Spirit of the Revolution by Debbie Peterson Read Free Book Online

hair framed his face in a most attractive sort of way. His warm brown eyes bore into hers. She didn’t detect any animosity from within them. Judging from where his broad shoulders met the top of George Washington’s frame, he stood at least six foot four, was much better looking, and—he called her by name.
    She had no idea how long they stood across from each other or how long they gazed at each other with such intensity. Mere seconds might’ve passed or maybe even hours for her brain to accept what her eyes beheld. He looked very solid. If not for the fact he appeared right before her eyes, she would’ve taken him for a prowler or worse. But ghosts, devoid of their human form, should appear transparent or wispy. Right? Kind of like those cartoon ghosts with that funny-looking tail thing instead of feet.
    Did he scare her? Yeah, maybe a little. The thumping of her heart attested to that. But many times in her life she had sensed something truly threatening, something truly evil. She didn’t have any of those feelings now. In fact, in a bizarre sort of twist, he made her feel relatively calm. Still, her eyes searched out the door, looking for a means of escape if for nothing more than to think this situation through and try to understand it. She would need to pass by the—by him, in order to leave the room. And go where?
    “Won’t do you any good, for I’ll still be here when you come back, and you know you’d have to come back,” her ghost pointed out.
    Somewhere in the back of her mind, she appreciated the fact that he stood very still, waiting for her to come to terms with something she didn’t understand or believe. Finally, after assessing the truth of his words, she looked him directly in the eye, raised her chin a notch, and tilted her head to one side.
    “You are not supposed to be here,” she stated with all the conviction she could muster.

Chapter 4
    The bold statement elicited a quiet chuckle. “Pray tell, Miss Michaelsson, where then, am I supposed to be? This is my home and has remained thus for a very long while now.”
    The man remained near the painting and apparently, awaited her response. Man, had she gone stark raving nuts or what? She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and slowly released her breath. Jo hoped that when she opened her eyes, he’d be gone. Then she could question the state of her mental health, check into a hospital somewhere, and he still stood there. But now, he looked very much amused.
    “Miss Jolena?” her ghost prodded.
    “Okay.” Jo touched the tip of her tongue to her dry lips and said, “You—you should be at the next plane of existence—paradise—spirit realm—heaven—whatever you personally want to call it.”
    The spirit’s shrug accompanied a single shake of his head. “Perhaps heaven is simply found at the location one loves best.”
    “No. That’s not right. The tunnel of light everyone goes on about—you’re supposed to go through it, aren’t you? Didn’t you see it when you—when you passed?”
    The bright light seemed a common experience among those who “died” and returned to tell their story. Right? People with a near death experience said the beauty of the light drew them toward it, and once they entered, they had no desire to return to their mortal state.
    “I saw it,” he said.
    “Then why didn’t you go through it?” she asked.
    “Because I didn’t choose to.” The tone he used also said, “Case closed, end of subject, move on.”
    Nevertheless, Jo mulled the comment over. She believed wholeheartedly the gift of choice forever belonged to each soul. Therefore, she supposed, one could choose to stay behind or choose to leave once their mortality ended. The notion made sense in a strange sort of way. But why would anyone want to stay behind? Some unfinished business or a life cut short perhaps. Didn’t movie and TV shows point out such a reason? However, her ghost didn’t want to pursue the topic any further. Her ghost.