Ghost Story: The Faded Pages
Ghost Story: The Faded Pages An adaptation by Lemniscate, Of an original trilogy by Alex Reynard.
Disclaimer
This story is an adaptation of Ghost Story: Book 3 written by Alex Reynard.
This adaptation was posted with his explicit permission, allowing me the creative freedom to build upon a story he has already posted.
This adaptation may contain direct text from the original source that is either used verbatim; or altered to either fit my writing style, or to help make my adaptation more consistent in its own context.
I do not claim any credit for alterations made to or inclusion of plot-points established within the original work. I will only claim credit for the work which is entirely original, which should be easy to identify.
I also do not claim to be changing or altering the canon of the original work. I am merely exercising my creativity and acting on inspirations drawn from the original work.
I also do not recommend reading this without reading the entire trilogy of the original work, the beginning of which can be found here:
This adaptation is rated the same as the original work, but it may not contain material that supports that rating. The purpose of doing so is to avoid any conflicts or aggrevations in the interest of the rating system.
Lastly, I hope you enjoy reading this adaptation as much as I enjoyed writing it :)
*part 24*
There was a brief moment where the room was still. The scents of cooked salmon and pepper; steamed broccoli and cauliflower; and cubed carrots and celery mixed with hominy, filled the air in a miasma of delicacy. The salmon steak at the center of the table was still gently sizzling, a faint puff of steam rising from its tendered skin.
The silverware was set as ornately as possible. Mrs. Lennox's lessons in etiquette--scarcely used--payed off in small rewards. Wine glasses were set as well, including one for Milo, though his was planned to hold juice. The dimmed chandelier and corner lamps with amber shades allowed only the minimalist amount of light. The room had the ambiance of a royal dining hall.
The table was set; the trap was set.
Ting-ting, ting-ting, tolled the chime; Confession time.
"Your dad is really cool," Suzy said to Milo as he seated himself at the table. "The way you guys talked like secret-agents, you really could be James Bond."
"Thanks," the foxboy replied in whisper. He spotted the murderer, briskly--tersely--entering the room with his mother. He glanced sideways to his dad, his pupils telepathically conveying his instructions. Don't say anything to her. Don't do anything--_anything. _She'll smell something fishy in a heartbeat if you do.
Dad inclined his head slowly while he pulled the chair out for their guest. Okay son. I understand.
"Oh my! It all looks so delicious!" Cheryl gushed empty compliments as she primly sat upon the very edge of her seat. "And the arrangement, so pristine." Her back did not curve in the slightest.
"Thank you," Mom replied with flatter-dimpled cheeks. "I've been keeping a worried cloud over it all day. I must have been convinced half a dozen times I hadn't ruined it." She smiled at Dad as he offered her seat, giving him due credit. "But I guess everything turned out just fine, after all."
Milo took his own seat, and let his hands briefly squeeze his knees to rid his nerves of all their tension. Taking in a deep breath would betray his own orders to his father.
From behind him, he felt a warm touch of air upon his left shoulder.
"I love you."
He shivered. The words sent warmth from the ear to which she whispered, down to his very core.
She said it so tenderly, so genuinely; full of such gratitude and understanding.
His core converted it, and sent a surge of strength through his limbs. He wasn't alone with his feelings; she was with him--literally in spirit. And he was doing this for her, as her hero. But most of all... because he loved Suzy too, and wished that he could tell her now.
That was why he could. Not. Fail.
Mom reached for the bottle of wine at the table, the cork ready to be popped off by the corkscrew. "May I offer you some, Cheryl? I hope I'm right that it's supposed to be white wine with fish..."
Cheryl nodded with a smile as rigid as a porcelain doll's. "Don't fret, darling. I would love a glass, please."
Milo audibly cleared his throat. The rhetorical noise catching all ears. Aside from his mom pulling the cork from the bottle with a poomp; all eyes were on him.
"Um, before we eat," Milo said, against the gluk-gluk-gluk as his mother poured the wine for the murderer. "I'd like to read a poem I wrote for you, Ms. McAllister. Is that okay?" He kept his voice timid. Better timid than nervous from adrenaline.
Mom set the bottle down and transferred the glass of wine to their guest. She smiled to him, nodding. "That'll be fine, sweetie."
Cheryl eased back only slightly in her chair, lifting the glass to rest on her lips without sipping. She simply regarded the young foxboy, waiting patiently as a predator would while studying her prey.
Something was unsettling about the brat. She could practically smell it like he was pissing it all over. Maybe it was the way he looked at her, always from an angle and never straight on. She wondered, ever-so-briefly, if he suspected anything close to the truth about Suzy's death.
But that thought was dismissed; cut from the herd and snuffed. That was unlikely. She was careful and adult. He was stupid and childish.
Milo took in a deep breath, now in the guise of collecting his courage for reading a heart-felt, well-thought and carefully-articulated pentameter of words. He could feel the tension pulling his sinew taught; could practically hear the rippling of stress as one would hear in a steel cable. All his insides turned to violin strings, his heart playing a dissonant arrhythmic tune upon their tangled cords. His pulse beat upon the drum of his ears, making him feel just a little tipsy.
Slowly, he reached back and pulled a piece of notebook paper from his pocket. He undid the folds, careful not to let his jitters drop or delay his dexterity.
Suzy's eyes fell from her mother to the paper in Milo's hand.
It was completely blank.
He coughed, clearing his throat again. He took another breath, as if he were a bard ready to finally begin the epic poem which he dedicated to Ms. McAllister and her remembered daughter.
He signaled its start by slamming the paper down upon the table, making the silverware jump and one to fall upon the wood floor with a clatter. "I know you did it," he hissed, gazing across the table at the child-killer.
"Milo!" Mom declared in shock.
Dad's face remained stolid, but paled as a stone in the summer sun.
"And... what is it that you believe I did, Milo?" Cheryl asked softly, with perfect composure; almost politely. "I know... that you killed Suzy!" He proclaimed, pointing, with paper gripped in hand, at the psychopathic woman. "You killed your own daughter." He ground the words across the air like iron to the stone, crumpling the paper for emphasis.
"Milo!" Mom snapped again, as much in confusion as in maternal discipline. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Do you... have any idea how it feels... to hear you say that?" Cheryl was playing, and playing well, the deep pain--that she did not feel--his words sliced into her core. "To accuse... me... of murdering my own begotten flesh and blood? It was... it was an ordeal enough convincing myself to return to this house. This house that holds so many terrible... horridly cruel memories..."
Suzy gripped Milo's shoulder. "Stop her! She's putting on her act! Pull it off before she goes any further!"
"And... I felt like something was wrong the moment I arrived. Especially from the way you looked at me when I--"
"Shut up." Milo spoke with venom, dropping his hand to the table like a lead ball.
"Ek-scewz me!" Cheryl shot back in a scoff, her eyes sparking toward a fine green blaze.
"Milo, that is it!"
"Mom. You shut up, too."
Her eyes went from narrow to bulged. She was shocked speechless; and shocked further by the ache in Milo's drastically different, calm voice as he spoke to her. His eyes told her what his demeanor and inflection could not.
Mom... you don't understand, yet. Please, bear with me--back the hell off. I love you.
Milo focused back on the murderer. "You killed Suzy," he stated again; fact. "You killed her, and you blamed it on your husband. You'd get away with it, too; you knew that. Because, who wouldn't look at him and think he was the one who must have done it, right? After all, he looks and acts like a big musclebound dumbass."
He used Cheryl's old insult with purpose, fully hoping it would perturb her.
If it did, she did not give a twitch. Very lowly, very calmly, like a savage beast giving its prey one last chance before a slow, painful torture, she said: "How dare you..."
"It's working, Milo!" Suzy encouraged, patting his shoulder. "She's getting madder, but she's still keeping it under control--she's having to fight it! You have to piss her off so bad she flips her top--throw her over that edge!"
"I cannot believe I trusted you, Milo," she said with a slit tongue so sharp it made her threat cut like pity. Pity for such an obviously deranged, delusional, sad-sorry child. "I came all this way..." she lifted her hands innocently, "Just hoping you would show me some... kind of--"
Milo slammed his fist upon the table again. The murderer's wine glass leapt and shattered on the floor.
Mom squeaked like a frightened child unable to escape from a nightmare.
Dad closed his eyes, trying his best to comprehend what was even happening.
Cheryl glared at Milo as if she could wipe him from the earth with a wink of her eyelash. She stood up abruptly, and made to leave the table. "I do not have to take this."
