Scott Nicholson by A Novella The Dead Love Longer

Author:A Novella The Dead Love Longer [The Dead Love Longer, A Novella]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2012-07-03T14:15:17+00:00

9.

I reached San Francisco just before dawn. Usually, the fog and rain there wraps you up and digs its way into your bones. But when you have no bones, the chill doesn’t bother you as much.

Nothing compares to being a ghost in the fog. Drifting from marina to marina, I was consumed by a peace I had rarely known, the kind they sing about in “Silent Night.” I would have been content to drift for an eternity, succumbing to the pull of tides and shore breezes. But I still had an emptiness inside me, an ache and longing that kept me on task. No eternal peace would be complete without Lee.

There are thousands of boats in San Francisco. I passed over half of them before I found the Lady Slipper. I had hoped at least to learn the captain’s name. I didn’t think I would be lucky enough to find him sitting in the cabin. A half-empty bottle of Scotch, a cup of cold coffee, a cellular phone, and a revolver were on the table in front of him. He was crying.

The mahogany walls were covered with plaques, certificates, and framed photographs, and a trophy case filled one entire wall, brass and silver gleaming even in the dimness. Two of them were Oscars. I checked one of the photographs. The captain, in his younger days, posing with Natalie Wood. I thought he’d looked familiar. The photo beneath it looked like an autographed portrait of Spencer Tracy, but I didn’t study it closely.

Because the captain had picked up the revolver.

His hand trembled, and his eyelids twitched as he kept them clamped shut. He brought the revolver slowly to his head. I understood the darkness that might push someone over the edge. But now I knew the true value of living. I knew what it was like to die with regrets. I was willing to bet the captain had at least one regret.

I materialized. The captain’s eyes were still closed.

“Don’t do it,” I said, my head throbbing from the effort of wearing flesh.

The captain’s eyelids snapped open and his finger tensed on the trigger. I thought for a second he was going to blow himself away in the shock of seeing me. Because of the suddenness of my incorporation, I hadn’t finished the job. I was milky, translucent.

His mouth opened, and he glanced groggily at the cabin door. I came fully back into human form.

“Who—what?” he stammered.

“I’m the ghost of Christmas Yet to Come,” I said.

“How did you get in here?” He pushed himself back in the chair. “The door’s locked.”

I held up my hand and wiggled my fingers. Then I made them invisible. I tried to will myself back to flesh again, but I was weak. I panicked, fought, suffered a moment of doubt. He pointed the revolver in the direction of my heart and fired.

***

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