"She had never dreamed there could be so much pain in a life when there was nothing physically wrong. She hurt all the time." - Stephen King, The Shining
"This is them. Gary and Susie Nelson," Brandon said.
I stared at the names engraved on the stones in front of me, then bent down to run my hand across the letters. As I stood in front of their graves in the pouring rain with Brandon, I was reminded briefly of a similar day in which Brandon and I had stood over their dead bodies.
It was only five years prior to that moment in the graveyard that Brandon and I stood over the closed caskets at their visitation, staring at them as people walked around us as if extras in a movie. I remembered thinking how weird the tradition is for people to bury the bodies of their dead loved ones. We put them in wooden boxes; the nicest we can afford, which happened to be paid for by Brandon's mom and dad. My parents' special boxes were a deep, rich cherry wood. Who really gave a damn about the wood they were buried in?
The smell of flowers was so overwhelming it made me feel sick. Lilies. There were lilies everywhere. Why is that the flower of the dead? Why were flowers so important in such an event of burying bodies? And why do we wear black? I guess it is a somber color, but how will that help the dead or their abandoned loved ones?
I pushed back the sleeves my black long sleeve dress and scratched my legs that were itchy from the stupid black tights. My feet ached in the high heels that I never wore, and I pulled my red hair off my wet, sweaty neck. It was June, so it was hotter than three hells in that funeral home.
People kept passing by me as I stared at the closed caskets and randomly patting my shoulder, or pulling me into an awkward hug. A few people who worked with my parents would stop to tell me a story about how great they were. Brandon stood loyally by me the entire time. His parents were a few feet away, chatting with a group of people who all looked teary-eyed.
There was a moment when everyone seemed to be distracted by the food someone brought in, and Brandon laid a hand on my shoulder. "I know I've already said it before, but I am so sorry, Shawn."
"I'm not." I said the words before I could stop them from leaving my mouth.
He removed his hand, looking shocked. "What? What do you mean?"
I stared at him, contemplating my next words. How would Brandon feel about me after I admitted what I had been feeling for years?
Another one of my parents' co-workers walked up; a very thin, older lady with gray hair. She pulled me into a tearful hug as I patted her awkwardly on the back. After the lady retreated, I turned back to Brandon to continue our conversation.
"I'm glad they're dead," I whispered to him so the people milling around us couldn't hear.
"You don't mean that. You're just upset. . ." he said, a look of worry on his face.
"I'm not upset," I said, firmly. "I should be dancing on their fucking graves right now."
"Shawn!" he said, looking around to make sure no one else heard me. "Since when do you curse?"
"Since right fucking now," I hissed.
I couldn't bare to see him continue to look at me the way he was. I couldn't tell, but I thought I almost saw a hint of disgust on his face.
I turned and started to walk away, but he grabbed my arm and pulled me back. "You can't just say something like that and walk away. What's going on, Shawn? Am I missing something here?" he whispered to me.
I shook his hand off me as I watched an older, clean cut looking man approach the caskets. He was probably another lawyer I'd never met. He placed his hand upon my dad's casket, then give a great sob. I sighed, feeling completely cruel to feel so annoyed at the man.
"You missed everything," I said. "You missed everything that went on behind closed doors. I know you won't believe me, and I know no one else will either, but that's the truth."
"I believe you," he said.
He looked like he meant it. I threw my arms around my cousin and hugged him tightly. His faith and trust in me with very little information was overwhelming and shocking. That's what best friends are for. They trust your word, even if there is little to go on.
"Shawn."
Brandon and I released each other from our hug, and turned to see my boyfriend at the time, Matt, standing there looking irritated. Matt had similar looks to Jake, Ruby's creepy fiance'. He had the normal young, good looks of a wealthy frat boy, and the sexist, smug attitude to go with it.
"What?" I said, distractedly, barely looking at him. I was still focused on Brandon's reaction to my outburst, and the sobbing man two feet away.
