Where the Summer Ends - By Karl Edward Wagner Page 0,15
This goes back to something Bok once talked about. Spirits inhabit a plane other than our own—another dimension, say. Most spirits and most mortals are firmly anchored to their separate worlds. Exceptions exist. Certain spirits retain some ties with this world. Renee presumably because of her violent death, secret grave—who knows? The artist also is less firmly linked to this humdrum mortal plane—his creativity, his imagination transcends the normal world. Then I am more sensitive to manifestations of another plane than others; Renee is more readily perceived than other spirits. Result: Our favorite insane artist sees ghosts where countless dullards slept soundly. By this line of reasoning anyone can become a bona fide jr. ghostwatcher, if something occurs to make him more susceptible to their manifestations. Madmen, psychic adepts, the dying, those close to the deceased, those who have been torn loose from their normal life pattern...
... for maybe half the night. I think I’m falling in love with her. Talk about the ultimate in necrophilia!
July 26. The painting is almost complete. Last night she stayed with me almost until dawn. She seems far more substantial now—too substantial for a ghost. Wonder if I’m just getting more adept at perceiving her, or whether Renee is growing more substantial with my belief in her...
July 27. She wanted me to follow her last night. I walked maybe a mile through the dark pines before my nerve failed. Maybe she was taking me to her grave. It’s auditory now: Last night I heard her footsteps. I’ll swear she leaves tracks in the dust, leaves an impression on the cushions when she sits. She watches me, listens—only no words yet. Maybe tonight she’ll speak. She smiles when I tell her I love her.
July 28. I swear I heard her speak! Renee said she loved me! She wants me to return her love! Only a few words—just before she disappeared into the pines. And she seemed as substantial as any living girl! Either I’m hopelessly insane, or I’m on the verge of an unthinkable psychic discovery! Tonight I’m going to know for certain. Tonight I’m going to touch Renee. I’m going to hold her in my arms and not let her go until I know whether I’m mad, the victim of an incredible hoax, or a man in love with a ghost!
It was the last entry.
•VI•
Lonzo Pennybacker gave directions to the house of the elderly Baptist preacher. Eventually Gerry found the right dirt road and drove up to a well-kept house at the head of a mountain cove. Flowers bloomed in the yard, and dogs were having a melee with a pack of noisy children. The house presented a clean, honest front—a far cry from the squalor Gerry had expected in a mountain home.
Rev. Billy Banner sat in a porch rocker and rose to meet Gerry.
He was an alert man in his seventies or better, lean and strong without a trace of weakness or senility. His eyes were clear, and his voice still carried the deep intonations that had rained hellfire and damnation on his congregation for decades.
After shaking hands, Banner motioned him to a chair, politely waited for his guest to come to business. This was difficult. Gerry was uncertain what questions to ask, what explanations to offer—or what he really wanted to find out. But Banner sensed his uneasiness and expertly drew from him the reason for his visit. Gerry explained he was staying at the old Reagan cabin, that he was interested in the artist Enser Pittman who had killed himself there.
“Enser Pittman?” The old man nodded. “Yes, I remember him well enough. He paid me a visit once, just like you today. Maybe for the same reason.”
Plunging on, Gerry asked about the history of the cabin and was told little he had not already learned. Rev. Banner spoke with reluctance of the old tragedy, seemed to suspect more than he was willing to put into words.
“Do you have any idea what might have driven Pittman to suicide?” Gerry asked finally.
The preacher kept silent until Gerry wondered if he would ignore the question. “Suicide? That was the verdict, sure enough. They found him mother-naked in bed, his throat tore open and a razor beside him. Been dead a few days—likely it had been done the last of July. No sign of struggle, nothing gone, no enemies. Artists are kind of funny anyway. And some claimed he had cancer. So maybe it was suicide like the coroner said. Maybe not. Wasn’t much blood