Milo nearly locked up in panic. She couldn't leave! He had to keep her here--had to corner her like the rat she was!
Suzy sensed the fear that threatened to freeze him over. "Laugh!" She ordered; "Laugh at her! Nothing makes her angrier, remember?"
Milo gulped. How the hell was he supposed to chuckle like a chum at a woman who petrified his blood? But, as that very thought floated in its bubble, he transcended his fears and found a nugget of hysteria. Milo opened his mouth, threw his head back, and an ear-wrenching barrage of cackles left his throat like a machine-gun that shot happy-bullets.
Cheryl snapped round. Her lower-left eyelid twitched once, then twice more after a heartbeat.
"Tha--that's right!" Milo snickered like a chipmunk, he turned to the back of his chair and pointed; "I'm laughing... at you!"
The woman took a few steps toward him.
"Call her a bitch!" Suzy shouted with glee.
"You're pretty funny for a murderous bitch!" His laughter warped into a growl.
Cheryl froze on the spot.
Milo could almost hear the surface tension of her composure strain like ice about to fracture and break off from the glacier. Something in him snapped. Like a mad hatter, he hopped up onto his chair, gripping his sides and flipping between laughter and viciousness in a way that would make even The Joker a little envious.
"Ha--hahahahaha-ha-ha-ha--That's right! I'm laughing at you, Cheryl! You know why? Be_cause!" He stood up straight, spreading his arms. "You think I'm just some _dumbass kid who doesn't know what the hell he's talking about!
"But the funny thing is that I do, Cheryl! I know exactly what I'm talking about!" He hopped down from his chair, pacing back and forth with a Cheshire smile. "I now exactly what happened that night. Yes, I know exactly what happened that night! And I can prove it!" He clapped his hands together and made like he was sleeping on a pillow. "You're going to go to fucking jail you sick little bitch!" He whipped one hand, pointing at her with a scorpion-tipped finger, "And there's shit-all you can do about it!"
Mom was trembling, stuck in her own catatonic cocoon of shock and horror. She had her hands folded one atop the other on the table, her mouth agape in either awe or fear--perhaps both.
The murderous wench glared down her nose like the sights of a gun, set upon the foxboy not the height of her lowest rib. For a moment, it almost looked like she was smiling. Her eyes were bloody-red, exposing her livid core. Prove it. Prove it then you fucking pile of shitpiss.
Suzy was right. She could not intimidate him if he didn't let her. He felt his ghost-love's paws on his shoulders.
She was trembling, the display she saw from Milo a necessary, but perturbing result of cracking her mother. She could feel him trembling, too, and she held onto that movement; it reminded her that he was still her tender hero inside.
"Milo," she whispered with assurance. "It's working."
"You came home from work." He stated, the mad hatter lucidly sane. "The first thing you noticed, was that Richard's car wasn't there." He began to pace again, like Sherlock Holmes putting together the case; all he lacked was a pipe.
And some cocaine.
"That meant he'd picked Suzy up from school. And, more importantly, they were still out somewhere. But," he pivoted, "most importantly, as you must have immediately known, that meant Suzy hadn't cleaned the bathroom."
For the tiniest fleeting instance, Milo saw her facade ripple like the wind whipping a pond under the weight of his words.
"Princess Lazy was out having fun, neglecting her chores again, right? So, then, an hour or so later, you hear it. The car pulls in. They come out, and they're laughing all cheery and happy! How dare they--right? And then you hear Suzy run up to her room--she's avoiding you, like she avoided her chores--and Richard comes in acting all mopey and sorry like a pathetic piece of horse shit; trying to tell you that Suzy had just gotten a part in the Christmas play and he'd taken her out for milkshakes to celebrate because he was just so proud of her." He faced the woman as she struggled to keep her tremors in check. "But that's no good fucking reason for a Princess to skip her chores--was it?"
Suzy could almost feel real pins and needles in her hands and feet. Milo was on a roll!
He couldn't believe any of this was actually coming out of him. He was feeling such an incredible rage at this woman, and yet it was nothing like how she looked. Whereas she looked like the very air around her was boiling from her heated skin, he felt cool, calm and collected; just like James Bond.
He really could be a secret-agent.
"And so," he continued, "while you start yelling at Richard, and he just stands there--musclebound dumbass that he is, taking it like a side of beef--you hear this loud crash upstairs."
The floor gently squeaked as Cheryl's heel touched down half a step back from where it was before.
"What the hell was that, huh? Gotta find out. So you stomp upstairs to investigate." He began to stomp about, acting out his words. "Oh that little piece of shit's gonna get it now, isn't she? You throw open the door, and what did you find? That winged horse statue you saw in the store weeks ago. It's the very one you wanted. That one Suzy and her dad snuck out without your permission and bought for you because they knew you'd just love it like they wished you'd love them. And there it is..."
Milo paused dramatically, savoring the ambrosia of his rage.
"Smashed into a hundred pieces all over the fucking floor!"
Cheryl was beginning to sweat. Beady little dots of water like poison on a snakes leathery skin, trickled down her fur. Her tail flicked back and forth behind her, as if it were trying to wrench itself free to keep from falling under the accusations it knew the ass it was attached to were guilty of.
"You look at Suzy. You know she did it. She knows she did it. She knows you know she did it. And what did you call her then, hm? Huh? You wanna say it?--Cuz I can't hear you! What'd you call your own daughter? Maybe... you called her a spiteful little cunt!"
As Milo roared the insult that Suzy so well remembered turned her to stone, she was astounded at his pure, raw courage.
"You made a run for her!" Milo said, dashing toward to the ghost of whom he spoke. "Probably to beat the shit out of her--" he swung, his fist whisking through her face. It turned incorporeal either because he did not want to hurt her, or because she could see it coming; "--just like you always did. But Richard, he had enough. He'd watched you treat him like shit. And up until now he'd watched you treat his daughter--his flesh and blood--like a personal punching bag too many times. He snapped, the crazy sonofabitch. He tackled you. You fought him off, said that you were finally going to call the cops. Let him know he'd finally fucked up with you and he was going to pay the piper.
"You ran out of the room. He ran after you. Suzy ran after you both; you raised your hand up, eager to punch her lights out good. And what happened then? Hm? What happened then, huh!?"
The witch stared into him. She tried to bore a hole into his soul and melt it with her caustic glare.
Suzy felt Milo's arms envelope her so tenderly, and heard his voice travel so calmly across the air.
"He tries to protect her. He tried to take the fucking hit. But that idiot... he slipped." He squeezed Suzy tightly, staring past her translucent form, through the eyes that he so tenderly loved, at the woman who so mercilessly snuffed them. "It was an accident." He spoke somberly, then with vigor; "He loved her! He would never have hurt her! He would have gladly died to protect her, but instead he made one terrible mistake," Milo let go, and, with a great pain in his heart, pushed Suzy away; "And he knocked her down the stairs!"
Suzy's whole body shook as a sobs began to wrack through her. She sat upon the floor.
"Suzy fell." Milo narrated, "All the way down," his hand stretched up and jaggedly bounced down across his body; "Cruch! Crunch! Crunch!--" He smacked his hands together. "She landed at the bottom. And her neck broke like glass. I'll bet you could hear the snap, all the way up at the top of the stairs." Cheryl's brain was swirling; her pulse raced in her temples. This was like a fever-dream. She was just having a nightmare that she couldn't wake up from. There was no way this was real. There was no way this piece of shit could know all of this.
"And then, while your husband stood there, and your daughter's life leaked out of her like a cup of spilled milk..." He suddenly stood up straight, his animations halting. He looked up, almost passively, right into the murderer's eyes. "What did you do?" He asked, almost more genuinely than he had any of the other rhetorical questions. "What did you do?"
You could not possibly know you bastard fuck!
He shrugged. "You laughed at her." He followed with a chuckle of his own. Then he flattened his gaze. "You laughed at her." His fists closed tightly at his sides. Then, with his hackles raised and fire in his breath, he repeated the phrase once more: "You. Laughed. At. Her."
Cheryl slammed the heel of her shoes onto the floor and screamed at him with the bark of a shotgun; "How the fuck can you possibly know that!?"
Mom gasped.
Dad lifted his gaze at the shambled woman.
In that moment, both came to realize that she had admitted everything Milo just accused was truth.
"Suzy told me," he responded calmly. He even lifted his hand slightly, gesturing to her presence sitting just in front of him on the floor.
