By DJ Davis
Champagne Books: http://goo.gl/AeOqax
A psychic with an attitude, a ghost from the old west, and lost Civil War gold. What could possibly go wrong? Just about everything.
Sunrise came and, Holy Moses
on a moped, it was one to write home about. Orange clouds sent deep purple shadows drifting across the snowcapped peaks. Troy followed the irresistible pull in his head through aspen trees boasting new spring green. A rock, dead center in a small clearing, drew him from the trail like a magnet. The tingling in his fingertips spread to his palms and grew into an itch. Troy dropped to his knees in the mud and melting snow. The gravestone was so eroded he could barely make it out. Emma Anders, September 18, 1865.
A familiar ache pulsed behind his left eye. “You’re going to be a real bitch about this, aren’t you, Emma?” No answer. He didn’t expect one, but who knew? Stranger things had happened in the mysterious void between the past and the present. The space his joker friend Eric called “The Troy Hart Zone” and Troy called a pain in the ass.
He tented his fingers on the weathered chunk of granite and the vision flooded his senses.
Lightning, so close the ozone prickled the hairs in his nose. Thunder rolled off the mountain and echoed back. Icy rain hammered the oilskin duster and sluiced off the wide brimmed hat. Cold mud soaked his woolen pants and seeped through his broken-down boots.
He longed for the heat of his pistols but this part had to come first. First the shovel, then the guns. First Emma, then his brothers.
The pine box, mired in a puddle six feet down, gleamed bone white in the storm-light. Emma deserved better than a few rough-sawn boards and a rock he’d carve himself. The evening sky lacked the sunset colors she loved. There was only rain and churning clouds. He tossed a handful of wildflowers into her grave and took up the shovel. Dirt and stones covered the coffin with the dull thuds of ‘til death do us part.
A bearded, grizzled face swam out of the rain. Hate and grief burned in the man’s eyes. Troy yanked his hand from the stone. The vision dissipated, but slower than it should have. A voice thundered inside his head. “FIND ME!”
Troy kicked away from the grave. That was one hell of a vision, but that’s all it was. He’d had thousands of them and an occasional twist was nothing new. He pointed at the headstone. “I do not take orders from a dead dude with an attitude.”
He made it three steps toward the trail before pain burst like fireworks in the left side of his skull. Troy crumpled to his knees and elbows, crying out as a dead man clawed into his mind.
Tuesday, May 3, 2016