Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #20 November 2015 | Page 74

became each other’s strength, sharing the burden of
our loss and the warmth of our memories. Our days
appeared normal but felt surreal, as though a piece
was always missing from the puzzle. I hate to think
how my mother feels now, with the rest of the pieces
torn apart and thrown away like trash. I will never
know motherhood, so I can only imagine her pain.

She still can’t see me. She looks straight through me
before ushering her guest through to the living room.
With two quickly brewed cups of coffee in front of
them, my mother and Susan begin to exchange ideas
and observations.
“Karen, I’ve had a quick look at the house you
told me about. There’s definitely something there,
something…” She leaves her sentence unfinished,
unwilling to describe the foul stench of evil she’d
sensed emanating from my killer’s house

Susan is checking her phone, scrolling
through her contact list. She dials a number and waits
impatiently, fingers drumming on the dash.
“Darren, when you get this, call me back. I
may need your help.”

My mother sets down her coffee and leans
forward, her jaw set and determined. ”It’s him. I know
it’s him. I feel it in my bones. In my entire being.”

She snaps the phone shut and takes a deep
breath, throwing her head back as she exhales.

Susan looks thoughtful. She looks earnestly
into my mother’s eyes. “Have you felt anything else?”

“Ok, let’s do this,” she says to me and no-one.
I’m hoping she’s going to poke around my
home. Something in me needs to see its familiar walls,
the second hand furniture, carefully repainted by my
mother’s hand. My books, my movie collection, the
stuffed bears from my childhood that still grace my
bed. I want to see my mother, sipping her tea and
smiling with hope in her eyes.
But we keep walking, past the overgrown
lawn. We walk to the shuttered house two doors
down. Susan pauses and kneels. She begins to adjust
the strap on her boots, all the while keeping her head
slightly turned, assessing the house. I stand beside her,
waiting, shivering with the memories. She feels it and
shivers too, then straightens and keeps walking. We
circle the block and come back to the car. She pauses
for a moment, staring at my house. I see her hesitation
and will her to go inside. She half closes the car door,
then opens it again. Still she hesitates.
I can’t help myself. I give her a gentle push.
She shivers again as my touch reverberates down her
spine then steps forward, propelled. She mounts the
worn cement steps and presses the doorbell. I hear my
mother’s footsteps echo on the timber floorboards as
she hurries down the hall. She throws the door open,
greeting us with a bright smile. Well, greeting Susan.

My mother shakes her head. “I’m not sure
what you mean.”
”Other feelings, perhaps the sense of another
presence.”
My mother frowns. “You mean ghosts? You
mean… Lisa?”
Susan nods. My mother shakes her head again.
“My mother was the one who believed in God
and an afterlife. I have no such delusions.”
Susan sits back in her chair. By the expression
on her face, I’d say she’s a little offended.
“Then why have you consulted me about
your daughter?” My observation seems to be correct.
Susan’s tone is formal, her voice a little cold.
My mother picks up on the sudden chill in
the room, one that cannot be attributed to ghostly
intrusion.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. I don’t
believe in those things but I do believe in truth and
justice. I want answers and I will get them, no matter

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