallow, trying to push all the grief and fear into the pit of my stomach. My eyes fall back to the book. The moon peeks through the curtains, washing the page in pale light. And when I read the very thing I fear, my hands tremble.

  A specter can only continue to manifest itself as long as it has strong ties to the place, object, or person it’s haunting. Most are spotted one to four days after their death, but soon cross over into the “light.” Those who choose to stay on the earth plane, for whatever reason, be it refusal to accept their death, fear of leaving behind a loved one, or their unfinished business, are considered lost or wandering souls.

  Manifesting requires an enormous amount of energy, and after a time, can become too difficult to achieve for the specter. If they never cross over, they become earthbound spirits. Their memories will fade, their essence will become more mist-like, as they diminish into a truly lost soul.

  Some believe a darkness, such as another dimension, traps the souls, making it more difficult for the specter to manifest. It takes more energy to appear to the living, especially in the daytime. This is why most can only view spirits during the night. Flash photography can capture their essence struggling to appear, known as dark entities. Once they can no longer summon the will to manifest, they fade into the dark place, sometimes leaving behind energy that acts out in a residual haunt.

  This is by far the saddest existence for a specter.

  I slam the book and throw it.

  Oh, God. This can’t be happening to him. I can’t let this happen to him. Tyler’s life was cut short. He lost everything and everyone. Now he’s going to fade into a nothingness. How can God let any of this happen? What the fuck is life for, then?

  Before I realize it, I’m on my feet and pacing, my hands on my head, fisting my hair. Tyler’s saying something, but my ears are pounding in sync with the adrenaline claiming my body. I’m probably freaking him out. I have to calm down. I have to breathe.

  “Sam—”

  My head snaps up. “Why didn’t you tell me this was happening?” My tone is accusatory, but I don’t care. I feel like he’s hiding something from me, just like he’s hiding something about him and his brother. I can’t stand the secrets. We could have been researching this for the past five months—could have been prepared.

  “Sam,” Tyler says again, his voice deep, serious. It centers me. “You remember that trip we were planning?”

  I jerk back, confused by the sudden change of topic. “Our honeymoon?”

  He nods, a thin smile forming on his mouth. “Besides leaving you, it’s my only regret.” He settles down on the floor, motioning for me to join him. I do. “You were right.”

  “About what, Tyler?” My heart is being crushed in my chest.

  He looks sheepish, young. Boyish. It breaks me. “We should have gone. During our last break, we should’ve just packed up and drove. I regret making us wait.”

  And like a kick to the gut, the answer hits me. I don’t know whether to cry or scream or laugh.

  As much as I’m not ready to say goodbye, as much as I’m going to miss him . . . I have to help Tyler cross over. Because buried in a deep, dark pocket of my soul, I fear he walked away from the light for me. And now I have to stop being selfish. I love him too much to let him fade away into nothing.

  A tear slips down my face, and I brush it away harshly. Then I glance at my clock: 3:46.

  “Come on. Time for bed,” I say, giving Tyler my best witchy smile.

  His eyebrows hike. “Am I sharing your bed tonight, sexy?” I can’t help but laugh, and I need to. From here on out, I have to laugh and smile and love him until it’s time. Only then can I break.

  HOLDEN

  Son of a bitch.

  I slam my fist on the counter, pissed. “What do you mean the case has been deemed inactive?”

  The officer behind the counter stands, approaches, like she’s going to arrest me. I hold my hands in the air innocently. “Sorry,” I say. “I’m just shocked I wasn’t informed, when I specifically asked to be the last time I was here. Please. He’s my brother.”

  This last part softens her a bit, and her stiff shoulders relax. “Mr. Marks—Holden—I know how difficult all this has been for you”—she looks down at her folder, flips through—“but it’s been over a hundred days. We can’t keep a case like this on the top shelf unless there’s substantial evidence to follow. There’s no statute of limitation here, so we can always follow up on new leads. But without any evidence that proves your brother’s death was anything but a tragic accident, it will be filed as inactive for now. I’m sorry.”

  My jaw tightens. “So that’s it? Did the investigating officer even ask around campus? Did they inspect all the red cars? Did they talk to everyone—?”

  “Yes,” she says, cutting me off. “I assure you protocol was followed all the way. I wish there was better news to give you, but unfortunately, cases like this, hit-and-runs, often go unsolved. Maybe you should seek some help . . . for you to work through your—”

  Tossing my hands in the air, I turn my back to her and head out of the station. I don’t want to hear yet another cop telling me to “seek help.” I heard it all through high school from them. About how I was a disturbed youth who needed a healthy outlet. Fuck it.

  This isn’t about me. It’s about Tyler, and making sure they only discover what I want them to.

