Eternal (6 page)

A closer look disclosed a bright light glancing off the fanlight. The sun? The tremor that rattled through my limbs told me differently.

Had my ghost died prior to 1888? Perhaps sometime during the Civil War?

I held my breath, growing very still, wondering if he watched me now—if he stood in this very space with me.

When I turned the page, the noise it made seemed exceedingly loud in the otherwise silent room. Even Mr. Stella deigned to lift his head off his inky paws to rebuff me with an annoyed look. I scratched him behind the ears and then, with interest, I began reading a section titled,
The War Years
.

The builder’s son, James Ransom, had inherited the house shortly before the Civil War. Andrew Ransom had died and was buried in the family cemetery behind the house. Gooseflesh broke out along my arms, reminding me I’d seen that very cemetery through the window on the landing of the stairs.

I rolled onto my back, dragging the magazine with me. The article stated that James Ransom had three sons, all of whom fought for the Confederacy during the Civil War. The two eldest sons, Dewey and Jasper, fought under the command of their neighbor, Lucius Polk. Dewey was killed at the Battle of Chickamauga and Jasper fell in the fighting around Atlanta.

After both brothers died, the youngest son, Jeremiah Ransom, ran away from home against his parents’ wishes and joined the Twentieth Tennessee Infantry Regiment near Decatur, Alabama, in 1864.

I brushed my fingers along his name. “Jeremiah Ransom,” I whispered. An unexplainable knowing took root in my soul.

Jeremiah Ransom was the ghost I had seen.

I bit my bottom lip and continued reading.

Bedraggled and war-weary, the Army of Tennessee had passed through Mt. Pleasant and Columbia on their way north to the ill-fated Battle of Franklin where they marched into virtual slaughter at the hands of Union forces. Jeremiah’s parents had pleaded with him to leave the army but he’d refused, determined to avenge the deaths of his brothers.

During the fighting in Franklin, Jeremiah had been struck in the temple with a minie ball, which I assumed was some sort of Civil War bullet. Delirious, he’d survived only long enough to be brought back home.

The next statement sent a shiver of shock through me. I read it out loud. “The surgeon operated on Jeremiah Ransom in the room where he’d been born.”

My gaze drifted to the threadbare braided rug that barely concealed the bloodstained floor.

Trembling, I squinted at the blur of black ink on the page and forced myself to focus in order to finish reading—even though I knew what the article would reveal next.

“After the bullet was removed, Jeremiah Ransom languished in his bed for two days before he died and was buried alongside his grandfather in the family plot.”

A photo of my bed turned my blood to ice. Although the mattress was a modern one, I lay in the very spot where the spirit of the young man I’d seen standing in my doorway had died a century and a half ago. Another intuitive knowing shook me to the core. My breath froze. Trembling, I turned the page to find a second sepia toned photograph.

Although I’d known what the page would reveal, I wasn’t prepared to look into the eyes of my ghost.

His intense stare penetrated my soul in a way that unhinged me. Even though the picture was rendered in warm tones of brown, his eyes seemed a light shade in contrast to his very dark wealth of hair. Dressed in a dark suit, tie and white shirt, he sat very stiffly posed for the picture. Classic lines delineated his sharp cheekbones and jaw. Intelligence emanated from his eyes. Determination shone in his expression.

“You were handsome,” I mused, taking note of the warm tingle in my tummy. For some reason, the fact that I found him gorgeous both annoyed and delighted me.

As my gaze moved over the image, I noticed the caption at the bottom.
Photograph of Jeremiah Ransom courtesy of Ruth Polk.

My lips parted. Did that mean the original photo remained somewhere in the house?

We hadn’t come across any old pictures like this while moving in.

The attic.

My mouth went dry at the prospect of exploring the attic—of encountering Jeremiah Ransom’s ghost again. Fear and excitement fused into one strange emotion I couldn’t define. Yes. I would go to the attic. But first, I wanted to visit the Ransom family cemetery, the place where Jeremiah Ransom had been laid to rest.

Or so they thought.

Leaving the magazine on the bed, I slipped out of my bedroom and through the little hallway, purposefully avoiding the attic door before I traipsed down the stairs as far as the landing.

