Sanctuary

Chapter Nine: The Hanging Tree

"Look, seer. You must understand." Frank's voice was far away, words spoken through a tin can tied to a string.

"Where am I?" Jeremy asked, squinting against the bright sunshine. There was no sign of his father or his old bedroom and the fury inside him had melted away. He had not had the nightmare in months, but something had brought it back, except he was awake this time. At least, he thought he was. When he first left home, he woke almost every night, gasping for breath, convinced he was still lying in his bed, before recognizing it for a dream. He really had escaped his father's wrath and mother's guilt, and the cult of belief that pushed them farther from reality each day. He walked away. But his sister, she was still there, and even though she was indoctrinated with their faith and all the hate that came with it, could he have done something to help her see past it? Should he have stayed?

"It was Abe's bite," Frank said, standing next to him now. "It brought your fear to the front, made it ten times worse. But you're safe here, not back with them."

He looked down and the makeshift bandage and his throbbing wound were gone, nothing but smooth skin. "Is this a dream?"

"We see ourselves as we need to in this place," Frank said. Jeremy looked at him, standing just a few feet away.

"What did you do to me?"

Frank nodded to the field stretching out in front of them. A massive, ancient tree with gnarled branches that swept out in every direction, cast jagged shadows over the grass. He smelled hay and livestock from somewhere close. A few horses stood beside the tree, next to a group of men. It was warm and the prairie grass swayed in a summer breeze. Looking back to Frank, he saw that the hole in his stomach had vanished, just like his own wound.

"Where are we?"

"We're still in Ardmore. When is a better question, white man."

"Are we really here?" Jeremy ran his fingertips over the skin where his wound used to be.

"When I close my eyes, this is where I go."

"We're dreaming," Jeremy said, looking up to the scene in front of him.

"Awake or sleeping, the places we visit are all here," Frank said, pointing to his ruined skull. In the field, the group of men stepped apart, and Jeremy saw another Frank. But this Frank was a mutilated form lying on the ground, a long rope wound around his neck.

"That's a hanging tree," Jeremy whispered. He didn't know where the words came from, but he knew it was true.

"You see," Frank said beside him. "Most people don't."

"You relive this every time you close your eyes?"

"The illusion of time doesn't matter to a spirit and it's our nature to visit the events that keep us here."

Jeremy watched as a man grabbed the other Frank's collar, hauling him to his feet. He was only semi-conscious. Jeremy was sure he was already dying. His skull was shattered, his scalp peeled back. Dark purple and black bruises covered his face, and one eye was swollen nearly completely shut. The men laughed and cursed and joked. Hanging him was just for sport at this point.

"Do all ghosts move through time?" Jeremy asked, wishing he could look away from the scene, but he was transfixed, fascinated. And it wasn't just the horror of it all, it was their antique clothes, the horses, the smell of fresh air, and the thought of standing in the great plains more than one hundred years ago.

"Your mind creates time," Frank said. "When you lose your body, there's nothing holding you in one place and it will do what it will." The men hauled the other Frank up to the tree and threw the rope over a limb.