In the Wake of Death Read online

  Copyright © 2016, 2022 NIKKI LANDIS

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Edited by Kathy Denver, iPublishGlobal

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  The gentle, warm breeze shifted directions, sweeping in from the north, where a bold chill raced down from the ravine above. The first indication that I wasn’t entirely alone. Cooler air drifted across my skin, startling my slumbering mind from the comfort of blissfully unaware serenity.

  I was being summoned.

  Sighing softly, I blinked the last dredges of sleep from my eyes. My bedroom’s familiar walls hid in the shadows, darkened by the night as I yawned. The hour was late, well into the early morning hours before the creeping hues of dawn arrived.

  Spirits—also known as lost souls—hovered where the veil was the thinnest. Some referred to it as the witching hour or the fleeting time that lingered between waking and the deepest depths of REM sleep—the hours when most people were at rest and hardly ever awake.

  I was most often visited during these hours and roused from my slumber as I awakened to the frosty air while the soul who chose to breach our world became transparent. Gossamer in its texture, the spirit in death was light, thin, and delicate. While beautiful, it was also unpredictable.

  In my youth, I was often frightened by these apparitions. The shock of their pleading voices and desperate cries still haunted my dreams. As a small child, I would hide under the covers and beg them to leave me alone. Shivering with panic and dread, I would close my eyes and pretend that I was alone. Perhaps that was how I first discovered my private beach and why I sought the comfort of the waves to wash me away from the cold, frightening truth of reality. Even now, I was tempted to retreat to my safe haven, but I was a much older and wiser being than in my innocent youth.

  I failed back then to realize these beings weren’t fully conscious. They didn’t understand how their longing came across or how their sorrow and confusion made their appearance terrifying. I knew the difference now, but it was always slightly jarring, like a sudden impact to my chest, leaving me breathless as I struggled to regain my composure.

  Tonight was no exception. The blur of hazy white in my peripheral vision streaked across my room and left through the open doorway. I shivered under the covers, the bold nip of the air seeping in and draining away the previous warmth. I had no choice but to follow.

  I slid from the comfort of my warm bed and followed her. The girl was young, her wide, fearful eyes searching beyond my body, looking for a peace she had yet to acquire.

  “How can I help you?” I asked gently, hoping I wouldn’t scare her further.

  “You can see me?” she asked, surprise etched into her pale oval-shaped face.

  “Yes,” I answered, taking a few steps closer. “You’re lost. What’s your name?” I almost always asked that question first.

  She shook her head and started to back away. “I, I don’t remember.”

  That was a typical response with trauma-related deaths. My heart sank, instantly knowing that she was a victim. “It will come back. Your memories will return in time.” I hoped my confidence would bolster her courage.

  She was like a frightened doe in the forest. Jumpy. Uncertain. Afraid. “What?” She seemed confused. Too confused. What had happened to this girl?

  “I can help you,” I offered, smiling and holding my hand, “if you let me.”

  Many souls latched onto my offer quickly. Some didn’t. Few refused and never returned. I mourned those souls the most. The ones that ended up lost forever. I held onto the hope that they could still be redeemed, but I wasn’t gifted with the knowledge or experience to know that for sure.

  “I’m scared,” she whispered, turning abruptly toward the window. “Someone follows me.”

  I heard this often. Victims of violence often felt their attacker closing in. They were unable to categorize reality or separate fact from fiction. Life was a blur, a chaotic jumble of thoughts and feelings mashed together in disarray.

  Time was the only answer. She would be calmer when she accepted the truth and had a chance to stop running and push the fear aside.

  “You won’t come to any harm here. I promise,” I reassured her.

  Her pale blue eyes searched mine. She looked relieved for a fraction of a second, but the fear was quick to return. She shook her head. “I, I need to leave.”

  I offered a simple smile in response. “You may come back whenever you wish. I won’t stop you from going or coming back.”

  My words seemed to penetrate her confused mind. “Alright.”

  She was gone before I could ask any more questions, but I knew I would see her soon. Her soul lingered in torment. Within days, they always returned to me, these souls that suffered terrible pain and anguish. Trauma radiated off this young girl in waves of torturous agony. She was seeking, whether she knew it or not. Souls that didn’t suffer trauma tended to move on much quicker unless they had unfinished business. That was an entirely different situation than the one I faced now.

  One of the first things I did after an encounter was collect my notebook and write down everything I could remember. How the spirit looked and the condition of the body. How they spoke and what they revealed. I would write down the conversation. My feelings. The soul’s aura and color. Anything and everything that I considered pertinent and even details that seemed unimportant such as the time and day I awakened.

  All of these details were kept under lock and key in a fire-retardant box under my bed. Over the years, I accumulated quite a collection of work on the subject. These were my case files. My private trek into the mind and journey of the spirit.