There were three heartbeats of silence. Then, the woman let out her predator's roar. She charged forward, her heels snapping like firecrackers upon the wood floor. Her hands whipped out like talons as she neared the petulant little kit.
Suzy felt the shock-waves beneath her; she stood. "Stop!" She commanded, steeling herself before Milo to stand in the way. But her mother's fingers passed through her; and Milo's spittle shot forth through her from behind her eye.
Milo's head snapped back, and his eyes rolled up to the ceiling. His world whipped round as he was carried in the maelstrom of the child-killer's rage.
The febrile wench relinquished all worry of consequence, and fear of repercussion. She felt only the absolute urgent necessity to silence this monstrous and forgettable child. She whipped about, and charged forward, slamming his back against the edge of the dining table. His glasses fell, breaking in half on impact.
Milo felt the vertebrae of his spine rake upon the sharp edge of the table. A hand let go of his neck and grasped the left side of his muzzle. His head was forced down, held in place. He screamed; the salmon steak, still steaming, now sizzled against the down-turned cheek.
Something was disconnected in his brain, for as he felt the hot steam sting all the way down to his skin, all that he could think was, And Mom worked so hard to make it just right...
Cheryl hit his stomach, causing the boy to intake.
Milo's airway was scalded, and he began to choke and cough.
The vengeful woman took him away from the morsel, hopping upon the chair and then the table. She held him by the neck, shaking him. She made sure his eyes were open; made sure he looked at her. "You filthy, lying little fuck-mistake of a brat! How could you know!?" She shook him again, and then with the strength of her anger flipped him upside down in her grasp. "You think you know everything you little shit!" She shook him like a ragdoll. "But you have no idea what it was like to have to live with that squeaky little--"
"Get your hands off my baby!"
Cheryl glanced behind her when she heard the shriek. The crazy bitch of a mother clambered onto the table, and jumped toward her. Cheryl twisted out of the way, and the mother-vixen's outstretched hands caught her son by the armpits.
Cheryl let go.
The mother-vixen couldn't stop her momentum.
Suzy's mind raced, and time began to slow. She dashed forward, as a swimmer would launch from the side of the pool. She twisted in the air, arms outstretched, desperate to stop what her instincts feared.
His head passed right through her chest. She could hear--feel--the severance of his neck. Like someone breaking a hundred stalks of spaghetti across their knee. She gazed into his eyes, just before they rolled about in either direction.
His body slumped over her, his legs still supported by his own mother.
He gazed up the woman high upon the table. His cheeks burned, and he tried so hard to move--but he couldn't. His mind began to panic--he couldn't feel anything at all. The color began to drain from his vision, and as his murderer cackled at his dying wheezes, she grew horns upon her head and fangs within her mouth, and her maw began to shine with a bright and fearsome light.
He was able to see her for the demon that she truly was.
Suzy saw the fox's gentle eyes dilate full as they wiggled, and then abruptly stopped. She glared up at the child-killer--who had claimed a second victim.
And the child-killer laughed.
"The more you know, you little bastard! You--"
Just then, the woman's lips held ajar. Her eyes twitched with despair.
Suzy began to rise, and it was then that she realized why her mother's attitude had changed so abruptly.
Their eyes locked.
"No..." Cheryl said with utter fear. "No!"
Suzy's eyes blazed with azure rage; an aura, like fog, surrounded her. Her tears began to fall freely, evaporating into a nebulous mist just a few inches from her cheeks. "Mommy," she said, raising her hands in front of her. Then, her voice took on a terrifying inflection: Ouy gniredrum-dlihc tnuc!
The former father gazed in shock as the woman was lifted into the air, grasping at her neck and shouting in a terrified rage.
"You fucking bitch! I ended you! You're maggot-shit in the earth! Leave me the fuck alone!!!"
Suzy narrowed her eyes. Nrub ni lleh!
Cheryl yowled as her body was flung from the table toward the wall. Her voice was cut short as she slammed against the surface, colliding with an audible crunch of flesh. She tumbled to the floor like a marionette, cast away from the collection. Her eyes remained open, listlessly watching her dead daughter while a mix of spit-thinned blood began to dribble from her parted lips.
Suzy turned to her lost lover. She ran to him as his mother righted his body from that humiliating position. She cupped his head in her lap, gazing into his cold eyes. "Milo..." she sobbed. He felt so warm, and yet the fire of his life had been snubbed. She took in a breath, and as she screamed his name with all of her grief, a terrible tremor swept the house. The lamps fell to the ground, shattering their bulbs, and the chandelier's bulbs burst in their places. Three windows lining the dining wall cracked, then burst from their panes.
Fifteen. Fifteen long, silent seconds passed.
A heavy report came at the front door. Its incessant, urgent rap rousing Mom.
"Someone is at the door," she noted, tousling her son's hair.
"I'll go get it," Dad replied, and calmly stood. He went to the door at a patient pace. "Coming, coming," he insisted. He jiggled the handle. "Locked?" He questioned, vaguely remembering he had done so himself.
The door opened to reveal a disheveled jaguar.
"Mr. Lennox!" He spoke urgently. "My name is Damian; Where's Milo?"
"I'm sorry? I don't..."
Damian burst past the fox, causing him to stumble just a little. He dashed into the dining room, and stopped several paces into the door. There, he saw. The young boy was on his back, his head coddled by the little mouse ghost and his mother.
Suzy met Damian's eyes after he rushed toward them. "He's dead," she stated.
"It's okay," Damian spoke sternly. "I've called the police and an ambulance, they're on their way right now!"
"Excuse me?" Spoke the boy's mother, her glazed eyes matching Damian's twitching pupils. "Who might you be?" She questioned.
"Mr. and Mrs. Lennox," Damian spoke tersely; "Milo... he's..." The jaguar hovered his hand over the motionless boy upon the ground.
The sirens screeched through the shattered windows.
It was only then that the parents finally soaked in the reality of their situation.
"This is the police; we're entering the house!"
In a flash half a dozen blue-uniformed men of bulky and hulky stature apiece stormed into the dining room. The beams of their heavy flashlights licked about the dining room.
At the table, a woman was wailing, her assumed husband comforting her. A disheveled jaguar was standing over a body.
"You! Step away from the kid!" "Officer! We need an ambulance, quick! This boy's life is in danger!"
"I'll worry about that you little punk! Now get down on the ground--hands where I can see 'em!"
"Sir, please--" Damian tried to insist.
"Said on the ground!" Another canine officer barked.
Damian assumed the instructed position, his experience with police his guiding wisdom.
"Sir, are you and your wife all right?"
"Sarg! We got a woman over here! She's out cold!"
"You little punk!" The boxer shouted at the jaguar. "You have the right to remain silent! Anything you say can and will--" "Stop!" Suzy shouted. "Please! Listen to him!"
"Stop!" Mr. Lennox shouted, interrupting the officer. "Please... officers--listen to him! He's not the person who did this."
Suzy blinked. She stared at Mr. Lennox, her heart racing. Did he--did he hear her?
The boxer--the Sergeant--paused his motion to cuff the unkempt man. He huffed. "All right. Talk, you. Do you know these people? Do you know this man?"
"I know Milo!" Damian shouted.
"His name is Damian," Mr. Lennox stated.
"Someone tell me what's going on--and for God's sake there's a cold boy in here! We need an ambulance!"
"Yessir!" One of the officers shouted.
"We were having dinner with Cheryl," Mrs. Lennox suddenly piped up, her tears dry for the moment. "She--she attacked my son..." The moment did not last long.
"Holy fucknuts!" One of the officers shouted, his baton pushed against the unconscious woman's shoulder. "Sarg! This is the McAllister woman!"
"McAllister--" The boxer's eyes bulged. "What the fuck is she doing here..."
"She killed her daughter!" Damian shouted.
"Wh--what?" The Sergeant turned.
"I have it all recorded! I'm making a dub of it in my van down the street as we speak! Milo knew McAllister killed her daughter, so I set him up with a throat-mic and he invited her here to try and get her to confess. I have it all; it's the truth."
The officer that had his baton against Cheryl jumped in shock--literally. He leapt back and almost lost his balance. "Shit! She's alive!"
Cheryl began to write and screamed, "You little Bitch!" Suddenly, she burst into a dash toward her daughter.
"Get on her!"
"No!" Cheryl shouted as she was tackled to the ground just inches from the little bitch. She kicked and screamed and clawed at the floor like a child throwing a tantrum; "No! No! No! No! No! No! No! No!!!"