"You're supposed to be going around and talking to everyone. They are YOUR parents. Also, don't you think you should smile a little, or at least not look so depressing? Can you do that for your guests?" His tone was so fucking condescending. I felt my eyes widen in shock. Did he really just tell me to smile at my parents' funeral? I guess that's just what women are supposed to do; smile no matter what the occasion is.
The rage was building up inside me as I took a step closer to him. He must have been a bit scared because he took a step back from me, his eyebrows raised in confusion. I'm sure he had never seen that look on my face before. Even I could feel the coldness in my own eyes.
"Go fuck yourself," I said in a quiet, deadly tone.
A younger blonde woman who I recognized as another one of my parents' co-workers just happened to be walking by, gave me a double-take and muttered, "How disrespectful!" and scurried off when I fixed her with the same death glare I was giving Matt.
Matt, on the other hand, was unable to come up with words to say. His mouth fell open, but no sound came out. Like Brandon, he had never heard me curse, and he'd definitely never heard me talk to him, or anyone else that way. With a feeling of elation, I shoved past him, gave one last look at Brandon's worried face, and bolted to the funeral home exit.
I shook my head to bring myself back from the past. As I continued to gaze down at the tombstones, it was hard to determine what I was feeling in that moment. While my relationship with my parents had not been a great one, there was still something inside me that wanted to see them. I wanted to feel comforted by them, but I knew deep down that wasn't going to happen. It was something I constantly dealt with as a child; something bad would happen to me, I would seek comfort from them, and I was only left feeling cold and neglected. My feelings were made to feel like a burden and something I should not be expressing. After a certain point, I learned to hide how I felt. I never went to my parents with my problems, because I never got the help that I needed. I learned to never ask for help from anyone. I learned how to deal with everything on my own. Any feelings of sadness, anger, or fear were hidden desperately away until I could be alone at night with a journal, silently crying onto the pages, as I poured my heart out the only way I knew how. While I knew I might not find comfort from them that night, there was still a small part of me that hoped that death had changed them.
"So, what do we do now?" I asked, turning to face Brandon, my back to the graves. "We don't have candles."
"I don't think we'll need them," he said.
"Why not?"
Brandon's gaze fixed on something over my shoulder, and he pointed behind me. "Turn around."
I didn't have to turn around to know what was happening. A hard, cold gust of wind hit my face, and I could see the ground around us light up a bright shade of white. I took a deep breath before turning my head.
"Holy shit," I gasped.
My hand flew to my mouth as I stumbled back in surprise. Brandon put his arm around me to steady me. Even though I had already seen a few spirits, I couldn't believe my dead parents were standing right in front of me. They had the same glowing, semi-transparent look that all the other spirits had, and, for the most part, they were exactly as I remembered.
My mother stood only a couple inches taller than myself. Her hair was the same deep, intense, dark red that mine was, and her eyes were bright blue. She was so beautiful. People always reminded me of this anytime we were together. "Your mother is so beautiful, maybe you'll grow up to look like her." I wasn't always the most attractive kid. People loved reminding me of that. I certainly had my awkward middle school years.
My father stood over a foot taller than the rest of us. He had light brown hair, and the same bright blue eyes that myself, mom, and Brandon had. He also had a beard that had gone mostly gray.
They were both wearing the same clothes they had been wearing the day they died; the same clothes I had seen them in when I had to identify the bodies. Dad was in his normal dirty jeans and grey t-shirt. I don't know how many of those shirts he owned, but it had been way too many. Mom was in her stretch pants and light blue blouse. That color would always bring out the color in her eyes, however that is not what stood out the most to me at the moment.
Their normal appearance was not what disturbed me; it was the new additions to their looks. While Dean Vanmeter had the appearance of a charred turkey, my parents had the wounds of fatal car crash victims. When the crash happened, it had been pouring rain outside, just like it was doing at that very moment. Dad had been driving and lost control of the car, and ran it through a fence and a very large tree. This is all what the police told me, and the destruction of the car and my parents was evidence they were right.
