The Ghostly Past

Chapter 31

James's voice seemed to echo in her brain as Clara walked home. A student had cancelled their lesson that afternoon and so she'd finished early, leaving the building on foot, without calling for a ride home.

It was getting cold. The days were getting shorter, the dark nights rolling in earlier with each passing day. The bells in the town rang earlier too, the curfew extending. By December, the bell would be ringing just after the schools closed.

The wind lifted her dark hair, whipping it around her face, a couple of leaves crunching beneath her feet. Her leather jacket was zipped to her chin, big puffy gloves on her hands. The lane was a riot of colour, reds and oranges and browns amid the green, leaves drifting from the trees, piling by the side of the road.

Her feet stopped, standing stock still on the lonely road. This was where it had happened.

For a moment, she wasn't standing there in the early autumn, she was standing there in the dark, in the icy cold. Her shoe had come off, and she was shuddering in Oliver's jacket.

She watched Oliver run towards the trees, felt his hand in hers, tugging, the warmth of his flesh against hers, his feverish pulse so real, terror in her veins, coursing through her like a poison.

No! She cried out, pulling away, pulling back and as their hands broke contact, she toppled backwards into the leaves, darkness melting into day. She was cold, around her, on the ground were tiny crusts of ice.

A vision of her own past. She'd thought she was done with it, with all of it.

What would she see, if she walked into the forest? Walked back to where it happened? Would she see Oliver there if she waited until after dark? Would he have joined the cursed spirits, drifting for eternity, waiting for something, anything to help them?

She stayed where she had fallen, by the side of the road and cried, cried like she hadn't since it had happened. Her head was in her hands, her body wracked with sobs.

In the distance, she heard a car coming down the road, braking to a halt just past her. A car door slammed. Footsteps crunched leaves. Clothes rustled as someone knelt beside her.

"It's okay." Max said. "It's okay. Just let it out." She felt his arms wrap around her, pulling her tight against him. She let him, crying against his chest.

"I'm sorry." She said after a minute, pulling away. He looked as tidy as ever, in a polo shirt and jeans under his usual grey coat, dark hair combed, bright green eyes watching her. She rubbed her eyes, sure she must look a mess. Her bruises were fading but still visible on her face. She felt his eyes on them.

"Nothing to be sorry about." He replied, his voice a little gruff.

She extricated himself from his arms, standing. Her leg hurt from where she'd fallen. Max put out a hand to steady her. "God, I'm a mess." She shuddered. "I'm fine. I'd...I'd better go."

"I can give you a ride...if you want?" Max hesitated. He was looking at her strangely.

"I..." She looked over her shoulder at his car, "Yes please, if you don't mind."

"I'm just on my way home." He said as he opened the passenger door for her. They drove in silence. She didn't feel angry with him now, not the way she had done before. She just felt sad. "Do you...do you want to come for dinner?" He said suddenly.

Clara stared at him in surprise. "Is that a good idea?"

"I think we should talk." Max said with clear sincerity. "I've wanted to call you since that night, but Margaret didn't think it would be a good idea."