"Yes, mommy," Suzy said, with a sing-song inflection. "You're going to jail now, okay? You're a bad person and you need to go away. Goodbye..." She smiled, harnessing the terrible inflection once more: "I evol uoy ymmoM..."
"I'll kill you again you little cu--"
The officer finally put a mask on her as they dragged her out to the hall, and beyond. Two other men in neon-orange uniforms carrying a stretcher came in through the frame. "Where's the body?"
"Here!" The boxer barked.
"Wait!" Mr. Lennox shouted, dashing forward.
"Sir, let us--"
"No, please," he spoke desperately, "I just need a moment." He knelt at his son's side. "Oh Milo... oh God, Milo..." He wept, finally seeing the state his son was in. "...S--Suzy," he whispered.
Her body stiffened, her spectral form solidifying as she focused on the father. "Y--yes?"
"Suzy... if..." he reached forward.
She watched as Milo's dad clasped his son's hand, and gently moved it. It was placed right where hers was, and he clasped it, as if he was clasping her own hand.
"Please, if you're here...'
Though he said if, he was staring directly into her eyes as he spoke.
"Please, watch over my son."
A tear fell down her cheek. "I...I will," she promised.
"Okay," the fox said, lifting away. "You can take him now. Sorry."
"We'll take good care of him," the lead medic said, as they prepared to move the body onto the stretcher.
"As for you all," the boxer stated. "I'm afraid I need to take you down to the station for statements. I'm sorry but this is going to be a long night."
"That's fine," Mr. Lennox stated coldly.
"Wait! Before you... go..." Suzy began to say, but then her voice trailed. What was the use... they couldn't hear or see her, or anything. She was just... reading into it all too much. Milo was the only one who cared about her, who could see her, who wanted to see her--besides her mom--and now...
"But, before we go, officers..."
Suzy gasped. She looked to Mr. Lennox. He was looking at her.
"Yes?" The Sergeant questioned.
"Y--you can hear me!" Her voice warbled from a sob of relief. Then collecting herself, she managed to continue. "Up in my room--in Milo's room. There's a diary--my diary! It explains everything; Milo had me write it to help me free my daddy! That's his whole plan and that's a huge part of it!"
There were a few heartbeats of silence as Mr. Lennox looked at his feet.
Suzy suddenly felt so stupid. Doubt crept in; she began to feel distraught again.
"Listen, sir. If you have to use the bathroom or something like that, you can do it at the station. Right now, this is a crime scene, and we have to start processing."
"Upstairs, in my son's room--in Suzy's old room. There's a diary, written by the girl herself."
The doubt in Suzy's heart was caste away.
"That's what motivated my son to do all this in first place--I think it's important that you get that for evidence right now."
The boxer whistled and pointed, sending a pair of his men up the stairs.
Suzy's heart swelled. He could hear her! "Thank you!" She spoke with exasperation, and then hurried after the stretcher as it carried Milo away. She hopped upon it, and put her hand into Milo.
She couldn't posses him. He was a carcass now; a hollow shell.
Desperately, for they were about to exit the door, she steeled herself. As the threshold to the outside world blasted her with the noise of crickets, she hurled herself through the medic in front of her.
"Whoa! Watch it."
"S--sorry, just felt a draft."
I promise, Mr. Lennox. I'll stay with Milo for as long as it takes...
~~~~~
* part 26 *
The weekend had been an arduous ordeal at best for Mr. and Mrs. Lennox.
The night of their terrible loss, they were carted to the police station to give their statements. And give their statements, they did. And did. And did. Nearly a dozen times they had been interviewed by different officers, across the span of the night and into the wee hours of the morning.
Even the Sergeant and first-responders were interviewed. The victims did not know, but the Sergeant had to take heated questions from his Captain, as well as the Commissioner; and in the presence of the Mayor, no less.
Damian was suspected up until the early morning. If nothing else because of his prior offense, and his history with the very case that was hitting everyone in the face. But the accounts given by the Lennox item, along with the Sergeant's own, cleared Damian of his status as suspect.
When the official announcement of Milo's passing was given to his parents, tears were shed but not quite much more. The gravity had yet to settle in; still too many nerves firing, too much activity, too little sleep and too much fatigue.
They were not allowed home. It was a crime scene, and investigators had to comb through it. Over the course of the weekend, CSIs and Forensics Analysts worked round the clock to clear the scene as fast as possible. Several were even called from the nearby counties. Not one among them had a tinge of green; the least-experienced with eleven notches to her belt. This time, there would be no doubt in anyone's mind; this time, the case had to be rock-solid.
This town... its young victims... deserved it.
Damian's home was offered. It was minimal, but the perfect place to finally let everything absorb.
Now, it was Monday. Now, the house was cleared. Now, former mother and father sat in the living room, upon the leather lounge chairs. They sat upright, both almost on the edges of their seats. They listened to the grandfather clock's pendulum count the seconds they had spent without their son.
Mr. Lennox swallowed, looking to the stigmatized room. He could see the boarded windows through the door-frame. Beams of light streamed through the tiny gaps in the wood, catching the fine dust that floated about the air like a mist.
He brushed the side of his black suit. His hands fidgeted.
His wife remained still, her hands clasped and set upon her knees, pressed tightly together. Her light, black dress was far too thin for the cold, but she had nothing else for the occasion. The scent of Framboise Ligne wafting from the nape of her neck and the cuffs of her wrists.
He took in a breath, almost afraid to let it out. But as he did, he looked at the clock.
It was nearly time.
"Are you... ready, honey?" He questioned. His voice was low and soft, as if the grandfather clock were sleeping and he wished not to disturb it.
She sniffled, wiping a tear from her cheek. "No." She admitted, and then stood with a wavering breath. "Let's go."
He took her hand, holding it tenderly as he led the way to the door. As his palm reached for the ornate handle and his fingers curled about the brass, he paused. He looked to his wife. "Would you mind waiting just a moment?"
She nodded, a look of understanding in her cloudy eyes.
He let go of the handle, and walked toward the center of the foyer. He looked about.
They had only been there since six in the morning. There had been no reports of any oddities in the house: no items getting misplaced, no noises, no drafts, nothing that caught the eye. And this account from a score of people whose job it was to find a single discolored carpet-fiber with just enough DNA to link a person from the east coast to a home on the west during a one-day visit.
And yet, Mr. Lennox knew what he saw.
"Suzy." He called, stepping about the foyer, as if playing hide and seek. "Suzy. Come out, sweetheart. I know you're here."
There was a moment of silence. Mrs. Lennox watched her husband pace about patiently, her eyes looking about the room now and again, helping to sight.
"Suzy," he called again; "It's Mr. Lennox--Milo's father. I'd like to talk to you, if you'll let me. Please."
"Why?"
The voice sounded from all around. It was sad, pained and sorrowful. It gave Mr. Lennox a heavy feeling in the lids of his eyes.
"Come out," the fox encouraged, "I won't hurt you."
"Behind you, dear," Mrs. Lennox pointed.
Her husband turned, and saw what she saw.
There, only a pair of big ears attached to a bleach-white scalp, and dark-azure eyes, Suzy appeared from beneath the floor like a shark peeking its head from beneath the threshold of the sea.
"There you are," Mr. Lennox chimed, kneeling down. "What're you doing in the floor?"
She looked down, as if at her feet.
"We haven't seen you in so long," he stated. "We wanted to come back, but we weren't allowed too. I'm sorry, I wanted to tell you."
"I understand," she replied, her eyes swiveling up to look at him. "It's not... the first time that's happened. I didn't bother them... I stayed out of the way down here, in the basement." She turned her head away. "...Where I belong."
The comment was painful to Mr. Lennox's heart. "What do you mean, 'where you belong?'" He reached down as if to pull her up. "C'mup here."
"N--no," she replied, her head sinking down a bit further, half of her eyes cut off by the floor.
"Why-ever not?" He questioned with concern.
"Because," she said, almost snapping; the anger was offset by her quivering voice. "I don't deserve to walk around up there! It's all my fault! You guys don't want me here--and I'm sorry; if I could leave I would!" Her head disappeared again; her voice coming from all round their ears. "Don't worry, I won't bother you; I promise. I'll just stay down here, closer to hell; where I belong!"
"No..." Mrs. Lennox uttered, lifting her hand to her muzzle.
Mr. Lennox studied the wood-grain of the flooring for a moment in thought, before he stood. "I see. Well then, I guess we will have to see Milo off... without you."
