The Dead are Watching by Debra Robinson

Author:Debra Robinson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: psychic, intuition, ghost story, ghost stories, haunting, true ghost story, true ghost stories, real haunting, true haunting
Publisher: Llewellyn Worldwide, LTD.
Published: 2014-07-24T04:00:00+00:00

James had been on my mind a lot after all this, and the next day, after I grabbed a fast-food meal at a drive-through, I passed by our local park, and nostalgia—the good kind—struck me. I decided to eat there, and I pulled in. I parked at the top of the hill and climbed up on one of the picnic tables in a covered shelter, sitting on the tabletop with my feet on the seat. A beautiful hillside covered with mature oak trees stretched out before me, and the sounds of the merry-go-round and children’s laughter drifted up from the park below, carried on a gentle breeze. So peaceful, so beautiful, I thought. Waves of memories and emotions hit me, and I fell into my habit of talking out loud to James.

“Ahh, James, remember all the times we came here? You wanted to live here when you were little, you loved it so much.” Many days I’d left the dishes in the sink and floors unswept, just to be able to take him to the park. My rheumatoid arthritis had made me face mortality at the young age of twenty-four, and that taught me to believe it was more important to lavish James with love than do the day’s dishes. I really didn’t think I’d live a very long life, so every moment was precious and weighted with that belief.

I looked down to be sure of my footing and jumped off the picnic table. I walked to the nearest tree and leaned on it as I let the memories flood back. There was the football stadium below where James got in his first fight; a kid from another town started it because James walked on the opposing team’s side of the stadium, unaware of the unspoken rules. Just past the stadium were the kiddie rides I took him on as a little baby. In the opposite direction was the pool where I’d drop James off with a friend each summer as he got older. Again, the unfairness of his death struck me. I guarded against allowing these feelings in every single day, but sometimes, especially when alone like this, they all came rushing back, as though making up for lost time. I still missed him so much.

With a sigh, I walked back to the picnic table and stepped up on the seat again, but I saw something dark beside my right foot. I turned and plopped down on the tabletop again, reaching for the small object. It was a black guitar pick! Where in the world did that come from! I picked it up, astonished, and saw that it had a fancy scrolled “W” on it, in white. I was flabbergasted. The black pick stood out against the scuffed wood of the picnic table seat—it had not been there just a couple minutes before. I would have seen it! I’d bought James a Washburn guitar when he’d first started playing, and he used it until his death. I wondered if this “W” stood for Washburn.

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