Pen Pal

PURGATORIO

Even in the grave, all is not lost.

~ Edgar Allan Poe

When I told Kayla that ghosts are simply souls with a story to tell, it was the truth. But the thing about ghosts is that they’re unreliable narrators. Especially when they’re telling a story to themselves.

Figuring out that you’re dead is complicated business.

A shout comes from behind me. I turn to find Sandy running down the hall toward us at top speed, her eyes wide and her face white. Clinging to my leg, Bennett bursts into tears when he sees his mother.

She scoops him up into her arms, hugs him tightly against her chest, and stares in horror into the room. Over the roar of the wind, she hollers, “He snuck out of bed. My God, what’s happening?”

“Take him back upstairs!” shouts Claire.

Paper flies past, lifted by the gale, twisting like broken birds in flight. The curtains beside the shattered windows flap and billow. Framed photographs tear themselves from the walls and smash against the floor. Books shoot out of the bookcase as if fired from a gun. A lightshow erupts from the exploding bulbs in the ceiling and lamps, showering the room in a spray of brilliant white sparks.

It’s a pageant of sound and fury. The visible chaos when an invisible heart breaks.

“I know, poor dear,” I murmur, watching the madness. “I’m so sorry.”

The spot where Kayla stood mere moments ago is now empty.

Sandy runs back the way she came, hurrying down the hall with Bennett in her arms. They’ll go back to David upstairs and wait for Claire and me to let them know if the spirit of Kayla Reece has finally left their house.

They might have to wait a while, however.

There’s still more of the story left to tell.