Blood. Blood everywhere. All over their clothes, their skin, in their hair. Glass everywhere. Shards from the windshield and windows were sticking out of their faces, arms, and legs. My mother's left leg was bent at an odd angle, facing backwards where the bone broke. She had a gaping hole exactly where her heart was where a fence post had pierced through that night.
My dad's body wasn't nearly as bad; it was his head that was the most jarring. Half his head had been smashed in from the impact, and I could see brain matter exposed. Gray brain matter. Something like that was already hard to see, but seeing it on your parents was traumatizing.
I suddenly felt a bit woozy and I clung to Brandon, my fingers clutching tightly to his jacket. I turned my head away from them into his shoulder to try to steady not only my body, but my mind.
"It's okay," he said, gently.
I felt him grip my shoulders. I think he was more concerned that instead of passing out, I would be more likely to take off running and never come back. It was a thought that I seriously considered for a moment, but running from my problems had become a terrible habit for me. It was why I had ended up where I was in life. So, with every ounce of will I had, I took a deep breath, lifted my head from Brandon's shoulder, and made myself turn back to face my dead parents.
Before I could say a word, though, stabbing pain struck me all over my body. A sharp pain shot through my left leg, and I cried out and fell to the ground. It felt like someone was stabbing me right in the chest where my heart was. The pain in the right side of my head was explosive; as if someone had hit me with a brick.
"Shawn!" Brandon said, kneeling down next to me.
"I think I'm going to be sick," I managed to choke out.
A combination of the pain and seeing my parents like that made me physically ill. I clutched the ground dry-heaving, just as I had with the wolf-man. The physical and emotional pain was just too great for my body to handle, and I finally lost my dinner right there in the mud and grass.
"Shawn! Shawn!" I heard Brandon calling from what sounded like a distance. The pain finally dissipated and relief washed over me.
"What's going on? Why does this keep happening?" Brandon asked, kneeling over me.
I shook my head, and wiped my mouth uselessly with my wet coat sleeve. "I don't know. Just help me up."
He took my hands and pulled me up to my feet again, my body trembling as I turned back to face the spirits of my dead parents.
It was my mother who spoke first, "Shawn."
I could see the teeth she had lost in the wreck. I thought back to every movie I had ever seen in which the main character spoke to a dead loved one. In most of those cases, the spirit seemed to look and behave like an angel; calm, peaceful, and happy. That's not what I saw at all. Aside from the blood and gore, all I saw were my parents' normal sullen looks, and I knew in that moment that I wasn't going to get the comfort I hoped for that night.
"Mom? Dad?" They were the only words I could force out of my mouth, which had suddenly gone dry.
"We weren't sure you'd come," Dad said.
When he spoke, there was the familiar smell of cigarettes and freshly mowed grass; the two smells I had always associated with my father. It reminded me of the summers of my childhood. I thought back to him entering the house after having mowed the lawn, the sweat running down his face as he wiped it with an old blue bandanna. I also had a flashback of all the times he would smoke a cigarette in the car on a particularly hot day. The smell would make me feel nauseated, and as I coughed desperately for air, he would get angry and tell me to stop being dramatic.
"I wonder why you thought I would be hesitant to come." Once I was finally able to speak, I felt braver than I ever had talking to my parents.
"Shawn, we know things weren't always ideal. . . ." Mom started to say.
"Ideal?! Yeah, I guess you're right. A child having to walk on eggshells with chronic anxiety and depression isn't normally ideal."
"That's a bit of an exaggeration," Dad said.
"No, it's fucking not!" They both looked at me in surprise. I had never cursed in front of my parents. They had been extremely strict and told me I couldn't say things like that, while hypocritically saying the words themselves. Perhaps that's why I developed such a colorful, yet creative vocabulary through the years.
"Tell me, did you go to hell for saying fuck? Or is that just some shit you made up to control me even more?" I went on.
"How dare you. . . " Mom started to say.
