Light as a Feather, Silent as the Grave

Alt. Epilogue - Part 3

If I'd known in the moment at the airport when I said goodbye to Henry that I was making a choice that would change the rest of my life, the path I'd chosen revealed itself to me pretty quickly.

During my first two nights back in Tampa at my father's house, the smoke detector in my bedroom kept blipping. Dad replaced the battery but the annoying noise continued, disrupting my sleep and making me strongly suspect if someone or something was trying to catch my attention by manipulating electricity. But that was illogical; we'd burned down the rose bush that had originated the evil of the curse (as well as practically half of the square footage of our town).

Similar in its strangeness, the tiny down feathers inside of my pillow kept pushing through the lining, jabbing me ever-so-slightly whenever I rested my head. The pillow was relatively new; Dad had bought it when I'd come to stay with him and Rhonda back in January. Feathers, I kept thinking to myself. Why in the world would I be tormented by feathers?

The answer revealed itself to me on Sunday morning, when I read the weekly edition of the Weeping Willow Gazette online. Firefighter Patrick J. Wennings had been one of two firemen killed on the job fighting the blaze at Tallmadge Woods. He was survived by his wife Becky and daughter Heather—who, the obituary writer mentioned, was affectionately called Feather by her father.

When I'd first met Laura in Chicago at the bookstore where she worked, she'd told me that eventually I would find a use for my ability to communicate with people who had died. The mere idea of developing my powers to receive messages had been pretty terrifying. In fact, at the time I'd been pretty focused on trying to get the unwelcomed messages from the other side to stop. But as I sat at Dad and Rhonda's kitchen table with my laptop reading about Patrick J. Wennings, I couldn't help but feel that I was obligated to pass along whatever message he had for his daughter. His death, after all, was kind of my fault.

And so in using the silver orchid pendulum from Henry to receive that first fateful message, I began a crash course in paranormal communication research. Without asking me any weird questions, Rhonda drove me to and from meetings of a paranormal investigation group in nearby Largo. Although most of the group's six dedicated members were total weirdos, I recognized almost immediately that the group's founder, a retired chiropractor named Walter, had the same keen sense of when a spirit was present that I did. Every weekend that spring, we wandered through abandoned homes snooping for disturbances and answered emails from locals claiming that their homes were haunted. We never found any real hauntings that we were able to confirm, but within a few years I'd find out exactly what it was like to step inside a space that was truly menaced by an evil entity.

In June when I returned back to Weeping Willow, Trey picked me up at the airport. He'd miraculously grown his hair out again and had put on some weight. Unexpectedly, he'd found an ally and mentor in good old Coach Stirling. Believing that he had a knack for fixing cars worthy of investment, she used the money that she received from her homeowner's insurance for damage incurred during the tornado to buy a commercial insurance policy required for opening an auto body shop. Fulfilling a lifelong dream, Coach Stirling rented a garage with her girlfriend not far from where Mischa's dad's old car dealership used to be, and she hired Trey as an apprentice mechanic. He spent the spring studying how to rebuild engines. Of course, this job (which was the closest thing to a dream job Trey would ever have) required him to face his fear of driving.

"Mercedes mechanic training?" I repeated dubiously as we drove from Green Bay back to town in the used Civic that Trey had bought for himself.

"Yeah," he said enthusiastically. "It's a two-year program if I take the accelerated courses. Once I get certified, I can probably get a job anywhere, you know. Anywhere in the world where people drive Mercedes."