Suddenly, Mr. Lennox was eye-to-eye with the little ghost girl. She looked noticeably more translucent than before, but her eyes were no less vibrant. "What do you mean?" She questioned with a gasp.
The fox smiled. "I thought that might pique you." Then, he frowned. "Milo's funeral is going to start, soon. I'm sure that he... would want you to come, to say goodbye." He reached out to the ghost, and found that the cheek he brushed the tear from felt as real as his own.
She gazed down in dismay. "Even... even if you ever would want me to go with you... I can't leave the house."
His face became sorrowful. "I didn't know. I'm so sorry."
"Well, I mean..." Suzy began. She shook her head. It felt so vain to explain it. She was holding them from seeing their son, but Mr. Lennox waited for her to finish the thought she had started. "I can leave it's just... I need to possess someone in order to do it."
He nodded. "I see." He offered his hand again. "What do I have to do?"
She floated back in a bit of surprise. "I... I'm sorry, Mr. Lennox," she said. "There's... there's only one boy I've... ever done that with. Even if it only needs to be for a second, I just... I'm not really comfortable... It's not you, it's just... you're a boy...'
"Oh..." He pulled back his hand. "I get it."
"Would you feel more comfortable possessing me? If it only needs to be a second... I think I can handle that."
Suzy swiveled in mid-air as Mrs. Lennox offered her hand. She looked down sadly. "Mrs. Lennox I--I have to apologize," she looked down with guilt. "I... I possessed you once before."
"Oh." The woman's muzzle looked a bit surprised, but it was almost like she was pleasantly surprised. Then, she nodded. "I see, when you knocked and lured me to the door."
Suzy swallowed. "Um..." She could see where her remembered friend got his wits from.
"Come on, sweetheart," Mrs. Lennox said, heading toward the door. She opened it, letting the cold draft gently bellow her long, black dress. "Everyone is waiting. And I need you to come, otherwise it just won't feel right."
***
Damian fidgeted nervously, looking himself over in the mirror. He wore a black suit. It was heavy, hot, thick and itchy. He hated it, but he had to wear it.
"Damian," Mr. Lennox had told him on Saturday afternoon. "Do you have a suit?"
"No, sir," he had replied. "Why?"
"My wife and I have decided to have the burial Monday."
"That soon?"
"Yes. So, if you don't have a suit, let's go out and get one right away."
"I--I don't have enough to afford one though. I have plenty of nice black shirts... if that's okay... I would have saved up for one... it's just such short notice."
"I'll buy it for you, then."
"No, sir, I can't accept that."
"You will," Mr. Lennox had said, though his tone was not angry. It was sincere. "I want you to look good for the town for when you give Milo's eulogy."
"M--me?" He had been so shocked. "Why me?"
Mr. Lennox had smiled, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Because, my wife and I don't know anyone from this town yet, and we feel it would be better if one of their locals spoke. And," he leaned in, "More importantly, my son entrusted you to help him get that witch's confession. So... we feel we should continue to trust in you, if that makes any sense."
It had made a world of sense. Damian did not mind the idea of giving the eulogy. Sure, it was a lot of pressure. Plus, they either did not know or did not really understand his position in the town; he was the only one who had the counter-belief in the entire town. Sure, he walked among them, but some people did not like him for that alone.
The fact that it was so soon. Aside from the obvious, he mulled it over in his mind. He was sure Mr. and Mrs. Lennox did not want to bury their son. But then, he came to understand, they also did not want their son to be Exhibit A. It must have been difficult for them to make such decisions so quickly.
He had already planned out how to save up the three-hundred dollars it took to put on this piece of agitating charcoal-black fabric. Not that he was ungrateful, he would do the best damn job for the Lennox's and their son. It was the least he could do. It was just... Why did all of these formal events mean you had to wear such uncomfortable clothing?
Best leave it as it is. Mrs. Lennox will likely fix any flaws he has; she had done so on the day he tried it on. He exited the restroom, holding the door open for a portly-looking feline who did not so much as nod his head in thanks for the polite gesture.
Well, if you don't want to be here, why are you here? Damian thought bitterly as he went to the entrance of the church hall. People were just beginning to arrive. He stood at the doorway, greeting each and every face; shaking every proffered hand.
"Welcome, thank you for coming. Welcome, thank you for coming. Welcome, thank you for coming. Welcome thank--"
His hand proffered to the Lonnox's. They smiled, Mrs. Lennox hugging him. They thanked him with shallow tears upon their cheeks, and went on to begin mingling.
Damian continued. "Welcome, thank you for coming."
"Welcome, thank you for coming."
The little voice came from his side. He glanced down. In his peripheral vision, he saw the little blue-white specter standing beside him. Her hands were behind her, standing as properly as she could. She spoke solemnly, but her words were genuine.
"Welcome, thank you for coming."
It did not take long for the room to fill. Copses of people were gathered, talking and mingling amongst themselves. As Damian passed them, he listened to sprinkles of light-hearted, gossipy and business conversation. Some discussed the murder, some the tragedy, others their sorrow. But, these were scarce discussions.
He made his way to the back of the room, the ghost of a little girl by his side. He sat upon a single chair in the back. Next to the chair was a table. A single lamp with a light-green lampshade cast a beam upon a stack of thick, tome-like books. He picked one up, and opened it, pretending to read.
Suzy sat upon his knees, her head pushed through the pages. They locked eyes with one another.
"I'm glad you made it," he smiled.
"I wish we didn't have to be here..." She looked about.
He nodded, his smile fading. "I'm giving the eulogy," he stated.
"What's that?" She questioned, focusing back on him.
"It's where you talk about the person. Say nice things."
"...Did they do that... for me?"
Damian began to understand the girl's agitation. She was not uncomfortable just because this was Milo's wake. She was also beginning to realize that a similar event happened for herself.
"I'm... sure they did," Damian said. "But... I wasn't there. I was busy... trying to convince everyone your father..." He trailed. "I have some kind of speech prepared but... Is there anything that you would like me to say?"
Suzy's eyes brightened just a little. "Maybe... tell everyone I love him... somehow?"
Damian nodded. "I'll figure something out."
She smiled. "Thank you," she leaned in, kissing his nose. "I just want people to know how much he meant to me..."
"Then I damn-well better get it across." The jaguar smiled.
She giggled, though it was a very shallow gesture. "I don't think you've gone so long without swearing."
"This is a special occasion," Damian commented.
Just then, the organ in the room beyond began to play. A white fox stood at the doorway to the room. He wore black ceremonial robes with a purple sash about his waist. "We are ready to begin," he announced. "Will everyone please be seated?"
***
The organ left off on a low note as everyone was finally settled. The seats had been filled, and still there were people standing about the sides of the room.
Damian was not so rude as to look back as others might have been. He kept his focus upon the raised floor.
To his front-right was a podium, whereupon the white fox would stand and begin the wake proper.
Almost directly in front of him, was the casket. The Lennox's had chosen an open-casket wake, so the lid was opened. The ornate silk lining set off a sheen from a sun-beam that peeked through the stained-glass windows.
From where Damian sat, Milo's face was not readily visible.
He was sitting third from the end of the row, next to Mrs. Lennox. Mr. Lennox sat at the head; and Suzy sat upon the floor in front of them, cross-legged and back-straight. She had the most attentive posture of any child in the room, and did not speak nor cry aloud in boredom as some were doing even now.
The white fox approached the podium, and all chatter began to quell.
"Good morning," the fox stated, his thin black eyes surveying the room.
"Good morning," came the voice of the audience.
He held his breath a moment, before continuing in a soft voice. "I would like to thank you all for coming. Let us begin with a moment of silence."
Heads were bowed, eyes were closed. A child spoke, and was quickly disciplined to shush. The moment lasted two.
"Here, we gather," the white fox began, "to remember the life of Milo Sebastian Lennox." The fox opened his book, and began with the day of Milo's birth; "...On that day, Milo was born to Anthony and Danielle Lennox. His life in Cedarwood was quiet and peaceful; Milo was an avid reader and very well-behaved."
The fox paused as he turned the page of his book, and then cleared his throat. "Just a few weeks ago, Milo had to say goodbye to Cedarwood, where he had grown up. He came to our town, clear across the country, to settle in with our humble lives. And this is where I turn to one of our own, to give us a few words on the family's behalf. If you would, please, Damian."
