Free The Awakening by Marley Gibson Page A

with me, if this truly is a celebration. Who says it's not just a lucky guess? Soldiers died of weird stuff all the time—dysentery, measles, diarrhea (
gross!
)—you name it! See, I listened in class when we studied the Civil War. Who knew I'd ever have to call upon that knowledge?
    Then it hits me. "Poor schmuck. He was only four years older than me."
    Here I am having a pity party for all the change in my life—which in the big picture isn't anything horrendous like marching off to war—when this guy died so young!
    A sigh escapes my lungs. The pain is gone. The confusion remains.
    I trek farther into the cemetery and see a babbling brook that cuts through the middle, dividing the land into two sections. There's a charming wooden footbridge that crosses over to the other side, where the landscape is lower, flatter, and the hill rolls downward, making it hard to see the additional grave markers. A marble bench is situated on the bank of the brook, next to the bridge, so I take a seat. Clear water trips and trickles over rocks and then disappears underneath the bridge. The air is silent, save for a few chirping birds and—
    Marching?
    I hear marching. Seriously. Like boots on pavement.
    I blink once. Then twice.
    Son of a biscuit eater—one of Grandma Ethel's sayings—there's a unit of what appears to be Union soldiers hiking up the hill, crossing the bridge. WTF? They're in full dress uniforms; some are tattered, torn, and stained with blood. Several of the men sport wounds or are wearing slings and bandages. For some reason, the blood makes me remember that icky image I had of Dad this morning. Maybe he's going to join a reenactment group?
    As the soldiers pass by me, I shout out, "Hey there." None of them even turns his head in my direction. "Hello!" Nothing. "I said, hell-lo!" Great; not only am I possibly imagining these soldiers, I'm imagining rude ones.
    I do a quick head count and get to fifty by the time they completely pass me. My mouth drops open as I watch them march together up the pebbled drive and out the front gate. Jumping to my feet, I scoot back up the path also to catch a glimpse of the unit soldiering down the road. Too bad I don't have my camera with me. It's not exactly every day you see something like that. They must be doing some sort of Civil War reenactment.
    At the gate, I glance to the left. Nothing. Then to the right. Nothing.
    My hair hits me in the face from the way I'm jerking my head back and forth. "What? Where did they go? They were just—"
    At that precise moment, my heart feels as if it's going to burst out of my chest. I'm scared shitless. The pressure in my lungs is different from the earlier pain and asthma sensation. This way-beyond-a-flutter freak-out is courtesy of my absolute, complete, and total terror. Because at this exact moment, I truly believe that I've seen with my own eyes not one ghost, but fifty.
    There's absolutely
no
sign of the soldiers anywhere.
    They're gone.

    "Thank you, ma'am." Celia hangs up the phone after speaking to the Radisson tourism office. "Nope. No Civil War reenactment groups in town."
    "Crap!" I feel like I'm still trying to catch my breath after running the remaining half mile from the cemetery to Celia's house. I stop rubbing the ears of Celia's old English bulldog, Seamus, who's sitting on the bed next to me, panting, drooling, and enjoying the attention I've been giving him. I'm a nervous wreck, and petting an animal calms me down. Or at least it should. "That was the only explanation I had." It beat the more likely alternative, which, if confirmed, would open up the notorious whole other can of worms.
    "Are you sure they were Union soldiers?" my friend pries.
    I flop on her bed and press a pillow over my face while Seamus licks me on the arm. I want to scream. Plain and simple. Sitting back up, I say, "They were dressed in blue uniforms and looked just like the pictures in all of the history books. Their coats were