The Everlasting Read Free

the front. “I suppose it’s followed us move for move,” he said.
    â€œWhat does it say?” For the first time Helen’s voice contained the sense of wonder that this strange delivery warranted.
    â€œI haven’t taken it out yet.”
    â€œWell, are you going to?”
    Scott stared at his wife. He shook his head. “Notjust now. I . . . I’d like to open it alone. It’s weird. You know what I thought of Papa.”
    â€œYou loved him a lot.”
    He nodded. And even though he was certain that the letter contained much more than grandfatherly chat, somehow he managed to hide that knowledge from her. He did not lie, as such . . . he simply omitted the truth. It felt bad. But he comforted himself by believing he did it for her.
    He often dreamed of Lewis, Papa’s dead friend, and how he had sought Scott out two weeks after his own murder. Right now that dream seemed so close that it could be walking up his garden path.
    â€œI’ll make some tea,” Helen said. “You go and read the letter. But if it’s a treasure map, you bloody well take me with you!” She smiled, kissed his cheek, and walked into the kitchen.
    Scott took the envelope into his study and placed it carefully, squarely on his desk. He sat and looked at it for some time. He knew that he was not mistaken; it really was from Papa. Somewhere inside he had always known that this letter would arrive, or something like it. He knew this not only because his grandfather had left things unfinished between them, but because of the visit he’d received from the mad ghost of Papa’s dead friend.
    Scott stood and pulled the window blinds aside, watching for shadows in the garden, shapes on the garage roof. And for a while, hating himself, hating whatever it was his grandfather had left unsaid, he listened for Helen’s cry of fear.
    He knew he should burn the letter. But he also knew that Papa had guided him better than that.
    By the time Helen came in fifteen minutes later with a mug of tea and a plate of toast, Scott had read the letter three times.
    â€œI think it’s a set of directions.”
    â€œDirections on a map, you mean?”
    â€œSort of. Instructions, but directions nonetheless. And there are some strange markings, some signs, shapes. I don’t know. Here, you read it.”
    â€œAre you sure?” Helen’s eyes were wide, her brows raised, and she could see what an honor Scott was affording her. This was a personal letter, and it had traveled through the years to reach him here, now, where he sat only three decades younger than his grandfather had been at the time of his death.
    Scott nodded. For a moment he considered the danger he might be placing Helen in from reading this, but only for an instant. Perhaps it was selfishness or fear, but he convinced himself it was love that made him wish her to be involved.
    She took the letter and read it through, standing very still.
    Scott stared from the window out into their garden. Was he out there now, that mad old thing? He had not seen him again since that first time just after the funeral, but there had often been a feeling that he was there, flitting across the background, still searching for whatever it was he claimed Scott’s grandfather had yet to reveal.
Where is the Chord of Souls?
he had asked.He had haunted Scott as surely as a ghost in any film he’d seen or book he’d read, stalking his mind if not actually appearing to him. He inhabited his nightmares. He had an influence over Scott’s whole life, and had probably changed it more than Scott dared admit.
    On the worst of nights, he knew that he was destined to see that ghost again.
    There was a slight breeze this morning, and the shrubs and trees at the foot of the garden swayed in a random dance, shuffling light and shadow to create a thousand visions in one. There could be anything out there. The human mind was a strange place, so full of