Free Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story by Sarah M. Glover Page B

there, under the fog and a fizzling street lamp, clutching her coat about her shoulders, she realized: she had lost one shoe. She slumped down the wall and stared up into the night sky, feeling the trail of a hot tear down her cheek. To hell with those stupid fairy tales.

5
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    B LOOD P OUNDED I N H IS E ARS as the world spiraled down into a pinprick of soundlessness. She was here. I am here. She was here. I am here. Here . Andrew could feel the words echo in the reverb of his guitar and pulsate under his fingertips. He was either hallucinating or truly going mad this time; both were valid options. But he knew, without any doubt, that she—his muse—had stood before him, close enough to touch, and that was the only reality that mattered anymore.
    Then she had vanished and left him speechless, holding his guitar and what little remained of his sanity. The empty place that she had filled narrowed to a kaleidoscopic lens with each frame holding her image, the backdrop ever changing, her clothes different in each view, but always with the same expression on her face—as if she were staring at an old photograph, the kind you would hold to your heart long after you had finished gazing at it.
    Without thinking, Andrew threw his guitar to the ground and leaped off the stage. The shocked audience stumbled apart to make way for him, then surged back in a wave, not wanting to miss any part of the excitement. Shoulders smashed into his and long nails tore at his hair as he struggled to pass. The last thing Andrew heard as he made it to the exit was Christian’s voice announcing, “Going to take a break, folks!”
    At the door, the bouncer gaped in confusion at the sight of the wild guitarist, but Andrew ignored him and pushed past the velvet ropes and out into the night. Immediately, the chill and fog hit him square in the face, and his eyes teared and fought to adjust to the darkness. All he could see before him was a street littered with the dregs of people out on a Saturday night, almost translucent under the streetlamps.
    Scrambling for what to do next, he felt his legs begin to pump. He ran. Harder and harder. But to where? Up two blocks, back down three. Where are you? Where are you? Was he shouting the words, or was he thinking them? He couldn’t tell.
    Like a madman he scoured the streets for her, for that black coat, that delicate face. She couldn’t have gotten very far; she had to be near some storefront or trying to flag down a taxi, something. But all he could see were the ghosts of Haight Street, hands shoved in their pockets, as though each was wanting to be somewhere else.
    After several more futile minutes spent searching for her, he slammed his foot against a nearby newspaper stand, then cursed and collapsed down on the curb, listening to his heart pound out in three quarter time: she—was—here, she—was—here, she—was—here . A lifetime of searching and he had finally seen her. The realization should have instilled in him some sense of vindication, should have made him want to climb up to some rooftop and proclaim it to the world. See, I’m not mad. I’ve been right all along. Screw you all! But having the contents of his mind made manifest before his very eyes only kept him cemented to the curb. It was one thing to deal with the desires of one’s subconscious, but quite another to have to handle a living, breathing girl. How was he going to approach her? How was he even to say hello? What happened if she wanted nothing to do with him and kicked him to the curb where he sat huddled now? Hell, how was he even going to find her?
    The fog clamped down around him, and he felt colder now than he ever had in this beastly town. It had never occurred to him that she would run from him, or worse yet, refuse him. In all his plans, he always believed that once he had found her, everything was going to be brilliant.
    “Where is she? How am I going to find her?” he muttered to himself. “How?”
    Suddenly he