  Looking up into the overcast sky, I release a strained breath, the tension flowing out of my body. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to hear from them—maybe that some bastard had gotten picked up and questioned, or that they had a suspect in custody. Yeah, that’s what I wanted to hear. But hearing the case has moved out of top priority, I suppose compared to the alternative . . . It’s for the best.

  They can’t ever discover the truth.

  A twinge of guilt stabs my
chest, but I shut it down. Sometimes the truth is better left buried. No matter what, nothing will change anything between me and my father. Or me and Sam. There’s nothing here for me now. No reason to stay.

  Opening my truck door, I decide to make one last stop before hitting the road.

  My father’s house is just as pretentious as it was the day I left. A huge, gaudy, two-story plantation house with dark gray stucco exterior, black shutters and doors, two car garage, hot-red Beamer in the driveway.

  He was already showing signs of a mid-life crisis before Mom died. Now he’s full-blown into one. If the car didn’t give it away, the hot little blonde with tits about to topple her over sauntering up the front steps with a Victoria’s Secret bag does.

  It’s the worst cliché I’ve ever seen.

  Still, I’m tempted to knock on the door, see his expression—see if he’ll slam it in my face. To say we didn’t get along as I was growing up is not even a comical understatement. But after I left, the distance actually helped our father/son relationship. If you can fucking call it that.

  As much as he wanted me to go to college, I didn’t want anything from him. And there was nothing in me that wanted to please him. I found an entry-level position at a garage, and someone willing to take me under his wing. The owner was impressed with my skill level, and within my first year in Atlanta, I became a full-time body paint specialist.

  My lowered Toyota two-door proudly displays my most recent work. Two-toned metallic silver, layered under black ghost flames licking the hood and sides. This isn’t exactly the job I’d pictured having growing up—I’d thought I’d be some studio artist—but I’m free to paint what I want. And I support myself. That’s what counts.

  My father was proud of me, even if he didn’t actually say so. When I sent Tyler pics of the cars I’d painted, he saw them and claimed he was jealous that I got to work on badass cars for a living, while he was stuck in a stuffy office.

  Despite everything, I thought we could mend whatever shit was broken. And I even fooled myself into believing we could be a normal family. Almost. Eventually. I was willing to try if it meant things got better for my brother. That is, until I came back for his nineteenth birthday. It was the first time I’d stepped foot on the island since I left, and it was like welcoming home a curse.

  I blow out a heavy breath. Looking around, I decide I’m parked far enough back to chance a walk. I close the truck door behind me and then dip into the woods, finding the wooded trail easily.

  For a minute, panic speeds my pulse. I don’t see it, thinking it’s been torn down. Or maybe it fell. It was ancient years back, and they might have cleared it away. But when I push through the brush covering the side of the trail, I spot the gnarly black dead tree.

  Sam’s tree.

  I’m not sure if she still comes here, but I pretend she does. It makes me feel close to her, like the rest of the shit that took place after we kissed never happened.

  I brush my hand over the black bark, remembering the softness of her lips, the want in her eyes when she stared into mine. The tremble in her body, the mix of heat and cold as she pressed against me. Shaking my head, I spit a curse. I’m so fucked up. Being here again has got my head spinning.

  I know she’ll work through her loss and grief over Tyler. Then she’ll find a good guy to settle down with, buy a home around here, have some kids. Probably work in an art studio.

  I should just get the hell out.

  As I take the long way around back to my truck, I come up behind my childhood home, and stop cold. Sam is walking through the worn path connecting our houses. I duck down, like a total stalker. And watch.

  My forehead creases as I watch her wave her hands around, talking to herself. She spins and fists her hands on her hips. Then she says something else. What the hell?

  Glancing around, I look for whoever she’s talking to, but she’s alone. Only she’s having a full-on conversion. With herself.

  I’m torn if I should say something or not, try to snap her out of it. Like a sleepwalker, I’m not sure it’s safe to let her know what she’s doing. Instead, I watch as she shakes her head and then turns and starts toward my father’s house.

  Every muscle in my body is tense and ready to act. I shift my stance, edgy, from foot to foot, talking myself out of going up there. When she presses the doorbell, I breathe out a curse. Fuck. She’s going in.

  SAM

  Tyler has been more prominent and demanding and here today than ever before. He’s worried about me talking to his dad. I know Mr. Marks can be intimidating. Hell, I was scared of him when I was a kid. He’s so huge and has that booming lawyer’s voice, always probing you for information instead of just having a normal conversation.

  But that’s what he is. A lawyer. Tyler didn’t make me go around him much—actually, he kept me pretty guarded from his family life, preferring to hang out at my house until we were in high school. I think his dad embarrassed him. As kids, when we did play at his house, we used to place bets on how many minutes it would take before his dad started his interrogation. Like simply asking about how Tyler’s day went after school. It would start out simple enough, then he’d go all lawyer mode.