I stopped to peer out the window, searching once more for the sight of the tombstones emerging from the unruly brush. When I caught sight of the tallest one, I visually judged where it stood in line with the house before I skipped down the remainder of the stairs.

A new appreciation for the history that had taken place within these walls surged through me. My mind’s eye filled with years old images of mud-spattered soldiers bringing Jeremiah Ransom’s mortally wounded body through the front door and up the stairs, past where I stood, safe in my own time. I hesitated, absorbing the impression of a tattered, gray, woolen blanket thrown over his body while one hand dangled lifelessly from the litter as he was carried.

His mother’s grief-stricken wails echoed through time along with the pitiful calls from other wounded soldiers who lay scattered on floor pallets. “Please…water.” “Give me something for the pain!” “Momma!”

James Ransom stood at the foot of the stairs, his expression disfigured with anger and grief that yet another son had died for a lost cause.

I faltered and shook the vision away. My heart raced as I fled onto the front porch where I gulped in deep breaths of fresh air.

The sun hung low in the sky, casting hues ranging from orange to deep purple. A warm breeze kicked up the autumn leaves and they glittered in the waning light as they haphazardly floated toward earth.

Stunned, I gazed at my surroundings. The fiery hues of dusk looked like something from an old-timey movie set.

Sunsets like this didn’t exist in Atlanta. Here, the ground, itself belied another time, as if gravity held captive the energy of those turbulent times. Even the trees told their own version of history in gnarled, tragedy-laced eyewitness accounts.

With the whirlwind move and starting a new school the very next day, I hadn’t had time to venture outside to explore our vast lawn. While our front yard stretched for nearly a quarter of a mile toward the highway, our back yard was small in comparison, disappearing quickly into the woods. A narrow pathway caught my eye and I assumed this was the way to the cemetery. Dried leaves and twigs crunched underfoot as I trudged along and, more than once, I stopped to glance over my shoulder to gauge my bearings.

The leaves crunched and I whipped around. But no one was there except the squirrels scurrying about, gathering food for winter. Brilliant against the muted shades of gray and brown, a scarlet cardinal settled on a nearby branch. The breeze gently lifted my hair and blew the strands across my face, coercing me to pull them away and tuck them behind my ear.

Anticipation hummed through my veins. I wondered what I would find when I reached the family cemetery. Fear struck when I glanced back at the house which now seemed small and faraway. I hadn’t realized I’d walked so far and I was more than a little afraid I wouldn’t be able to find my way out of here if it got much darker.

Looking up for additional landmarks, I noticed that the largest trees were very evenly spaced. Far from my reach, little red apples clung to some of the branches. “An orchard,” I remarked, pleasantly surprised.

Several rotting apples lying on the ground among the strewn leaves lent a sweet fragrance to the air. I’d never been in an orchard before and the idea that I could eat an apple that had grown on a tree in my own yard fascinated me. Unfortunately, none of the apples grew within my reach and as I continued along the path, I scoured the ground for a stick long enough to use to knock one down.

The harsh call of a crow shattered the silence. I’d come to the edge of the orchard. A wrought iron fence encircled several time-worn tombstones which rose out of the weeds like dragon’s teeth.

I bit my bottom lip. Anticipation ran rampant in my veins.

When I reached for the rusted gate, a stout breeze kicked up and the gate squeaked open as if of its own accord. Unable to move, I stood staring, my trembling hand hovering over the spot where the gate had been.

My house stood only yards away, however, the view of it was nearly completely obscured by the overgrown orchard. I could have been miles away from anyone living, with only the dead accompanying me in this desolate place.

No traffic buzzed on the highway, not even any birds sang other than the one sharp bark of the crow that had long since flown away. Only the lonely rustle of the breeze through the trees—and the ghosts—welcomed me.

The pathway had definitely not been well traveled and I wondered who’d been the last living person to lay eyes on this spot. A desperate real estate agent jonesing to make a sale? Crazy old Miss Polk laying a wreath on her beloved’s grave?

My ghost?

Jeremiah Ransom…

The thought that his remains lay under this earth unsettled me. I swallowed thickly, knowing that although his body rested here, his soul did not.

