Regeneration X (36 page)

I was not in a position to be rational then. I still cannot explain it, even to myself. And I wouldn’t dare repeat this story to anyone else. I’m also firm believer in some things being better left unsaid. What if a chasm of darkness opened and I was swallowed up? It sounds ridiculous I know, but fear is a gnawing thing that can fester, if allowed.

Once or twice after that incident, not even in the pitch dark, I’ve felt the menacing presence of something and it had scared me away from the cemetery for a good long while, despite my usual and comforting penchant for logic. The hoots of owls among the trees and rustling limbs only added to the experiences, making me feel edgy—not peaceful at all—and I like owls and trees very much. To this day, I regret having tarnished my view of Serenity Park by my ignorant actions.

Eventually, however, a long hidden connection with this one grave nagged me into returning. I know better now and restrict my visits to less haunting hours. Besides, in the safe light of day I can see a little more clearly.

・ ・ ・

The warmth of sunlight hovers. Abstractly, I look up at the pale blue patches of sky in between the scattered cottony clouds that have rolled in. As a involuntary shiver travels along my arms, I suddenly become aware of the coolness within the borders of the park.

Although my jacket is buttoned all the way to my neck, I pull at the woolen sides and wrap my arms around my waist. My fingers tingle. Looking down at reddened tips of the fleshy side and bluish tinge of my nails on the other, I know my nose and cheeks are bound to be rosy as well. It’s a wonder I didn’t feel the bite until now. A brisk walk will put some distance between me and this place. I’ve shed a fair amount of baggage these past few months, but lately there are new meditations to store in an invisible backpack—a burden I’ve been unknowingly carrying upon my shoulders for years.

An inkling of darkness, unrelated to the shade, seeps into my heart. As if by warning, I turn away without a second glance at the graves and head toward the blossoming dogwood trees that line the walkway. Their tiny gossamer petals practically cover the hardened but worn dirt path I travel back. I stride purposefully until another chill runs down my spine.

Feeling the glare of a watcher at the nape of my neck, I pivot around to confront my follower. Finding no one there, further wariness stiffens my stance. But … since seeing or not seeing is believing, I breathe in, trying to calm my quickening heartbeat—shakily sighing in relief at my specious solitariness. Noticing my steps have crushed the newly fallen moist petals into the dirt, I convince myself that even a ghost would leave some trace. After all, the fingers had appeared tangible. “Phew.” The resulting single set of translucent marks is plain evidence of the only visit the cemetery residents have so far had today. Mine.

With the sweet earthy scent of the early spring air mingled with cold humidity in my sinuses, I speedily resume my way down the next winding path, through tall pines. Darker still amongst the wood, I block out the uneasiness until the lane straightens somewhat. Finally, I emerge from the enclosure, with my rationality nearly restored.

Exhaling in another huff, I almost collide into Mr. Craig entering the wood. I feel the steadying comfort of his hand under my elbow. He looks at me quixotically, but he’s a quiet keeps-to-himself man, granting the same respect to others; he does not verbally inquire into the cause of my apparent agitation.

“Good morning, Mr. Craig. It’s pretty soggy in there. I hope you’ve …” I stop short in my greeting as he holds up a roll of oilcloth in his hand. He’s come better prepared.

Faintly smiling and nodding, with a brief, “Hello,” he resumes on his path. Despite the pleasantries and the directness of his gaze, around the corners of his eyes and mouth there is still that ever-present sadness. Since this isn’t our first encounter, the answer to his general disposition is clear.

Everyone has a story to tell and although we are a small community, I haven’t yet heard Mr. Craig’s tale. Still, in general, I try to be observant enough to fill in the gaps of my understanding—without having a verbalized backstory to guide me. It’s a consequence of my professional, but also an inability of mine to accept the face value of things. Other than him, and Jon Greer and Henry Beacon—who maintain the grounds—I rarely meet anyone on this path or in the cemetery proper. And I would say, in our world, there isn’t much to be sad about among the living. Since he’s heading to where I’ve come from … Hmm. I guess a visit to the cemetery doesn’t require much in the way of deduction skill.

Serenity Park hosts hundreds, if not thousands of graves. There is one in particular, which pays homage to a countless mass from a devastating time in our history; along with others, entire families are buried together. I wonder whose ghost or ghosts Mr. Craig visits.

By now, having recovered most of the natural coloring in my fingertips, along with my sanity, I no longer need or want to keep up the same brisk pace. Turning left at the first bend, I stroll along the cemetery’s outer border. There is a thin row of trees on the right as well, partially blocking the view of the clearing just on the other side. Around this sparse fringe, it is only a quarter-mile to the edge of where the community begins. Mr. Craig is shoved to the background of my thoughts as I soak in the scene ahead.

・ ・ ・

The front door descends, making a slurping sound as it seals shut behind me. Shedding my jacket, I hang it on a hook of the hall tree. After pulling off my boots and kicking them under the bench, I walk down the hall to the left and into my space—shutting this door too.

“EMRY!” Julia, my mom, always says my name that way when she's in a disagreeable mood. It inevitably foreshadows the change in my own attitude, one equally uptight. Disagreeable might seem an odd way for a child to describe a parent. I mean no disrespect. However, it would probably be useful to know I'm not a child. Despite my appearance, I’m not even young. Strange as it may seem I’m older than Julia is and she’s not truly my mother.

“Coming … Give me a minute,” I project calmly through the door.

My name is Emery Kidd. I'm 19, but also a regen. Technically, I’m 68 years old. I’m not special in this way; there are others. Most of us living on this planet today, in fact, are regens.
 

About the Author

Ellison was born abroad and raised in Chicago, Illinois. The daughter of a biologist/businessman father and nurse/businesswoman mother, she spent several decades in the Midwest where she earned a degree in Biology and later another in English Literature but worked in graphic design and web development for most of her adult life.

On the outside, Ellison is an organized, conscientious, ordinary citizen of the human species. Inside her head, which is where she truly thrives, her world is much more complicated. There, everything is less obvious. Her work, although genre fiction, has a literary feel, which she thinks is quite all right since bubblegum fiction is rather limiting for herself creatively and she hopes, for her readers.

Next to writing fiction and poetry, she enjoys painting, traveling, and collecting vintage thingamabobs. She is married, lives in the Pacific Northwest, and has no children. Yet, she and her husband are the parental guardians of three darling beasties.

Website:
http://EllisonBlackburn.com

Goodreads:
https://www.goodreads.com/EllisonBlackburn

Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/EllisonBlackburn

Twitter:
 
https://www.twitter.com/Ellis_Blackburn

Pinterest:
https://www.pinterest.com/Ellis_Blackburn

Other Acknowledgments

THANK YOU to my family and friends for their support and encouragement. These simple words do not scratch the surface of gratitude I wish to impart (thus the block letters).

Specifically thanks to Philip Horvath for his indispensable feedback as a futurist; Jessica Judd for being my resilient sounding board; every one of my pre-readers and editing team members for their diligent efforts, especially Jennifer Thulen, my meticulous copyeditor; and my unbeknownst marketers who talked about it and shared via social media.