Breaching the gap in the fence, Kyle stood, brushing  himself off. As he did, he noticed Anita hefting up a large black  physician's bag. It bore an old, split handle design, and she sealed it  up at the center as she lifted it. For a moment he caught a glimpse of  the contents: vials, candles, and a hint of decay wafting up from the  interior. And movement? The bag seemed to writhe as if alive.

          "Didn't your momma ever teach you not to stare?"

          "Yes, Ma'am." Kyle glanced away scanning over the grounds  of the cemetery. Row after row of tombstones spread out before him. Here  in the northern corner they were older, smoothed and worn by age, if  not broken and savaged by teenage stupidity. His daughter's grave  wouldn't be far. His family had a plot set aside nearby. Generations of  Inghams had rotted in this soil. It was family tradition, after all.

          And now his daughter had been confined under that soil as  well. The thought sickened him, and that, mixed with the lingering image  of the leather thrashing of its own accord, and he decided that he  needed that third cigarette after all. Kyle flipped open the pack. The  cigarettes had shifted, slanting to fill the void. He carefully  straightened them, as if rearranging crayons in a Crayola box, then,  satisfied, slipped out the third from the left on the top.

          "Not feeling squeamish, are you?"

          "Neither of us is backing out, now," he said, lighting the cigarette and taking a good puff.

          "Fine." Anita hoisted herself straight as she could and shuffled forward. "Let's get a move on, then."

          He exhaled a long stream of smoke, watching after Anita as  she hobbled off among the graves. One more puff, one more brief moment  of calm, and then he followed after her. 

***

          After that night outside the fraudulent cesspool with the  neon Psychic sign, after Anita Shaw had held Kyle and calmed him  soothing him ever so slightly for perhaps the first time since Charlotte  had died, after that meeting Kyle had asked around about Anita. He'd  returned to previous haunts, though few with whom she had spoken  remained. Those that knew of her simply described her as a bitter  skeptic, telling Kyle that she sought to turn people away from the  occult, urging them to grieve and move on with their lives. What right  did she have to tell them how to grieve? Why grieve at all if you could  reach out beyond the curtain of death and still commune with those you  loved? What if there was still hope? These individuals cursed Anita,  though most did not know her name.

          At first, Kyle found himself agreeing with this lot. He  felt ashamed that he had allowed Anita to soothe his pain, even if only  for a moment. His daughter was still dead and he was still to blame. He  had looked away, he had lost sight of her, and in that moment he had  also lost her forever. He'd been driven mad by the indecency of it, not  just by the atrocity of her death, but also by the disorder of it.

          Father before daughter. Not the other way. The world had an order to follow, as he had told himself many times.

          As his anger mounted, it muddled forming a thick and  righteous slop of grief and madness, and of anger and denial, until he  found himself ready to burst. The seances and tarot readers, the fortune  tellers and the psychics, they brought no peace. Their predictions and  communions now rang hollow and Anita was to blame.

          The search took some effort, but eventually he had tracked  down an acquaintance from a seance he had attended shortly after his  divorce – a Wilton Hendricks. Wilton had lost his husband and had  attended hoping for one last conversation with his beloved. The medium  that led the affair, however, had offered only vague words, hollow and  easily interpreted in any direction desired. She had been a charlatan.  Everyone attending knew it, even if they did not want to believe it.  Anita had found Wilton that night, waiting outside the storefront for  any that needed her.

          Afterwards Wilton had stopped searching for his husband.  When pressed on Anita, he told Kyle that she was a retired grief  counselor, a good and lonely samaritan just looking to help those in  need in a way that only she could. She had helped Wilton accept his  husband's death and to move on with his life. She had warned him against  charlatans and had peeled back the curtain revealing the tricks of the  trade.

          A few cigarettes into the conversation and Kyle had gleaned  the information that he really needed. He had learned where to find  her. After that first encounter, Wilton had met frequently with Anita  behind a cleaners off New Bern Avenue. There was a room in the back  where she held informal group sessions. Her husband had run the cleaners  prior to his death and she still owned it though she stayed out of the  business for the most part. Still ownership granted her the room and  privacy to hold her sessions.

          It took Kyle two weeks to work up the nerve to confront  her. Then finally he had found himself standing outside the cleaners,  watching as a late night session ended and one after the other Anita's  "patients" trickled out into the parking lot. He had waited until only  one car remained, then ran up to the door, his face concealed by the  same hoodie he had been wearing the day of Charlotte's abduction. He  tapped on the glass.