With as much posture as he could, Damian stood up. His uncomfortable dress-shoes, an additional forty dollars, shuffled on the smooth carpet no matter how solidly he tried to step.
Suzy stood up behind him, and turned toward the foxes. "Can I... go be with him?" She asked.
Mr. Lennox turned to his wife, as if to answer a question she had asked. "Yes, sweetie."
The little ghost floated slowly up through the air. She looked over her shoulder, a little worried that someone she was not expecting might see her. But no eyes were upon her as she shyly went to the casket.
She made to sit upon the closed portion, but her body floated an inch or so above the wood. She did not dare touch the casket, especially not with her rump. She gazed into the ornate wooden box, at the body inside.
Tears began to bead in her eyes.
He looked so peaceful. He lay with his hands clasped below his sternum, dressed in a little black suit that made his orange fur stand out sharply. He even had his little square glasses over his closed eyes. They reflected the depiction on the stained-glass window at the front of the church. The yellow star seemed to show where his pupils would be.
Her first thought was how cute he looked. Her second, was how cute he used to look.
Damian cleared his throat. He could see fog in his eyes. The gathering was in a dark room with barely any lighting, and the light that filtered in from outside turned all fursons to silhouettes except for the first few rows.
He put his hands upon the podium, gripping it tensely.
"Just a couple weeks ago..." the jaguar fought for words. "Little wise o--" His voice cracked. "M--Milo," he corrected, "came into my... café," he said, for lack of a better--more appropriate--word. "He was thoughtful and sincere. I felt... more like I was talking to a young adult, rather than a fifth-grader. But, what... struck me most was that he ordered a grasshopper--a kind of milkshake. And... he asked for two straws.
"He explained it was for a friend who couldn't be there. And... while I thought that was such a nice thing to do, something tugged at the back of my neck. It reminded me, so very much, of events that happened... a year ago."
Suzy's heart began to stutter.
Damian shook his head. "I don't claim to know Milo enough to give this kind of speech, to be honest." The jaguar spoke sincerely, releasing his grip on the podium. "I have a firm belief that... if Milo and Suzy knew one another, they would be the best of friends. Perhaps, they might have even found love. While I cannot say that for sure, I know I can say this: Milo understood. He understood something that none of us did."
Damian included himself in this group, however it was on public record that he, too, understood what Milo had come to know. But it was not his place to rub that in the face of the entire town right now.
"He moved into that tragic home. That home that had been empty for so many months. It... boils my blood, to think that somewhere in that house... was the spirit of a little girl just screaming for justice."
Suzy took in a quivering breath. None would know how true his words were.
"Milo... must have somehow understood. This little boy, this outsider," he motioned to the casket, "Opened my eyes to that truth. He wanted nothing more than to help that poor little girl. He wanted to right the wrong that we very much caused." He hit the podium softly. "And I'm sorry, but that's the truth. That was a purpose so noble, that Milo gave his very life to open all of our eyes, to get us all to listen."
He took in a breath.
"Milo... is Suzy's hero. I believe, that he deserves a medal for what he's done. I wish..." he began to cry, "I wish that he didn't have to sacrifice himself for that. But the least I can do..." his voice trembled with a mix of grief and anger, "Is tell him, I'm sorry!"
Damian hit the podium again, harder.
Then, he pulled at the collar of his suit-jacket, and whipped it off. He stepped over to the casket. "And when you come here, to see the face of a hero, let him know he helped you understand. And," he knelt down.
Suzy watched as he got to his knees, and looked up--at her.
"And, please... Suzy McAllister... forgive me--forgive us... for failing you and your father so long ago."
Suzy sobbed, cupping Damian's chin. "Of course," she said, looking into his quivering pupils. "Of course I forgive you, Damian."
He blinked as he stood, using his cuff to wipe his tears. "That's all I have to say," he finished, retrieving his suit-jacket and hastily returning to his seat.
It was only then, that he heard all of the weeping from behind.
The white fox stood back at the podium. "Thank you, Damian. And now, if you so wish, you may take the opportunity to observe Milo as he rests. The roses offered may be placed directly into the casket. Please remain quiet as others take their turn in remembrance."
The organ began to play once more.
Suzy felt the vibrations of the music carry into her very essence. One by one, people approached the casket. Some stood, some knelt; some prayed, some motioned the cross, some merely stood and thought; some touched the wood, others kept their hands at their backs; some rested the rose near his shoulders, others left without that formality.
And, indeed, just as Damian had done, some spoke to her. Kneeling, standing, heads bowed or hands clasped; they called to her, asking for her forgiveness. They could not have possibly known that she was right there, listening to them. She felt as though she was doing something improper, listening to their personal requests without them knowing--and yet, this must be the right thing to do. She did not deny anyone who asked. She rested her hand upon theirs, or on their shoulder or head, and answered their request.
And, for every one that did, they felt a sense of warmth upon their fur.
Her favorite teacher, Mr. Derwood, came up to the casket. "I believe everything I've heard," he spoke solemnly. "I'm sorry I ever fell into the trap we all did so long ago." He bent over. "Please, tell Suzy I said hi. And may she forgive our ignorances."
"I forgive you, Mr. Derwood," Suzy said, laying a hand upon his head. Suddenly, he jerked up. She flinched. For a moment, he stared ahead, and then looked about, as if confused. As he stood up, and walked away, he looked back. A look of concern, but curiosity, was on his muzzle.
Maybe he had heard her.
Soon, everyone who wished to had given their memorial. Everyone except Milo's own parents. Suzy sat worriedly, fearful they were going to miss out on the chance to say goodbye.
The organ stopped once more, and the white fox took to the podium.
"I now ask that Anthony and Danielle, come forward to say goodbye to their son."
Suzy's heart felt like lead as Milo's parents slowly stood.
Dad was clearly the one to lead, encouraging Mom along by hooking his arm in with hers. Their eyes were streaming, their cheek-fur matted and slicked outward like their eyelashes.
Suzy departed from her perch before the casket, to join Milo's parents. She held onto Dad's leg, until she found herself at the familiar casket. She floated up, to match their height.
Dad reached for a rose, and looked to his wife. "Together," he stated.
"Together," his wife nodded, clasping the stem below his fingers.
Suzy watched, her heart almost unable to bear this last moment. They waited patiently. Timidly, unsure if their pause was for her, she reached her hand to the rose.
Dad spoke as soon as her hand wrapped about the stem.
"Goodbye, my son."
"Goodbye, sweetie."
"Goodbye... Milo..." Suzy tried to speak without a sob. "Thank you..."
The rose was set in, and Dad reached up to the lid. With a gentle click, the casket was closed.
"May I ask," the white fox spoke, "That the following Pallbearers approach: Mayor Thatcher, Commissioner Sunderland, Captain Ranghel, Sergeant Viligaerie, friend Damian, and father Anthony."
The Mayor, the officers, and Damian all stood and gathered at the front.
"Please bear the casket to the van."
The men clasped the handles of the casket, and lifted.
Suzy gasped; this was happening too fast! She ran to the casket, and ducked under it. She placed her palms on the underside surface, and lifted. As they walked toward the vehicle, Suzy felt just how heavy the casket actually was.
It was nothing, compared to the weight in her heart.
~~~
*part 27*
It was sunny out. The snow upon the ground crunched as the Pallbearers, and Suzy, carried the casket across the frozen tears on the ground.
As winter wept for spring, so did Suzy weep for her hero.
She saw the plot of dirt. The black hole against the white ground, like an inkblot on a perfect canvas. They approached its side.
"Please set the casket upon the lower," the white fox spoke.
Suzy saw the platform just above the hole. She felt the weight of the casket relieved from her shoulders as the Pallbearers set it. She looked about.
Many people were still with them. Not quite as many as had been at the wake, but enough to stand in a circle about the grave site. Suzy recognized many of their faces from school.
"Before the casket is lowered," the white fox spoke, "Let us take a moment to reflect upon Milo Lennox's most recent actions. To many of us, this site may look quite familiar--it is most definitely familiar to myself." He stood aside, and pointed across the way.
"There, is where I stood exactly one year and six days ago, on the twenty-seventh of December. On that solemn day, I remember with such sadness, lowering such a similar casket. That day, we said goodbye to little Suzy McAllister."
Suzy suddenly felt the cold of winter. She gazed over to the other plot of land. It was two yards away, with a headstone covered in snow and ice.
And yet... she knew it was hers. There, just a stone's-throw away, her body lay in the earth. She did not want to get any closer to that plot of land.
