Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #20 November 2015 | Page 71

My mother sits at the table, listlessly stirring her tea. Her skin stretches over the hollow craters of her cheeks and her eyes are empty, lost in far-away memories and questions that have no answers. I wish I could tell my mother the answers to those questions. I know them. They burn in my soul as I carry them through my eternal days. I’ve tried to tell her. I’ve stood in front of her and screamed the name of my killer but those empty eyes don’t see me and she is deaf to my cries. I wish I were better at this. There are others who have dwelt in the lower realms for many years, chained by unfinished deeds and words left unsaid. Those are strong, their will piercing the veil, making their presence known. I am still coming to terms with my new state of being. Or not being. I am caught between two worlds; torn between the longing to ascend to the warm light that beckons from above and the need to weave together the loose threads in the tapestry of my short life. It is my choice to remain. To cling to my mother like a small child tugging on her skirt for attention. One day she will see me. One day she will hear his name. On that day, the veil will close behind me and I will drift into the light. veil. But for all this to happen, I have to open the *** My mother doesn’t go out much. Her grief impales her to the dark confines of the house, curtains drawn against a world that cannot understand her pain. But today she is shrugging on her best dress and carefully styling her thin, blonde hair. Curious, I follow her as she walks briskly down High Street. I expect she’s heading for the grocery store but she walks past the red and white signs and turns down a quiet street off the main road. Her pace quickens with purpose then slows, scanning the numbers on the dusty shops that line the road. Some are closed, windows boarded and dusty, whilst others are in the early stages of renovation. The area has a bohemian feel, a throwback to the age of flowers and peace. My mother stops outside a small shop. A black curtain decorates the windows, protecting the interior from prying eyes. I shift in the ether as the energy around us changes. Even my mother seems to feel it, shivering a little in the warm sun before pushing the door with an uncertain hand. It opens, revealing a yawning, cool darkness that envelops us as she enters the gloom. I follow her up the narrow stairs to an office of sorts. The simple brass plaque on the door says Susan Deacon, Private Detective. My hopes rise. My mother is not going to let the matter rest, just as I cannot rest. It must be finished. There must be justice. There must be answers. The woman who greets us looks to be in her late twenties, early thirties. Her sharp dark eyes widen when she looks behind my mother’s shoulder. I wonder if she can see me. It’s a fleeting impression, maybe a glitch in the ether. She smiles warmly at my mother and extends her hand, taking my mother’s in a firm grip. “Good to meet you Mrs Ryan.” My mother smiles back and allows her hand to be shaken before limply extracting it. She clears her throat as she sits in the offered chair. “Thank you for seeing me. I wasn’t sure… that is, I’ve never had to do this before.” She sounds almost apologetic. The woman- Susan- reaches across the battered wooden desk and squeezes my mother’s hand. “I wish you had no need to do this, Mrs Ryan.” My mother tears up. “Please, call me Karen.” “How can I help, Karen?” My mother launches into the whole sad story, the weeks of not knowing, of hope mixed with 71