  My log on the souls seeking help, petitioning for release, and crossing over was extensive. They were precious to me, like heirloom jewelry or money to others, irreplaceable and an integral piece of my heart. I couldn’t live without these records. They were my solace, my life’s work, and a reflection of my thoughts, experiences, and dreams.

  Proof of the journey of the soul.

  I remembered with vivid detail everything about the young girl. She was fourteen, perhaps fifteen years in age. She had an accent, probably from the country, not quite southern but definitely pronounced. Her English was slightly broken, but she was a bright girl. I could tell. These were my educated guesses.

  The obvious answers were drawn from my conclusions regarding her death and based on my extensive experiences. Her simple dark blue dress appeared old and faded, with no extra adornment of lace or design. A halter neck rested against her alabaster skin, ripped across the bodice where slash marks revealed the skin beneath. Her black heels weren’t more than two inches high and in desperate need of repair—a testament to the fact that they were lovingly worn numerous times. Long scratches marred her skinny legs, revealed by the tear in her dress. The slit exposed several bruises on her inner thighs as well as streaks of blood. She was slender, almost too thin.

  The most vivid details about her were the bruises that tarnished her pale skin, the most prominent on her wrists and ankles. I shook violently at the thought that someone had violated her. I wanted to deny it, but the way she carried herself, the droplets of blood on her skin, and how her hands kept trying to cover and hide her body from my view all pointed to a sexual assault.

  My last observation was the condition of her overall body. She was wet, dripping, actually. Dried mud and pieces of weed or grass clung to her sopping clothes. Had she weight to make them sit on the floor, her shoes would have squeaked. When she spoke, tiny rivulets of water would occasionally leak from the side of her mouth.

  She was oblivious to all of this, of course. I bet she hadn’t yet glanced in a mirror. Too lost, too confused to think of it. She had shivered from the wet and cold. She paused and took deep breaths like she was having great difficulty. A drowning. I was almost positive.

  Her youthful face was pretty—high cheekbones and deep blue eyes the color of misty rain, the same shade as her dress. The garment was handed down to her by her mother or someone close w
ho loved her very much. That drew me to my conclusion.

  She was missing.

  There was no doubt in my mind. It was recent, within days, perhaps hours. I knew because of the condition of her soul. Time was the only thing to wash away those details. Her spirit was as raw and fresh as I had ever seen. No aura lit from within. She held no color. Violently ripped from her young life, only the terror remained.

  My profile complete; I placed the notes in my leather briefcase where all my current files were located. I slipped back into bed, hoping to catch a few hours of rest before I had to start my day.

  As I lay there, sorrow filled my chest. I mourned for this poor girl and her lost innocence. Someone hurt her. Perhaps more than one someone. A tear slipped down my cheek, followed by another. I often wept over my lost souls, but tonight my chest ached with her pain, and my suffering was genuine.

  I would help this young woman find closure. She would finish whatever held her tethered to this world. I would dedicate my time and resources until she crossed over the barrier and found peace. This was my calling.

  My duty. My destiny. A labor of love.

  My name is Gemma Harding,

  And I help to transition the dead.

  Chapter 2

  The following morning after an encounter, I always watched the local news. A habit I found difficult to break with my lifelong occupation. Curiosity and a fierce determination to uncover the truth led me on a hunt. I loved the surge of adrenaline, the spike of energy in my blood, and the feel of victory as the anticipation of uncovering the details of my case consumed me.

  This morning was no exception. I listened for the coffee pot to finish brewing as the weather forecaster gave the five-day forecast. Rain, and lots of it. Spring in the Midwest. I knew what to expect. My umbrella and slicker were already by the front door. I added a dash of cream and one sugar to my coffee and sat down at the breakfast bar, my eyes watching the screen for any hint of the missing girl.

  The female anchor became suddenly serious. “The funeral for Lt. Zachary Barnes will be held today . . .” Oh yes, I had forgotten the policeman killed during a training exercise over the weekend. That would be a featured news story. I hadn’t seen him. Either he crossed over of his own volition, or he wasn’t ready.

  Time would tell if he was walking among us. There was no point in focusing on souls who didn’t show their faces. I had no way to contact them. It was best to let them come to me, and they did, more often than I could imagine.

  I waited patiently for any news of my new soul from last night. Stories of a local drug bust, a community fire in an apartment building, and an older man’s home broken into by thieves filled the remainder of the program. Nothing on the girl or her disappearance. Her story was nonexistent. She wasn’t missing yet, not officially. That was the only explanation that made sense. Perhaps no file had been updated, or the family was hoping the girl would return home.