I cut her off, "I realize that you are both blinded by your extreme narcissism and think that nothing could ever be your fault," I said. I saw the rage on their faces building the more I spoke. I tried to ignore this, and took a deep breath to continue. "By telling me I'm being too sensitive, it means you can't take responsibility for making me feel like shit. It's easier to tell someone their feelings don't matter so you don't have to feel guilty for your actions."
I seemed to have gotten over the whole scared and revolted thing. My body felt like it was made of pure fucking fire at the amount of fury I had inside. All the years of anger and resentment were spilling out in that graveyard that night like word vomit. . . and some actual vomit.
"Don't you dare talk to us like that!" Dad shouted.
"What are you going to do? Lock me in the basement again?"
I suddenly felt a rush of cold wind and the next thing I knew, I was being thrown into the air. It was as if someone had decided to pick me up and chuck me a few feet. I then dropped to the ground and slammed into the nearest gravestone. Once again, I found myself face down in the mud. The mud and I were starting to become really familiar with each other. I was not entirely sure what had happened at first, but I had a flashback of being thrown into the closet on the night of my first investigation at the Martin house.
"Shawn!" I heard Brandon cry out. I heard his footsteps pounding and sliding in the mud, then felt him kneel down beside me. I pushed myself up to my knees. "Are you okay?" he asked, placing his hand lightly on my shoulder.
"I think so," I mumbled, pushing my wet, muddy hair out of my face.
Brandon stood up, looking furious. He made his way back to my parents' graves, as they stood there still looking just as livid. "Is this what you wanted her to fucking come here for?" Brandon shouted.
I felt my eyes grow wide in shock. I had very rarely heard Brandon curse. It wasn't that he was morally against it, he just seemed to think the words held more impact when you saved them for special occasions. Apparently yelling at the ghosts of your dead aunt and uncle is considered a special occasion.
"Brandon!" I called after him.
"We didn't realize she would be so disrespectful," Mom said to Brandon.
"Can you blame her?"
"Brandon, it's okay," I said, grabbing onto an angel-shaped tombstone with the name "Berta" on it, and pulling myself up to my feet. I hoped Berta didn't mind me using her stone for support.
"No, it's not!" I couldn't remember ever seeing Brandon so angry in my entire life. He was normally very mild mannered and hard to anger. You could certainly irritate him if you set a drink on the table without a coaster, or threw your dirty clothes in the living room floor, but those things only made him a bit annoyed. This was completely different.
I took a step in the direction of Brandon and my parents, but stopped and gasped when I felt a pain shoot through my hip. I knew I had most likely slammed it into the tombstone I hit. I was getting sick of feeling so much pain that night. I continued to limp my way over to them, and came to stand next to Brandon.
"Is there something else you want to say?" Dad asked. It sounded like a dare, and I was certainly going to take it.
"Yeah, there is." I saw Dad's eyebrows go up. "How could you not realize the way you treated me as a kid would ultimately shape who I would become as an adult? It turned me into a loser with low self-esteem who latched onto whatever came along. I ended up with people who treated me just like you did. . . .like garbage, and like my feelings didn't matter."
I paused a moment as a clap of thunder made Brandon and myself jump. My parents remained unfazed. I wondered if all ghosts were unconcerned with loud noises or disastrous weather.
"Although, we can't forget to talk about the one thing you were good at," I went on. "You were great at teaching me to hate myself."
"All right, that's enough!" Dad shouted.
"You deserve to hear this," Brandon spoke up. "You said you wanted to apologize. The least you can do is listen to her. You owe her that. I wish I had known years ago what was going on. It all makes sense now how timid and scared Shawn always was," Brandon spoke up.
"Well, we are so sorry we ruined your life, Shawn," Dad said. He didn't sound sorry at all. "But there is an expiration date on blaming your parents for your problems. You've made your choices."
"That's true, but the thing is, when I make mistakes, I own up to them. You all never did," I said.
They didn't seem to have much to say to that. Brandon and I stared at my parents for a few moments, glaring at them through the continued torrential downpour that was falling down all around us. They returned the murderous look between us.
