shaking—and afraid.
It was just as she’d feared. She had known if she opened up to her psychic ability this very thing would happen.
“I can’t help you,” she muttered, avoiding eye contact with the man. She skittered away but there were so many others, all ambling toward her, their mouths moving but without coherent sound.
“What do you want from me?” Her voice sounded hysterical and highpitched.
The words didn’t seem to register with them. They just kept steadily progressing toward her, reminding her of some awful scene from Night of the Living Dead .
Her heart thudded relentlessly against her rib cage. The ghosts were closing in and there was nowhere to run. They had completely surrounded the Jag, preventing her from getting back into the car. Boo howled.
Jillian felt a wave of static energy rush up her spine. One was behind her. Close.
She sucked in a breath. Did she dare look? She trembled.
Slowly, she turned her head and glanced behind her, expecting the worst.
Benton!
Relief flooded her from head to toe.
His gaze was dark, threatening. He stood ready to fight, his dark hair soaked with rain and clinging in black strands to his head. His eyes narrowed into slits, his expression daring the revenants to come any closer. In comparison to them he looked so, so real .
Any other time Jillian would have been terrified of him. Not now. Now she knew without a doubt this man—this spirit—was her rescuer.
Cautiously she backed toward him, her heels sinking into the wet earth with every step. She didn’t stop until her back found the hard wall of his chest. Two strong hands cupped her biceps with a vibrant energy that sent electricity rushing through her body.
His mouth brushed her ear. “Close your eyes. Find your sister. Look for the name on the gravestone.” His raspy drawl was an unmistakable command.
Jillian obeyed. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe but she couldn’t. The idea of the ghosts surrounding her, the solid spirit behind her and the threat of the soul collectors sent a wave of terror through her that made her want to retreat and run. But she had to find Amy. She had to do this.
She could do this.
Determined, she summoned her ability.
It was as if she were falling through a tunnel, soaring over the tops of the grave markers, over the cemetery itself. She directed her sight. Find the place where Amy is buried. Find it , she told herself over and over. And then her focus was drawn, fast and furious, straight down to a stone…
February 24, 1838–December 16, 1864
Brigadier General 20th Tennessee Infantry, CSA
Thomas Benton Smith.
Jillian’s eyes flew open.
Benton’s grave?
Sirens wailed as the others arrived.
The ghosts were gone. Benton was gone. She stood alone, shivering in the rain.
As Theo sprinted toward her clad in a yellow raincoat, she managed to summon enough wherewithal to remember she had, once again, stolen evidence. She slipped the button into her pants pocket. A wiry little man dressed in jeans and a jacket ran behind him.
“This is the groundskeeper. Where is she, Jillian? Do you know?”
She nodded. “Benton Smith,” Jillian told him. “She’s in Thomas Benton Smith’s grave. He’s a soldier. A Civil War soldier.”
The man thought for seconds that seemed to Jillian like hours. “Yes, I know that grave. Come with me.”
Jillian nodded. She turned to Theo. “Hurry. Please hurry!”
The groundskeeper ducked his head and ran in the rain. The others followed past the obelisk, behind the mausoleum—to where a stubby piece of PVC pipe protruded from the ground behind the weathered marble grave marker of Thomas Benton Smith.
Breathless from running, Jillian fell to her knees, heedless of the cold, soggy ground. “Amy!” she called down the tube. “Amy, it’s Jillian! We’re going to get you out of there.”
The image of her sister trapped in a coffin under the ground, alive, made her want to wretch. She fought down the rising
It was just as she’d feared. She had known if she opened up to her psychic ability this very thing would happen.
“I can’t help you,” she muttered, avoiding eye contact with the man. She skittered away but there were so many others, all ambling toward her, their mouths moving but without coherent sound.
“What do you want from me?” Her voice sounded hysterical and highpitched.
The words didn’t seem to register with them. They just kept steadily progressing toward her, reminding her of some awful scene from Night of the Living Dead .
Her heart thudded relentlessly against her rib cage. The ghosts were closing in and there was nowhere to run. They had completely surrounded the Jag, preventing her from getting back into the car. Boo howled.
Jillian felt a wave of static energy rush up her spine. One was behind her. Close.
She sucked in a breath. Did she dare look? She trembled.
Slowly, she turned her head and glanced behind her, expecting the worst.
Benton!
Relief flooded her from head to toe.
His gaze was dark, threatening. He stood ready to fight, his dark hair soaked with rain and clinging in black strands to his head. His eyes narrowed into slits, his expression daring the revenants to come any closer. In comparison to them he looked so, so real .
Any other time Jillian would have been terrified of him. Not now. Now she knew without a doubt this man—this spirit—was her rescuer.
Cautiously she backed toward him, her heels sinking into the wet earth with every step. She didn’t stop until her back found the hard wall of his chest. Two strong hands cupped her biceps with a vibrant energy that sent electricity rushing through her body.
His mouth brushed her ear. “Close your eyes. Find your sister. Look for the name on the gravestone.” His raspy drawl was an unmistakable command.
Jillian obeyed. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe but she couldn’t. The idea of the ghosts surrounding her, the solid spirit behind her and the threat of the soul collectors sent a wave of terror through her that made her want to retreat and run. But she had to find Amy. She had to do this.
She could do this.
Determined, she summoned her ability.
It was as if she were falling through a tunnel, soaring over the tops of the grave markers, over the cemetery itself. She directed her sight. Find the place where Amy is buried. Find it , she told herself over and over. And then her focus was drawn, fast and furious, straight down to a stone…
February 24, 1838–December 16, 1864
Brigadier General 20th Tennessee Infantry, CSA
Thomas Benton Smith.
Jillian’s eyes flew open.
Benton’s grave?
Sirens wailed as the others arrived.
The ghosts were gone. Benton was gone. She stood alone, shivering in the rain.
As Theo sprinted toward her clad in a yellow raincoat, she managed to summon enough wherewithal to remember she had, once again, stolen evidence. She slipped the button into her pants pocket. A wiry little man dressed in jeans and a jacket ran behind him.
“This is the groundskeeper. Where is she, Jillian? Do you know?”
She nodded. “Benton Smith,” Jillian told him. “She’s in Thomas Benton Smith’s grave. He’s a soldier. A Civil War soldier.”
The man thought for seconds that seemed to Jillian like hours. “Yes, I know that grave. Come with me.”
Jillian nodded. She turned to Theo. “Hurry. Please hurry!”
The groundskeeper ducked his head and ran in the rain. The others followed past the obelisk, behind the mausoleum—to where a stubby piece of PVC pipe protruded from the ground behind the weathered marble grave marker of Thomas Benton Smith.
Breathless from running, Jillian fell to her knees, heedless of the cold, soggy ground. “Amy!” she called down the tube. “Amy, it’s Jillian! We’re going to get you out of there.”
The image of her sister trapped in a coffin under the ground, alive, made her want to wretch. She fought down the rising
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