  I would have to wait for another day. Waiting was as much a part of my life as anything else. I could be patient. I had to be. The story would unfold in due time. Trying to force something to happen before it was time was against one of the golden rules never to be broken, taught to me long ago when I was a little girl by my dearly departed grandmother. She’d had “the shine,” too, although no one referred to the gift as such anymore. It was a term my grandmother used, but it was rare that I ran across it.

  Rising to pour another cup of coffee, I began my day.

  MY CELL PHONE’S LOUD and shrill ringing broke my concentration and led me away from the television. On the fourth ring, I answered, frustrated that the swipe feature on my phone seemed to stick and open with difficulty. It took nearly four times to accomplish the task. Maybe it was time to upgrade.

  “Hello?” I asked, frustration settling in my voice.

  “Gemma, dear!” The familiar voice responded. “Where have you been? I’ve been calling you all morning.”

  My editor, Jackie Lee. I sighed. “Morning to you too, Jackie.”

  “You sound tired. Were you up all night writing?” she asked excitedly, completely ignoring my sarcasm. I wish.

  “No,” I answered a little too quickly. “I had company.”

  She breathed in through her teeth, a kind of whistling noise that echoed through my ear. “What kind of visitor?”

  I instantly understood what she meant—male companionship as in romantic interludes. Over the years, I insisted she stop trying to pair me up with available men. Obviously, that didn’t mean her interest in the subject had diminished. “The other kind.”

  “Oh,” she breathed, her voice still excited. “Anyone who could inspire your next book?”

  I rolled my eyes. Geesh, Jackie. “I have no idea,” I admitted honestly. “But I’m going to be busy for a while. I doubt I’ll have time to edit or write.”

  I heard her sigh on the other end. “Did you finish the rewrites?”

  At least I had done that. “Yes. I’ll email them to you later.”

  “Good. This next installment is fine work, Gemma. You should be proud.”

  I was. I enjoyed writing and earned a decent living with book sales. I started with nonfiction books containing subject matter that concerned life after death, in addition to a comprehensive book on lost souls. Neither did well, at least not in the beginning before I became an established author. I tried a different route and started a serial fiction series based on a woman who whispered to ghosts. I know. Ironic. Two of the novels made the bestseller lists.

  However, the writing wasn’t my forte or even remotely my priority. It was a source of income, allowing me to focus on the crucial part of my life. Souls. They mattered most. Nothing else came in even a close second. This was precisely the reason I remained single for so long. I had neither the time nor energy to date. In the few chances I had, none of the men I met had any understanding of the supernatural. There was nothing more awkward than trying to dismiss a persistent spirit in front of a nonbeliever.

  “Thanks, Jackie. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “Bye, Gemma. Keep me in the loop,” she snickered. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes again.

  “Bye,” I answered and hung up before hearing her say anything else that would make me cringe.

  Jackie was a fabulous New York editor in one of the finest book publishers in the country. I was fortunate and blessed that she loved my work and indulged in my odd behavior. I owed a good portion of my success to her. Rarely did she let me forget it, in jest, of course. The young, single, and successful writer appealed to her caretaker personality. She doted on me and indulged in my seclusion. I was forever declining public appearances since explaining my life to the public was a disaster in the past.

  In all honesty, I was nearly thirty and happy with my life. Later this year, I would celebrate that milestone, undoubtedly surrounded by black balloons and “over the hill” themed decorations. My younger sister Daria would see to that. We were only two years apart, but personality differences and lifestyle choices made it seem like twenty.

  I lived alone, refusing to buy a cat. I didn’t want to fit the stereotype of a single woman in her thirties living with cats. Sometimes I contemplated getting another dog, but I never seemed to go beyond the thought process. My tropical fish and house plants were enough company and never demanded too much of my time.

  I liked being alone. I wasn’t lonely all the time, despite the efforts of my female friends and their repeated attempts to hook me up with a date. I didn’t crave the constant companionship of a man. Don’t get me wrong. I did enjoy dating, and when I found someone that clicked, it was wonderful. I just hadn’t met a guy that accepted my weirdness in a long time. Besides, I was pretty independent and enjoyed my freedom.

  Dating was sporadic, primarily due to time constraints. I’d had several long-lasting and serious relationships. They seemed to fizzle out. I had trouble with men. Or rather, they had a problem with me. I was far too independent, and when a soul needed me, I had to prioritize that. It happened at the worst times, like dinner in a restaurant or right as I became intimate and headed toward the bedroom.

  The morning news finished without a word about the missing girl. I frowned, concern for her well-being uppermost in my mind. What happened to her? I needed the details, but I also wanted to be informed. The more I knew about her, the easier it would be to help. She must have come to me almost the moment she drew her last breath. No wonder she was so confused.