[Two to Write] Night's Final Hour - Chapter 51
Benjamin Delacroix“It is ever the invisible that is the object of our
profoundest worship. With the lover it is not the seen but the unseen
that he muses upon.” - Christian Nestell Bovee
“Tell her what you find most appropriate. Whatever is best for you and
your friendship.” I settle myself against my headstone. “I’ve never
asked you to lie to anyone, Miss Carter.”
“So I should be honest with her?” Ivy asks me, her expression shows
surprise. “You would be okay with me telling her the truth about you?”
“Yes, Miss Carter. You may tell her the truth. I am what I am.” I am
seated in a comfortable position, knowing that I will probably be here
for a good portion of time. “I am a ghost of a man. I died in 1782 and,
as long as I continue to exist on this plane, I will be a twenty year
old man. What else is there to tell her?”
"I know what you are. What I don't know is how to tell her what you
are. How do you make someone believe something like that?" She asks me
in earnest.
“There is no way to make someone believe it. Admitting to oneself that
something supernatural truly exists is a big step for anyone. Think
about it, why did you believe it? I certainly didn’t try to make you
believe it; you had to do that on your own.” I tell her, looking at the
setting sun.
“But you’ve had to make other people believe that they were ghosts
themselves, haven’t you? How did you do that?” Ivy looks at the
tombstones around us. I can tell she’s wondering how many of them I’ve
spoken with in my time.
“In all honesty, Miss Ivy, I don’t know how I manage to do that. Quite
often, it isn’t too difficult because they witness their own funerals.”
Glancing toward her, I admit, “if someone had tried to convince me of
the existence of ghosts when I’d been alive, there is no chance that I
would have believed them.”
“Oh.” It is all that she says, but I know her thoughts. Miss Carter had
been hoping that I might offer her some ideas on how to make the
discussion easier, but I had nothing to give her.
“I am sorry, Miss Ivy.” In the dirt beside me, I trace lines and
curves. “Perhaps you should go and speak with her now. The discussion
will be no easier at a later time and I am sure she is anxious to talk
with you. In addition, the two of you will probably discuss what she
has said to Mr. Pearson.”
She begins to say something, but then decides against it. I shall never
know what her words would have been as she turns and leaves the
cemetery behind her. Watching her as she leaves, the day seems to grow
colder. There is something that has passed between Miss Carter and
myself on this day, but I cannot place it in my mind. It troubles me
because I fear that, this thing which has passed; it is not a pleasant
thing or something which I should be grateful to have seen.
The night comes on slowly and, for once, as the moon grows brighter, I
feel myself fading. The order of things that I once knew has changed;
reversed itself at my expense just to confuse me. For now, I will not
try to maintain my corporeal self, but, rather, to let myself fade. At
11:11 tonight, I suspect that I shall be corporeal once again whether I
wish it or not. For now, however, I want only to fade from sight and
wallow unnoticed.
Night's Final Hour by Crystal and Pamela MacLean is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United
States License.
profoundest worship. With the lover it is not the seen but the unseen
that he muses upon.” - Christian Nestell Bovee
“Tell her what you find most appropriate. Whatever is best for you and
your friendship.” I settle myself against my headstone. “I’ve never
asked you to lie to anyone, Miss Carter.”
“So I should be honest with her?” Ivy asks me, her expression shows
surprise. “You would be okay with me telling her the truth about you?”
“Yes, Miss Carter. You may tell her the truth. I am what I am.” I am
seated in a comfortable position, knowing that I will probably be here
for a good portion of time. “I am a ghost of a man. I died in 1782 and,
as long as I continue to exist on this plane, I will be a twenty year
old man. What else is there to tell her?”
"I know what you are. What I don't know is how to tell her what you
are. How do you make someone believe something like that?" She asks me
in earnest.
“There is no way to make someone believe it. Admitting to oneself that
something supernatural truly exists is a big step for anyone. Think
about it, why did you believe it? I certainly didn’t try to make you
believe it; you had to do that on your own.” I tell her, looking at the
setting sun.
“But you’ve had to make other people believe that they were ghosts
themselves, haven’t you? How did you do that?” Ivy looks at the
tombstones around us. I can tell she’s wondering how many of them I’ve
spoken with in my time.
“In all honesty, Miss Ivy, I don’t know how I manage to do that. Quite
often, it isn’t too difficult because they witness their own funerals.”
Glancing toward her, I admit, “if someone had tried to convince me of
the existence of ghosts when I’d been alive, there is no chance that I
would have believed them.”
“Oh.” It is all that she says, but I know her thoughts. Miss Carter had
been hoping that I might offer her some ideas on how to make the
discussion easier, but I had nothing to give her.
“I am sorry, Miss Ivy.” In the dirt beside me, I trace lines and
curves. “Perhaps you should go and speak with her now. The discussion
will be no easier at a later time and I am sure she is anxious to talk
with you. In addition, the two of you will probably discuss what she
has said to Mr. Pearson.”
She begins to say something, but then decides against it. I shall never
know what her words would have been as she turns and leaves the
cemetery behind her. Watching her as she leaves, the day seems to grow
colder. There is something that has passed between Miss Carter and
myself on this day, but I cannot place it in my mind. It troubles me
because I fear that, this thing which has passed; it is not a pleasant
thing or something which I should be grateful to have seen.
The night comes on slowly and, for once, as the moon grows brighter, I
feel myself fading. The order of things that I once knew has changed;
reversed itself at my expense just to confuse me. For now, I will not
try to maintain my corporeal self, but, rather, to let myself fade. At
11:11 tonight, I suspect that I shall be corporeal once again whether I
wish it or not. For now, however, I want only to fade from sight and
wallow unnoticed.
Night's Final Hour by Crystal and Pamela MacLean is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United
States License.