"So is this your apology?" I finally spoke up, breathing hard. "Is this what you came to tell me? That you're sorry, but not really?"
"We didn't think there was anything to be sorry about. Brandon is the one who told us to apologize," Mom said.
"We did what we could with you. You were just an impossibly emotional child that was too hard to handle."
"That's great. Thanks. Thank you so much. I feel a thousand times better after talking to you guys," I said, sarcastically.
"Did you expect comfort? Maybe we are the ones that deserve an apology," Dad said.
I shook my head, feeling extreme disappointment. "I should have known better. I knew I shouldn't have come here. I knew I shouldn't expect any different from you. What the fuck was the purpose of contacting Brandon for so many years, then?" I said, hearing the exhaustion and sadness in my voice.
"We're supposed to give you a message. It's from the other side," Mom said.
"A message? From who?"
"The angels. We made a deal with them," Dad said.
"Wait, what? Angels are trying to give me a message? Why?" I said, wondering how I could possibly be special enough to receive a message from angels.
"There's something coming. It's been building for years. We can see it on this side. We have been told you are the one who is supposed to stop it," Mom told me.
"Stop what?"
"Stop who, actually," Dad said.
"I don't understand," I said, feeling frustrated by where the conversation was going.
"Someone has been stealing spirit powers," Mom said, as another flash of lightning shot through the sky.
"Spirit powers?" I said. Was I in some weird comic book?
"Someone is killing people. They are killing people they know would have unfinished business so that they become ghosts," Dad explained.
"Why would someone do that?" Brandon asked.
"Ghosts are powerful, especially when they're mad," Dad said.
"Yeah. You've proved that tonight," I said, rubbing my sore hip.
"Someone is seeking that power, and they are killing people to get it. You are the one that has to stop them." Mom explained.
"But how would I stop them? And why me?"
They looked at each other. "We don't know any of that," Mom said. "We were just told to tell you."
"How is this person even able to do it? How can they steal a spirit's powers?"
"It's not usually something that can happen. Our theory is that some spirit gave him power and this person loved it so much, they wanted more. Since they had the powers of a spirit, they could steal them from others as well. This person has been gaining power slowly through the years.
"Do you know who it is?" They both exchanged another significant look between them.
"No," Dad said, quickly.
"Okay, see. . . why don't I believe you?" I said, looking between them both suspiciously.
"We don't know who it is, just that it's happening. That's all we can tell you," Mom said.
"Wait, why are you telling me all this? Why do you care? You're dead."
"We didn't go to Hell, but we've been stuck in limbo. The angels offered us a place in Heaven if we did as they asked," my dad admitted.
"What? That's all this was? You were shitty people, and you don't want to go to hell or limbo, so you made a deal with some angels? You really don't care about any of this, do you? Why did they pick you of all people?" I said, trying my hardest not to start screaming at them.
"That's enough. We've heard enough from you," Dad said. "We've done what we came here to do. Our deal is done, and so is this conversation."
"Wait, what? Are you serious?" I noticed the bright white glow that was coming from them was starting to fade slightly. "Wait, don't. . . " I said. They started to fade even more, and all I could do was stare at their angry faces. "Stop! Please, just. . . please tell me something good! Anything good . . . " I pleaded.
There was no response. The glow faded to black, and they were gone. The graveyard was now completely pitch black after the glow of my parents disappeared. I stood there staring at their graves, not sure what to do.
"Shawn?" said Brandon.
I couldn't answer him. Tears welled up in my eyes. They couldn't say anything good to me. They couldn't tell me they were sorry, or that they were proud of me. Nothing. I felt dead inside. I felt like I couldn't hold myself up anymore, and I dropped to my knees in front of their graves.
"Shawn. . . " Brandon said again.
I threw my hand to my mouth to hold back a sob, but it didn't help. I sat on the cold, wet ground in front of my parents' tombstones, sobbing like a 3 year old, wishing that my mom and dad could love me.