Ghost Memories Read Online Free PDF Page B

if it sought to find a form to take, as if it had eyes, as if it searched for something—or someone—and found what it sought.
    It started toward Eli Smith.
    â€œNo!” he raged in terror. “No!”
    He tried to run from the oily, stygian ooze, but the thing formed fingers and arms and reached out for him.
    â€œNo!” he cried again. He began to scream and gurgle as the stuff surrounded his spectral being. He cried out horribly, as if the black ooze were a burning tar, and it seemed long agonizing minutes before it all ended with the ooze receding into the floor, along with the ghost of Eli Smith.
    And all was silent. Except for the living, who went about the business of cutting down the body, unaware of the drama that had taken place in another sphere of existence.
    â€œIt’s not good,” someone muttered. “Not good, being cursed by the dead.”
    Craig Beckett was not disturbed. “I don’t believe in curses, man. I believe in the good and evil in a man’s soul, and a curse from one evil man can only be a curse when another comes along. Let’s put an end to this business.”
    Victoria looked at Bartholomew, her eyes wide. “There is justice. We don’t always see it, but there is justice.”
    He nodded. He had no real body, and yet he felt that he swallowed hard, for he wanted to be strong and sure, but he didn’t know what any of it meant.
    The body was cut down; the spectators meandered away, and soon, they were alone. Bartholomew held both Victoria’s hands, looked down at her, and tried to smile.
    â€œI have you,” he began to say. He had been about to tell her that he could face heaven or hell with her by his side.
    But then the light came.
    Like the ooze that came from the ground, the light seemed powerful and living. It burst out around them, filling the air.
    He lifted a hand to shield his eyes against it. There were people walking from it. Some hovered in the distance, but two, hand in hand came closer.
    He saw who had come. Victor Wyeth, and his beautiful wife—so like Victoria, just Victoria in another twenty years. Still lovely, tall, sweet and proud.
    At his side, Victoria cried out.
    â€œMy daughter!” her mother said.
    â€œVictoria!” her father cried, and there was a sob in his voice.
    Bartholomew felt her hand slip away from his; she raced to her mother, who enveloped her in a gentle hug. Victor Wyeth set his arms around his wife and his daughter, and the threesome held together for many long minutes.
    Victor Wyeth looked over at Bartholomew then. “I was wrong—my apologies come too late.”
    â€œNot too late, sir. I am…I am…I am so sorry for us all.”
    Victor nodded, looking at him. Then he turned to his daughter. “It’s time—your murder is avenged, and I must seek forgiveness for all my actions. It’s time.”
    Time? Time for what? Bartholomew wondered.
    He saw that the light streamed from a path.
    â€œWe must go,” Victor said.
    Victoria reached out for Bartholomew.
    Victor caught her hand. “No,” he said gently. “It’s not time for Bartholomew,” he said.
    Victoria frowned. “Father, Bartholomew must come. You know that he was guilty of no evil, that his heart was pure, his intentions good.”
    Victor shook his head sadly. “It is not for me to say.” He looked at Bartholomew. “You are charged to remain.”
    Victoria ran to him. He took her into his arms. But then she pulled away, troubled as she looked at him. “I must go. I feel the light, and I must go. I am avenged, and with those who love me, and I know that there is a greater love…forgive me.”
    She was to go, and he was to stay.
    But he saw the radiance in her face, and he knew, yes, she must go.
    For a moment, his arms tightened around her. He held her close, and he wondered if he would know only loss, and he wondered why the light was