"And today, on the day of her murder one year ago, it is my melancholy hope, that I do not need to bury another child who has suffered such a tragedy. But it is with a contented heart that I know Suzy and Milo will remain forever close to one another. Forever will Milo be with the one for whom he fought so hard to be the voice of truth; and forever will Suzy be with the one who served as her knight and hero. With these feelings in mind, I say: Thank you, Milo. May you rest in peace."
The hand-brake was released.
Suzy watched as the casket was slowly lowered. She began to convulse. It looked so hideous, the way it shook and jittered as it lowered into the earth. She felt the cold wind blow against her very soul as the machine's ugly ratcheting ceased.
Mr. Lennox took the shovel in his hand, and gathered a clump of dirt. He hovered it over the hole, and paused.
Suzy watched as the shovel tilted, and the dirt collided with a hollow thump.
"No!" She screamed, unable to hold her grief. "You can't go, Milo! You can't!" She rushed into the grave as the dirt was piled in, the frigid clumps of earth passing through her. "Don't leave us! Please! It's my fault! I'm sorry! I never should have had you do this! Please!" She shoved her head into the casket, gazing at his motionless face in the utter darkness of his coffin. "It's not worth it to me! My daddy will understand! Just open your eyes! Milo, please, open your eyes! We'll do it again, you'll live this time! Please!"
It must have been so hard for them, the others thought. Damian, Mr. Lennox, and Mrs. Lennox all began to shake and sob uncontrollably. But what the onlookers did not understand, was that their emotions came from the shrieks of grief that resonated from the grave.
At last, the final remnants of dirt were set upon the burial. The Sergeant and Commissioner smoothed the uneven ground.
Suzy rose from the grave, her eyes closed and her head hanging forward.
***
Suzy didn't know what to do with herself as they pulled into the driveway of her home. Where would she go, now? She looked at her hands, the roof of the car on which she had ridden home reflecting the sun through her fingers.
She was still here. It was the anniversary of her death, and she was still here.
She wished she wasn't. She wished she was back where her body was in the ground, close to Milo just as the white fox had stated. But she was not. She was still here.
Perhaps, this was her hell.
She was beckoned by Milo's dad. Reluctantly, she went back into the house.
"Thank you, for coming with us." Mrs. Lennox stated.
Suzy did not know what to say. "I'll... go back to the basement," was all she could utter. She walked forward, intent on never coming up from that lowly room again to see the light of the sun.
"Wait," Mr. Lennox spoke quietly, holding up his hand. "Suzy... we discussed it on the way home, and--"
"You're leaving the house," Suzy stated, predicting his words. She half-looked back, and nodded with a sad understanding. "I don't blame you," she sighed, tensely. "If I could leave... I would, too."
"We're not leaving you, sweetie," Mrs. Lennox chimed in, reaching over to pick up the little ghost. She did not question the slightest bit of weight she felt as she brought the girl to her bosom, and rubbed her back comfortingly.
"As I was saying," Mr. Lennox nodded. "We've had a discussion, and we've decided that we'd... like it if you were around more. We know... this may sound a little strange, but..." He tried to search for the words.
"We would love it, sweetie," Mrs. Lennox chimed in again, "If you would adopt us as your parents." She felt the ghost quiver against her chest. She smiled. "We would rather have you around, we promise. Plus... he wouldn't much appreciate us treating his best friend like... like a ghost."
~~~
*epilogue*
Suzy rested upon her bed, hugging Ruthie against her chest.
It was Christmas morning. The cold wind whipped at the windowpane behind her. It was quiet. For the first time in three days, it was nearly silent.
Reporters had come in swarms. They antagonized Mr. Lennox as he went to get the paper, or the mail, or for any reason he went outside. Some even tried to get in; she had stopped one herself.
They asked painful questions, without any remorse.
"What can you tell us about Cheryl McAllister's attack?"
"What drew you to move into the McAllister home--did you know about the murder prior to moving in?"
"What do you have to say about your son Milo's knowledge of details not found on any official or unofficial record?"
"Excuse me?" Suzy had heard Mr. Lennox speak with a snarl. "Did you just call my son a liar?"
"No sir. I listened to the entirety of your son's recording. I'm merely asking how he came to know details about the original murder case that not even the original prosecutors had ever heard. I have also read the diary transcript published in the Monday papers; I can't see how he could have gotten some of the details that he did just from that alone."
"Listen here, you maggot!" Mr. Lennox shouted in a rage that made Suzy shiver with fear, and delight with visceral glee. "I don't care how my son came about his conclusions. He's a smart boy, and he's not a liar! Hell, maybe Suzy told him herself. He said he was having dreams about her; maybe she talked to him then."
"You seem to keep talking about Milo in the present-tense; does this mean you're still coming to terms with his death?"
Suzy shook with rage. Those people had no respect for the dead, let alone the living. They just wanted their next headline. If it wouldn't cause problems for her newly-adopted parents, she would certainly give the entire town a headline that would put it on the map.
But now, at Christmas, there was peace. Maybe it was that the reporters felt it was good-will toward the grieving family to let them be on this solemn day; or perhaps it was the squad of officers assigned to patrol the neighborhood.
Either way, it was finally quiet. Finally peaceful. She could finally begin coming to terms with the events that happened just seven days ago--if only little by little.
"Suzy?" Dad called. "Are you awake?"
He was downstairs beneath her, probably expecting her to be in the basement as she had been the past several days. "I'm upstairs," she called, sitting up "in Mil--my room," she hopped off her bed. "I'll come down," she stated.
"No! Stay there! I'll come up!"
His insistence startled her a little. She obeyed, just as any good little girl would, and waited as his foot-thumps rushed up the stairs at a gingerly pace.
A knock came at the door. "May I come in, honey?"
"Y--yes," she stated. She was still getting used to their adoption.
Her door squeaked open, and Dad came in with a smile on his face. "Merry Christmas," he said reaching out and squatting down.
She floated to him, accepting his embrace. "Merry Christmas," she spoke somberly.
"I went out to get the paper this morning, and I thought you might like to read it." He proffered the rolled up paper. "It's on the front page. Read it aloud for me."
She took the paper, unrolling it. The big black letters hit her eyes immediately. "M...murderous mother to face... her... crimes... f--framed fath...er... now tasting f--" she swallowed, her eyes beginning to blur. "Freedom..."
MURDEROUS MOTHER TO FACE HER CRIMES, FRAMED FATHER NOW TASTING FREEDOM
Cheryl McAllister, on Sunday, officially confessed to the crime of killing her own daughter over one year ago. She is now scheduled to face a Grand Jury for recent crimes. She will be tried on one count First-Degree Murder, one count Second-Degree Murder, three counts of Assault, one count of False Imprisonment, one count Blackmail, and one count Perjury. The Grand Jury will decide under which counts she will be tried by.
Suzy had to pause, wiping away her tears. "It is... uncommon for all charges to be p--pressed against the accused... however, the charge of F--First-degree M--Murder is brought upon by her most recent k--" She swallowed.
"Please." Dad encouraged, "I know it's hard, but keep reading, you're doing great."
"...Brought upon by her most recent... killing of... Milo Lennox." The tears began to fall. "The Governor of the State has issued a P--Pardon to her divorced husband... Richard... McAllister..."
Mr. McAllister is set to be released. A Pardon does not mean his previous conviction will be overturned, but the District Attorney, Governor and, other legislative officers, are seeking to arrange an Expunger. Under an Expunger, the record of Mr. McAllister's previous unlawful conviction will be erased, as if he was never tried in the first place.
An Expunger cannot give him back the year he lost in prison.
"That's enough, sweetie," Dad said peacefully. "You should read the rest later; I just wanted to make sure you knew." He was sitting down at the chair of her desk. He looked up at the ceiling. "I'm proud of you. Both of you. Knowing your dad is a free man makes even our grief a little more bearable."
There was a moment of silence, before Suzy mumbled: "Not mine."
Dad frowned, his eyes a little disappointed. But he nodded understandably. He smiled, which was hard to do, but he managed. "I think I might know something that will really help." He stated, extending his hand to take the paper again. "Wait here for just a little bit. When I'm ready, I'll call you." He stepped up to leave her room. He paused at her door. "Oh, and don't go through the walls. Just meet me at the bottom of the stairs."
"Yes sir," she agreed.