Summoning courage, I squeezed through the opening that had been created for me by unseen hands.

The eerily soft ground gave under my footsteps. I counted twelve graves in the small family plot. The largest stone was a rain-stained marble obelisk that rose about six feet from the ground. I had to run my fingers over the blackened etching to make out the name of the person buried beneath it.

Andrew Ransom.

The article stated Jeremiah had been buried next to him.

A smaller obelisk on my right indicated the name of Andrew’s wife, Sarah.

Immediately, my gaze shot to the left of Andrew’s stone to the small squared-off stone that bore his name.

Beloved son. Jeremiah Ransom. 1844-1864.

My entire body tingled with fear and excitement. Somehow, seeing his grave made him more real to me. He
had
existed. He
had
been a real flesh and blood young man whose life had been cut short at the age of twenty by war.

And I had seen him.

I sank to my knees, staring at the cold, gray marker, the testament to Jeremiah’s brief life. My thoughts fixed on the dash between 1844 and 1864, the dates which represented his life. What had happened between those years etched in the stone? What had his favorite food been? His favorite color? Did he have a sweetheart?

Had he been happy or had he known sorrow? I suspected that, with two brothers dead in such a short time, he’d indeed known his share of sadness.

I inhaled the apples blended with the spicy fragrance of dying leaves and musty earth and I wondered why he remained on this plane. Was there any truth to the belief that ghosts stayed because they had unfinished business?

Unable to resist, I brushed my fingertips across his name as if instead of touching hard marble, I was touching him. Comforting him.

Chills coursed up and down my arms and legs. “Will I ever see you again?” I whispered.

A shadow passed across my hand. My heart skipped a beat. I jerked my hand back. It was getting dark. Fast. I needed to return to the house but I didn’t want to leave.

Energy crawled over my skin, setting the baby hair at the nape of my neck on end. My gaze darted left and right but I saw no one. Nothing.

Nothing except for the curious cardinal seated on a branch above me.

Still, I felt
his
presence. The sensation consumed me from head to toe like nothing I’d ever felt before, curiously palpable as if I could reach out and touch something solid in thin air.

Pushing myself up, I slid back through the gate. Spooked, I ran down the shadowy path to the house, not stopping until I reached the top of the stairs inside. Breathless, I walked through the little hallway, the hair on the back of my neck still prickling as I passed by the slightly open attic door. I purposefully resisted the magnetic draw to look. That crawling energy still swirled around me and I knew in the depths of my soul it was
him
. His energy. Jeremiah’s.

Battling the wild emotions, I rushed into my room, only to skid to a stop when I saw what lay on the very center of my bed.

A ripe, red apple.

An apple from the orchard outside.

Four

Unable to sleep, I stared up at the knot of fabric in the center of my canopy. I hadn’t been able to think about anything except that apple.

I hadn’t eaten it and had touched it only long enough to move it from my bed to the dresser and, even though darkness enveloped my room, I knew the apple waited there. For me. I knew he’d touched it. He’d placed it on the bed where I now lay.

Turning onto my side, I drew my knees up and stared at the dark, round shape that seemed incongruously ominous in the shadows. I didn’t doubt he’d left it. But more than the fact that he’d offered me a gift, the act confirmed that I hadn’t just been spooked. He really had been there with me in the cemetery.

I swallowed. Hard.

He was
aware
that I’d visited his grave—aware that I’d thought about wanting one of the apples.

Slowly, I inhaled and then blew the breath out. It only stood to reason a ghost could read a person’s thoughts. But the idea that a ghost could interact with me shook me to the marrow.

If he could read my thoughts, did he know what Briar knew? That I was responsible for the death of my best friend? That I didn’t belong here and that it should be me in that grave instead of Kira?

My cheeks burned with shame and guilt. A lump welled in my throat and I fought back hot tears.

Why did it matter to me what a ghost thought? I didn’t even know him.

For the first time since I was three years old, I wanted to slip down the stairs and crawl in bed with my mother. That was an impossibility and, dismissing the desire to seek sanctuary in my mom’s bed, my thoughts turned back to Jeremiah Ransom.