Dust to Dust by Melissa Walker Read Free Book Online

instincts?
    As slowly as we’re walking, we do eventually reach the top of the hill, where Thatcher’s grave should be. There are a dozen stones, all lined up in a row like straight-backed soldiers. I take a deep breath and begin to finger the amber heart around my neck, working it up and down its chain.
    Carson coughs from behind me, and I jump—I’d almost forgotten she was here.
    â€œCan you wait?” I ask her, and she nods and stops walking as I move up one more row.
    When I position myself to read the names, it’s the first one I see, almost as if my eyes were drawn to it by magnetic force.
    Thatcher Larson.
    My body stills, my face frozen as my eyes scan the words.
    Beloved son and brother.
    Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
    I let go of the pendant, reaching out my hand to trace the engraved lettering. As I press my fingers into the indentations, sliding over each letter one by one, I feel my lip quivering. I know he’s dead, but seeing his name spelled out here in gray stone still seems so shocking to me. Not too long ago, I kissed Thatcher, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt that alive in my life.
    I remember a field trip to a Civil War cemetery back in second grade. We made art projects from the graves by placing thin paper on the tombstones and rubbing a piece of black chalk over it so that the words showed up on the paper. But those were people from the past . . . not people I know. Knew. Know .
    I drop my head to the ground as a tear slips down my cheek.Thatcher’s body, or at least what remains of it, is six feet underneath me now. Has been for more than ten years . . . since the night he died.
    I look back at the grave.
    I won’t let you go. I say it aloud then, in a quiet whisper, though I can’t feel his presence right now. Still, maybe he can hear it: “Thatcher, I’m not letting you leave me.”
    Instead of turning my face down to the ground, I lie on my back, over the grass that covers his coffin, and look up into the sky. What if I had really let go of this world? I’d be with him now, with Thatcher in the Prism. My heart pricks at the thought of it—at the horrifying wish I almost have. A wish to have died.
    The relentless South Carolina sun is strong even this early in the morning, and it beats down on me. I feel a trickle of sweat make its way from my forehead to the crook of my neck. But I don’t close my eyes. I look right into the bright blue.
    Carson’s shadow breaks my trance.
    I sit up, feeling nervous, not ready to explain myself or what’s happening, not sure what to say.
    She reaches her hand out to help me up, and I take it. She doesn’t ask any questions, just glances at the grave and then moves to sit down on a bench under a tree nearby. She pats the space next to her.
    We’re quiet for a few minutes, but I can feel my best friend getting restless.
    Finally, she breaks the silence. “Okay, so I know we’re playing the trust game, but does that mean I’m not allowed to talk?”
    I feel my anger at her soften. “No, it’s okay.”
    â€œPhew, because that was hard.” She looks at me now, her eyes serious. “Does this cemetery have something to do with what you saw on the other side?”
    I try to keep my face still, but I realize I can’t hide much from Carson when she says, “Callie, I’ve believed in this stuff my whole life. I’ve read books about hauntings and theories about good ghosts and bad ghosts and Heaven and Hell. Not that I think you’d know anything about Hell—of course you’d have gotten more close to Heaven—and you probably didn’t encounter any demons or deal with scary things like poltergeists or whatever but . . .”
    She pauses and looks at me as my mouth drops open.
    Poltergeists . The word makes my heart jump in fear when she says it, opening my mind to a rush of memories I’m not ready for.