Spirit of Gettysburg: Soulmates Across Time

Chapter 19

She trudged home, the icy wind stinging her face. Her admiration for her spirit disappeared and her face heated up like a stove turned on high. She loathed being singled out for attention and gossip.

And those ghost recordings? Completely nuts, yet, she frowned, they rang true. He was her husband and he needed her to time travel back to the American Civil War. She broke into a scorching cold sweat. Was the murder thing for real? How did this become so complicated? Had she fallen down the rabbit hole? This was morphing into an out-of-this-world misadventure.

Her heart pounded whether from fear, excitement or physical exertion, she was unsure. She stopped to rest. She was outwardly still but inwardly her emotions were swamp gas. Her ghost husband beguiled and disconcerted her. He played by his own rules, not by the normal ghost rulebook. Her rules that is, where she interacts one-on-one with him on a level playing field. He sees her, she sees him and she helps him in a normal, sane way. She releases him to God's light. He returns to his spiritual home until he reincarnates again. They reunite in other lifetimes and make their soul progression together. It was oh so civil. She rides in on her white horse and saves the day, a combination of Clara Barton and Joan of Arc. There was none of this whacky time travel stuff.

She caught her second wind and scurried home. Minutes later she scampered into the parlor and dropped her canvass bag onto the couch. Her breath and heartbeat were wild things. Panting, she stood tingling with anticipation with her hands clenched by her side, eagerness for him strangling her common sense. Was he okay? She wanted him now.

"Appear will you! I have oodles of questions." She shouted into the silent room. She tapped her chin with her balled fist and paced the parlor floor.

"Feeling better?" She stopped and tuned into his energy. He was fine. She would see him tonight in his bedroom. She breathed a sigh of relief. Her psychic ability was improving. She increased her pacing. Her click clacking boots on the floor reassured her that she was on planet earth.

"We'll meet at seven sharp and I'll wear my prettiest dress for you." Her mouth shifted into a paper thin smile. She would look beautifully feminine for him. That was a sacrifice on her part because she much preferred old blue jeans, baggy sweaters and ancient sneakers to fancy dresses and high heels.

She left the room and prepared for her date. Two hours later dressed in a purple, velvet, A-line style, ankle-length dress and dark pumps, her hair in her ubiquitous French braid and her makeup perfect, she stood before his open bedroom door.

Maureen shifted from foot-to-foot, her mind purposely blank. She flipped her French braid over her shoulder and thrust herself inside the bedroom murmuring Psalm twenty-three. "The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want." She rushed through the prayer to the final verses. "Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I shall fear no evil for thou art with me, thou rod and shaft comfort me. Thou prepares a table before me in the presence of mine enemies, thou annointest my head with oil, my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever, amen."

Her eyes adjusted to the bedroom's strange mixture of mist, lamp glow and burning logs.

There! He stood by the fireplace mantel and appeared solid. The light illuminated him and the dog curled by his feet. His eyes were on her like a homing pigeon. A lopsided grin tugged the corners of his wide, generous mouth up.

Gorgeous! Not an effeminate muscle or bone in his taut body. Body! She smothered a gasp with her hand. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. This wasn't a dream or a clairvoyant vision. He was real.

Author's Note: Next Update Friday!