Chistmas Ever After by Elyse Douglas

Author:Elyse Douglas
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2012-09-26T04:00:00+00:00

Central Park returned with a blast of cold wind.

Jennifer was devastated, blunted by the scenes that dissolved into falling shards of snow. She tried to cry, but could only manage a whisper, a strained kind of agonized wheeze.

Suddenly, the bridge began to vibrate, shift and slide away to the left, away from the park, rising into a white shimmering cloud of snow. Jennifer stood rigid, cold and lifeless. She shut her eyes so tightly that they hurt. She grappled with a sudden insanity.

When her eyes snapped open, she saw St. Patrick’s Cathedral looming before her against the dark rusty sky. She blinked around. There were no Christmas decorations in any of the store windows that emerged before her. There were no cars, no people—not the hint of sound or movement. It was painfully quiet, as if she were the last person on earth.

A gentle rolling fog drifted ominously toward her. Her probing eyes observed it, seeking meaning or form. Suddenly, within its boiling center, a slender green stem appeared, curled, and ascended. A rosebud formed. It emerged, pulsing, swiftly reaching height and maturity. It burst open, like a new world, in layers of unraveling silky petals. Jennifer took it in, her face fixed in wonder, caught between dread and expectation. The petals surged out in perpetual waves of splendor and luster – a dynamic explosion of dazzling color, sweet scents, and low thunder that rattled the world. Overwhelmed, Jennifer turned aside, chest heaving. She squeezed her eyes shut, seeking escape.

And then it was over. There was silence; a silence that throbbed and lengthened and hurt.

Jennifer carefully opened her eyes. She swallowed hard. Before her, projected on a dazzling white cloud, she saw the image of a solid oak casket. Gradually, agonizingly, the clarity of form, size and recognition revealed she was standing inside a funeral home. She stood like a ghost, watching, observing Lance’s casket. He lay within the lacey mother-of-pearl bed, peaceful and still, surrounded by floral arrangements of roses, lilies and irises.

Jennifer watched as if drugged, as figure after solemn figure passed, some weeping, others quietly withdrawn, lost in an unspeakable grief.

The front door opened and Kathy Mason appeared, dressed in black, eyes swollen from tears, face stricken with heartache. She started for the casket, dazed and weak, taking slow, measured steps. With a reluctant hand, she reached for the casket, but she failed. Her bleak and wan face fell into new anguish. She staggered, folded into herself and collapsed to the floor.

The entire image suddenly dissolved, and the fog dissipated in a circling cold wind. Jennifer was left alone in an aching darkness, feeling like she, too, were dying, as if her very skin were cracking and peeling away from her brittle bones.

Suddenly, a shaft of yellow light shot from the sky, and Lance appeared; as though a magician had mumbled an incantation, snapped his cape and stepped aside. Lance stood tall and motionless, eyes wide, posture stiff, like a manikin, only 30 feet away, on the steps of St.

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