As she drove into town, Ellie marveled at the subtle hints of autumn color beginning to spread across the countryside as if by a painter’s brush.

“Why didn’t you come to the cemetery yesterday?” a familiar voice asked.

Ignoring the voice, Ellie glanced at the heater controls on the dashboard of the Bonneville as the temperature seemed to drop. She slowly glanced over to the passenger seat as the feeling of not being alone crept over her. It could not have been her husband’s voice; he had been dead for five years.

“I won’t tolerate the silent treatment. I asked you a question! Why didn’t you come to the cemetery?”

Fear clutched at her entire being as she saw him in the rear view mirror. No it can’t be Jake – he’s gone. I must be losing my freaking mind! A dead man can’t be riding in my backseat!

“You haven’t lost your mind. I am here, I never really left you. Don’t you know that? You can be so dense sometimes! I’m pretty pissed that you missed your visit with me yesterday! I’m really tired of being lonely. I’ve decided you are coming with me today.”

“Coming with you? No freaking way in hell am I going anywhere with you today or any other day!”

“Oh, you’re coming with me, Ellie. You have no choice in the matter. I’ve been working on a plan for several months. Everyone already thinks you’re nuts. I’ve helped to plant that little seed by coming to you in your dreams. You played right into my hands by telling people about them. Remember the last one, Ellie? You told everyone that I wrote something on a piece of paper and put it in my pocket. The grin on my face looked menacing, I believe you said. I tried to get you to go with me that night but you made yourself wake up. My plan won’t be foiled, again! Like I said, I’m real tired of being lonely. Today, you will come with me!”

“YOU are tired of being lonely! Well, now isn’t that rich? You sorry bastard! You chose to take yourself out of our lives. YOU did that! It is just too damn bad that you are lonesome. I see death hasn’t made you any less selfish!”

“Do you want to know what I wrote in that dream? It was your suicide note. You are going to ram this Pontiac into that bridge a few miles down the road. People will see your note, shake their heads in sorrow, and talk about how you haven’t been right in the head since I took myself out. I told you, they all think you’re crazy.”

“Jake, you need to look for that light to go into and move on. You lost your bullying privileges when you put that bullet in your head. Golden Eagle, the protector of my spirit will not let this happen. He will stop you!”

“There you go with that Native American crap! You have no protectors! It is all bullshit! Just listen to me like you used to, Ellie.”

“Get the hell out of this car! I will not die today!”

Ellie felt a chill on her cheek as he hissed, “Fine! Have it your way!”

He was gone, she could feel it. She looked up and saw the note stuck in the visor. Panic gripped her as her eyes focused back on the road; there he was standing in front of her, laughing! Ellie swerved to miss him and saw the bridge as darkness overtook her consciousness.

Her nose twitched at the sterile smell invading her senses as her eyes opened. Ellie saw her daughter sitting next to her bedside and touched her hand.

“Oh, Mom, if that old Indian hadn’t been fishing under the bridge we might have lost you! He said your car just missed the bridge as it sunk into the mud at the water’s edge. He saved you! He gave me this paper insisting that it was not written with your hand. Oh, he is right over there in the corner; I’ll let him explain it to you. Wait a minute, where did he go?”

“Golden Eagle was here? You saw him? He must have stayed until he was sure that my soul was safe. Is that a feather in the corner?”

© 2010, Bev Owens. All rights reserved.

When the shoulders of the other kids fell in disappointment over the report assignment, I was grinning from ear to ear and couldn't wait to get started. I've always loved doing research on topics and then writing about what I've found. My newest endeavors are blogging and writing fiction.

Bev Owens

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Tags: autumn, ghost story, suicide

This entry was posted on October 6, 2010 at 11:55 pm and is filed under Ghost Stories. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.