          A small hamster of a dog bounded towards the door yapping at the stranger. Then slowly Anita shuffled up behind him.

          "Shut your trap, Jonesy," she shouted, then cracked the door open, pushing Jonesy back with her foot.

          "Yes?"

          Kyle looked her in the eyes and immediately he could see the flash of recognition as she stared back at him.

          "I'm afraid you missed the meeting. Every Thursday at 7."

          She had made to shut the door, but Kyle blocked it, slipping his arm in at the last moment.

          "I just want to talk, Ma'am."

          Anita had scoffed. "That's the point of the meetings. 7pm. Thursdays."

          "No. Just you. You and I."

          Anita had eyed him up and down, her corgi barking  incessantly. At last she turned away from Kyle, stooping over and  grabbing a tennis ball from the floor. She threw it towards the back of  the therapy room, which looked itself like little more than a large  living room decades out of style with a few too many couches and  doilies. Jonesy dashed off after his prize, no longer caring about the  stranger at the door. Anita straightened up and, one hand on her back,  made her way to the nearest couch.

          Kyle waited in the doorway, inching it open and now  massaging his palms, trying to balance out the pressure from where he  had caught the door with one hand. The other hand lacked balance. He  stood there, kneading his palms, not knowing how to proceed.

          "Well, come in. It's already after nine. I don't have all night."

          Kyle had stepped inside ready to confront Anita, and yet  finding instead that his anger had washed away. Entering into the  therapy room he noticed small runes drawn on the walls, mixed and hidden  among family portraits, blue glass decor, and candy trays.

          "Who are you?" Kyle had asked.

          "Anita Shaw. We've been over this." She motioned for Kyle to sit.

          Instead Kyle walked to the nearest rune trying to make sense of it.

          "But I thought you didn't believe in all of this."

          "When you assume, you make an ass out of yourself."

          "That's not the phrase."

          "It is when you make assumptions in my place of business."

          Kyle turned towards her, studying her aged face and her  balding head. Her usual shawl had been draped over the back of a nearby  recliner. She set there, defiant and somehow noble – an unbreakable  woman.

          "But if you believe," he asked, "then why do you turn us away before we find answers?"

          "Answers?" She laugh-snorted. "Honey, you ain't ever gonna  find answers in a place like you've been searching. All the shiny lights  and giant signs might as well scream con artist."

          "But..." Kyle started.

          "Look," she said, motioning once more for him to sit. This  time he did. "Those who believe, those of us who know there's more, we  also know what's good for us. Death is a not a barrier to be crossed, no  matter how much you may want to fling those gates open. Nothing good  can come of that path."

***

          "Are you sure?" Kyle asked.

          "Yes. We have to move fast. It's nearly midnight."

          David looked down at the tiny grave marker at his feet. It  had a smooth marble finish, with roughly textured edges and would have  seemed quite normal if not for the brightly colored cartoon image of a  winged Peppa Pig splashing in a puddle. The edges of the marker shaped  around the contours of the character, giving it an off balance feel that  always set Kyle's nerves on edge.

          He had thought that the cartoon image was a bit much, but  Charlotte had loved Peppa, and she'd loved the rain, and splashing in  the puddles. He could hear her laughing running from one puddle to the  next jumping in her oversized galoshes through the driveway. Behind him  Jill shouted for the two of them to come in, but Charlotte was having so  much fun. Jill had been right to add the embellishment. Looking at it  now Kyle couldn't hold back the tears. It perfectly embodied their  daughter.

          Below the cartoon image the marker read:

In loving memory of
Charlotte Rose Ingham
Jan. 6, 1996
Oct. 20, 1997
Our Precious Daughter
May She Play Forever Among The Angels

          "Now!" Anita shouted. "This ain't no time for crying. We have to hurry."

          She was right. Kyle glanced away from his daughter's  marker. He couldn't look at it a second more, not and do what he must.  Cheeks still wet, he turned his gaze away, hoisted up the shovel, and  plunged it into the earth.

****

Author's Note:

I  hope you're still enjoying In Memoriam. There is plenty more ahead for Kyle and Anita. Chapter 3 is up a day early, so read on if you wish.

And, if  you like what you've read,  please feel free to share, vote, and/or  comment.  Feedback is also  welcome. If you see mistakes, inaccuracies,  etc., please let me know. A  writer is only as good as their  editor, so I encourage constructive  criticism.  Thank you!

Happy Reading and Writing, All!