Again, it was quiet. But it did not last long, before she was beckoned. It was difficult; she did not want to leave. She had only just this morning managed to come up here, to face the place where she had met the boy she fell in love with. Where they had shared their stories, their hobbies, their hopes, their dreams, their bodies and their desires. Now that she was here, she did not want to leave, but she decided she would try to come back as soon as whatever this was was over--not that she didn't appreciate Mom and Dad's efforts to treat her like a family and make her feel better.
As promised, she took the stairs, carrying Ruthie in her arms. It felt so banal, such a trivial thing she had not done in a year. And yet, it was a bit appealing, confining herself to the constraints of the realm in which she was once bound.
At the bottom of the stairs, the father fox was waiting for her. He picked her up, holding the back of her head to hug her cheek while his arm rested under her rear. This kind of swift carrying might have been difficult with anyone other than a ghost.
Suzy looked to dining room as she was carried to the living room. The door-frame was covered by a curtain, one that Damian had set up for them of his own volition.
"Sit here," Dad stated, holding Suzy at the hips as he lowered her to the leather lounger.
As her bottom hit the seat, she realized... it was not quite leather that she was sitting upon.
"Hey there, my little Stinky Sock."
Her ears flared out, and her eyes bolt open as she took in a breath. She whipped around, coming face-to-face with the dark-gray muzzle that had the same little notch of white on its nose as her own. His shoulders were skinny but bulky, and his triceps were like basketballs wrapped in cured leather. He was a little disheveled, a little dirty, and he had a few scars that most would find unappealing.
"D--D--Dumbass!" She exclaimed, practically breaking her own skin like ice as she suddenly moved so fast her arms dissipated from her shoulders to gather around his neck. She showered him in kisses, as well as tears.
"Feel better now, Suzy?" Mrs. Lennox asked, coming to sit by her husband.
The mouse looked back with a smile.
"What's the matter? Is my little Sock feeling blue?" He poked her belly.
She giggled. "Daddy, I am a little blue," she admitted, looking down at her spectral skin.
"Well, maybe you should open up the present I brought with me." He said, pointing over to a box beneath the tree.
She looked over, and saw the large and crude package. It was beat up, like it had been bullied by all the other boxes beneath the tree. Its featureless faces--bruised, scuffed and soiled--implied it had been a product of haste.
She reluctantly slid from her father's lap. At first she walked, but then she transitioned to floating just above the floor, as she crossed the room to the tree. Setting Ruthie upon the nearby ottoman, she ran her fingers upon the box. She searched for an opening, which was not difficult to find. One of its flaps had been bent up, the tape already peeling.
She pulled it gently, as if sorry and afraid she might cause it pain. But eventually her anticipation and curiosity got the better of her, and she ruthlessly swiped her hands to cut the tapes, not even bothering to wedge her fingers in the lip--one of the perks of being incorporeal at will.
The box was full of packing peanuts. She tried to peek in, but it was just an inch or so taller than she was. She floated up, and dove in with her hands. She sifted about the surface, until her fingers caught something. She pulled, freeing it from the Styrofoam prison.
Another Ruthie doll--a different Ruthie doll. He wore different clothes, but he was similar to her own.
She squealed with delight, hugging it. But surely, this box was not meant for just that one little thing. Practically slavering with delight, she dove in bodily through the side of the box. The peanuts flew up into the air as she burst forth, holding another Ruthie plushy while the other objects floated up with her in a telekinetic aura.
She whipped about, looking at each object which she carried in the float. A one-hundred piece puzzle set, four kiddie picture-books, a pencil-topper, journal, eight VHS tapes, and sixteen little figurines--all featuring Ruthie.
She squealed with delight. "Oh, Daddy!" She playfully giggled. "Where did you find all these!?"
Her father smiled warmly, leaning forward as his daughter appreciated every little thing individually. "When the boys in the prison heard I was leaving, one of 'em got an idea." He leaned back. "I dunno how he figured out your obsession of Ruthie. Maybe I mentioned it once or twice; some people there wanted to know more about my deceased little girl, and it was the least I could do after clockin' 'em in the face.
"Well, one person there is actually a very bad guy. But... he had connections where Ruthie was really popular--y'know, where we got the first doll from? He had it rush-delivered to me; it was there when I was released. I didn't tell anyone there you were still... around. I think he was doing it as a gesture for me, but it kind of works out pretty well." The muscled mouse smiled and looked to the married couple, and saw the pangs of anxiety behind their smiles. "Don't worry--he doesn't know where you live. And he promises the stuff is clean--no connections, no dirty money, nothing."
That seemed to ease them.
"Oh Daddy, thank you!" His daughter finally stated, floating over to him and catching him in a big hug and kiss. This time, he was not showered with tears.
"You're welcome, baby." He cooed, knuckling her shoulder. He looked toward the Lennox's. "I'm sorry. I would have gotten something for Milo, but I've no idea what he likes." He felt a hit on his bulging bicep.
"Dumbass!" She scolded, like he would have to her if she misbehaved. "...Milo's..." she looked down. "Milo's dead." She looked up at her dad, sadness in her eyes.
He merely shrugged. "So?"
"So!?" She hollered; "How can you say that? We all saw Milo die right before our very--"
Then it hit her. Like someone coming up and smacking her on the back of her head for being so silly; it hit her.
Richard watched with a bit of a wry smile as his daughter's eyes slowly went wide with her epiphany. When her eyes could not get any wider her jaw began to drop.
"Everyone! In front of the fireplace, c'mon!" She ordered, looking at the Lonnox's and smacking her dad again purely out of urgency. "Gather around," she ordered, and the two foxes and her father knelt with her before the hearth.
"What are we doing--What's the matter?" Milo's mother asked.
"You'll see!" Suzy said with exasperation. She clapped her hands together, as if she was about to bow her head and pray. "Put your hands on mine, hurry-hurry!"
Her father complied before she had to say it, and then came Mrs. Lennox's, followed by her husband's. Their hands gathered in the middle of them in a large ball, Suzy had they closed their eyes. "Think about Milo, everyone. Think about him being here--convince yourself he's here in the room with us. Okay?"
"Okay," Mr. Lennox spoke.
They waited a moment. The grandfather clock chimed nine times.
"C'mon Milo..." Suzy spoke aloud. "Please, show yourself."
"Suzy..." Mr. Lennox said in a hush.
The mouse felt the pressure against her hands lighten. Her voice began to quaver. "Please, Milo. We miss you. We're sorry. We want you back."
"Oh, Suzy..." Mrs. Lennox spoke.
Again, the pressure against her knuckles receded. She tightened her grip. Tears began to form behind her closed lids. "Please, Milo. I know you're mad at me, and I'm sorry! I should have done something--I should have saved you! I didn't mean for you to die, I swear!"
"Stinky..." Her father whispered, releasing her hands with a gentle stroke on her knuckles.
But she didn't give up--she wasn't going to give up! She didn't care she was sobbing and embarrassing herself! "Please, Milo. Please! I don't care if I have to relive my death a hundred--a thousand--a billion times over! Just, please, come back to us! We love you..." And then, she added softly, as if she felt it would bear no weight to her words at all: "I... love you..." Then, she felt a small pair of hands gently cover hers. "I love you, too, Suzy."
She gasped, her eyes flinging open to witness the smiling face. The pent up tears fell like waterfalls as her trembling pupils beheld the translucent manifestation of her once-living lover.
"Why are you crying? I'm here now; please don't worry."
"Oh Milo!" She managed to sob, breaking their handhold to wrap her arms about his neck. She let only a few sobs run course over his shoulder before reaching up and clutching the back of his skull. She angled his muzzle down toward hers, and latched him into a kiss so focused with her passion that she almost lost control of her corporeal form.
As the departed lovers' lips touched, a warmth erupted from within the room. It manifested as a blue light, wisping about like the tendrils of a bonfire. It cultured there, about the passionate kids, until it grew immensely. It burst forth, erupting like a volcanic fissure, spreading through the air and whipping about, finding a way to escape the home.
It swept out into the town, balls of blue like shooting stars cast into the ether. They flew, their squiggly comet-like tails leaving trails of light behind them that faded a moment later. Each one found its way to an individual in the town, slamming into their heart.
A ringing of the ear, followed just a second later by a strange elation. Most certainly, an epidemic of tinnitus would be something to marvel at with concern. But, when the town would speak of it about the rumor mill each would find the same kind of peace that the other felt. Such a thing was not a malady, but regarded as a miracle.
In the epicenter, back where all of this had started over one year ago--and arguably farther back--two families felt more than just a simple warming of the heart.
There was finally a restful peace.