  I haven’t seen him since the funeral. And I’m still ashamed that I couldn’t stand up and speak in front of Tyler’s friends and family. I wonder if he’ll mention it, and my hands slick with sweat.

  Raising my hand to ring the doorbell, I jump as Tyler materializes before the door.

  “Shit,” I hiss. “Tyler. Go away. I can’t talk to your dad with you hanging around. Please.”

  His features screw up into a determined expression, and I can just make out the door through his translucent appearance. I’m worried about how much energy he’s exerting to be here.

  “He’s not the same,” Tyler says. “Since Mom . . . and now me . . . he won’t listen to you, Sam.”

  “I have to try.” With a forceful step, I walk through Tyler. No cold. No chill. No tingle. I believe it’s because I love him, because I knew him. The reason why I never feel him the way the accounts claim I should. I huff. All that Internet crap is just hyperbole.

  I press the doorbell, and the soft chime of bells rings out. Then footsteps, echoing through the hallway, getting closer.

  Running my palms over my jeans, then smoothing down any flyaway strands, I prepare myself to face Tyler’s father. But when the door swings wide, it’s not Mr. Marks. It’s his fiancé, Amber.

  Her blue eyes go wide. “Sam.” Scanning my frame, her gaze comes to rest on my hair. Before I left my house, I tried to look as nice and clean and sane as possible. Apparently, I didn’t accomplish that. I absentmindedly touch my hair, thinking I should’ve worn a hat. Her voice and eyes soften. “How have you been?”

  I smile. “I’m good, thanks. But I need to speak with Mr. Marks. Is he home?” I noticed his new Beamer in the driveway, but being here sends me back years, and I’m a kid all over again. Nervous and polite.

  She matches my smile and widens the door. “Yeah, of course. Come on in.”

  “Thanks.” I walk inside, and the scent of vanilla, ocean, and fresh wood hits me hard. I take an immediate step back. It’s what Tyler used to smell like. It’s the smell of his home. I bite back the sting of tears—I haven’t smelled him in so long . . .

  “Sam.” Mr. Marks’ deep voice startles me from my thoughts.

  Tucking a rogue strand of hair behind my ear, I force my feet to move past the entryway. “Hi, Mr. Marks.”

  “It’s been a while,” he says. His dark eyes squint as he smiles.

  Amber’s pink glossy lips press together as she glances between us, then she points to the kitchen, saying she’s going to finish logging her new recipe.

  She leaves, and we stand there awkwardly. I’m not sure what to say, but then he motions toward the living room, and I quietly nod. I follow him past bookshelves that house photos of Tyler and Holden, and my heart tightens. I try to focus on why I’m here, thankful that Tyl
er isn’t lingering.

  A surge of guilt rushes through me at how short I was with him. But my nerves are on edge, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to do this with him here. I just hope he didn’t exhaust himself with his attempt to stop me.

  After a few minutes of polite conversation (he doesn’t mention my disappearance at the funeral, thank God), I suck in a breath and jump in.

  “I’m actually here to ask your permission for something, Mr. Marks.”

  I watch as his relaxed features shift, his forehead and the corners of his eyes creasing with concern. “All right. Shoot.”

  “You know how Tyler always wanted to travel across the country,” I say, my fingers laced so tightly together I’m cutting off my circulation. “Besides football, it was all he ever talked about. Well that, and becoming a lawyer,” I add, hoping to quash some of the tension in the room.

  He chuckles. “Yes, he did. His damn room is still covered in maps.” His gaze clouds, as if he’s envisioning a moment between them.

  “And then once we were married”—I swallow; my mouth dry—“it was going to be our honeymoon. We had it all mapped out.”

  With a furtive, tight-lipped smile, he nods. “He mentioned that.” He eyes me curiously. “But I’m not sure I’m following what this has to do with anything now.”

  “Right, well.” Shit. Here it goes. “I’d like to be able to spread some of his ashes in the places he marked on our map, sir.” His face darkens, and I quickly push on, through my imploding nerves. “I want to fulfill his dream, his wishes, and take him on his trip.”

  A long silence follows. And then, “No.”

  I blink. My mouth parts, but I quickly snap it shut. My sinuses flare and my throat grows thick as the pain behind my eyes returns with the feeling I’m about to cry. I shove it down, replacing it with the only emotion stronger than hurt. Anger.

  “I’m sorry. Just ‘no’?” I take a sobering breath. “It was really hard for me to ask this . . . and I feel like you should at least hear me out before making a decision. At least let me explain—”