by Amy Grech
Jack had been dead for less than a year when his widow spotted something gray in a corner of the cellar that resembled a heap of dust but throbbed like the heart of a dying man.
A sudden heart attack had claimed Jack nine short months ago…
She’d had his body cremated.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Sara passed the heap of dust whenever she brought her dirty clothes over to the washing machine. She couldn’t avoid it. The first time the heap moved, Sara bit her lip and shrugged it off, along with a sudden chill that crept through the open cellar door.
Hastily, she dumped her dirty dresses into the washer — all of them were black — and closed the lid. She passed the heap again on her way upstairs, and shuddered. She didn’t stop shaking until she bolted the cellar door. In a half-hour she would have to go back down to put her dresses in the dryer. She dreaded the thought.
Sara wore her wedding dress, which she had dyed black for Jack’s funeral.
Until death do us part.
His final resting place, a black urn with JACK etched in gold letters, sat on the mantle, right next to their wedding photo. Two feet taller than she was, he resembled a gentle giant. His enormous arms held Sara tightly. Gingerly, she lifted the cold, gold frame and remembered the splendor of their wedding day two decades ago, immaculately preserved for all the days of her life.
As she cradled the photo against her chest, Sara closed her eyes and pictured herself hugging Jack. She held her new husband. He held her as tightly in his strong arms as he did on their wedding day, and whispered words she would never forget: “I will always love you. I will never leave you. I want to make love to you forever.”
She inhaled and smiled, seizing the moment, yearning for his tender touch. In her mind, Jack still smelled as fragrant as an orchard full of oranges. His eyes were as light as the sky, his hair as bright as the sun, and his ashes gray as the heap of dust in the cellar. Sara’s eyes snapped open as the fond memory faded to black.
Jack’s ashes and this photo were the only tangible mementos she had left to cherish. She set the picture down. Carefully, she lifted the lid of the urn and peered inside, seeking that familiar, fine powder that always greeted her; black emptiness greeted her where grayness should have been. She winced, remembering the heap of dust in a corner of the cellar.
How did his ashes end up in the cellar?
The lid slipped through her trembling fingers and shattered on the floor.
Sara shuffled over to the couch and collapsed. She had never thought that keeping Jack’s ashes in the house would be such a burden.
* * *
Did I meet him when we were college sophomores or juniors?
Jack and Sara strolled across campus somewhere… she tried to remember where but couldn’t. It didn’t matter though, because he wore a University of Michigan sweatshirt. They paused in front of a sign that read: Psychology Laboratories. He practically lived in that building junior year.
Jack waved. Sara waved back.
* * *
Did he ask me out on our first date, or did I ask him?
They sat on a bed in a small but neat apartment. Jack’s place had always been a mess, so Sara knew right away that it had been her apartment, her bed.
“I’m glad you came over.” She smiled and moved closer.
He took his leather jacket off and tossed it in a corner. “I never mind spending quality time with pretty girls.”
Sara blushed. “Do you spend a lot of your time with pretty girls?”
“None of them are as pretty as you.” Jack took her hand in his and squeezed it hard enough to let her know he cared.
She brushed black locks away from her face. “I don’t believe you.”
He kissed her for a long time to prove his point.
The image lingered deep within her mind, like their first kiss, but it didn’t last nearly as long.
* * *
Did we make love the first time in his apartment or mine?
They were at her place again. The lights were off. Candles bathed the room in an effervescent glow. Jack kissed her deeply. She held him tight. Their shirts, jeans, and underwear were scattered throughout the room.
Jack loomed, trembling above her. “I love you.”
“Then show me.” She pulled him on top of her and guided him in.
Their movements were awkward and unsteady at first, but neither of them minded much; desire bound them together. Sara wrapped her legs around his. Jack wrapped his arms around hers and squeezed tight.
* * *
Sara started to cry.
Did Jack get down on one knee when he proposed?
They stood in front of a blue, two-story house, his arm draped over shoulders; her arm wrapped around his waist. Sara’s mother looked on from the front stoop while her father snapped pictures of the happy couple. They smiled for the camera and tried not to blink.
Jack and Sara walked to the restaurant holding hands. He always squeezed harder than she did.
Joe’s Bistro was right down the street. Their usual table, in a secluded, dark corner, made the candle between them romantic because it was the only source of light. Jack ordered a bottle of the finest red wine and a plate of spaghetti with meatballs for them to share.
After dinner he got down on one knee, opened a small, black box, slipped a diamond ring on her finger and said: “Marry me, Sara.”
She admired the ring. “Oh, Jack, I thought you’d never ask!”
Suddenly, the moment was snuffed out in her mind as if it were the candle wick that had burned so brightly between them dying.
* * *
She headed for the cellar again. The stairs looked forbidding, even though the cellar light was on. She grabbed the sides of her dress and held them up so she wouldn’t fall and end up sprawled out on the floor next to the — harmless? — heap of dust, Jack’s last hurrah.
When she neared it on her way back to the washer, Sara clenched her fists and stared at the dust. As she passed, the heap began to beat faster and faster.
Sara lifted the washer’s lid and then tossed her wet, black dresses into the dryer. Her hasty attempt to make it upstairs without looking back was hindered by the sudden aroma of oranges.
Sara looked behind her.
The dust had vanished!
She went over to the spot where it had been and touched the cold concrete; not a speck remained. She ran upstairs, without looking back, and bolted the cellar door.
She found herself hovering over the topless urn on the mantle, glancing inside once more. Grayness prevailed where black emptiness used to be; Jack was back.
Sara held the urn in her sweaty, trembling hands and shut her eyes. Jack danced with her again, but he kept stepping on her toes. That didn’t happen on their wedding day. Sara was sure of it!
Cautiously, she opened her eyes, startled to see her husband standing next to her. She placed her hand on his shoulder. This time it rested there, instead of passing through thin air.
She cringed at the gentle touch of a warm hand that smelled like oranges touching her hand; she screamed. Suddenly, the hand squeezed hers hard— so hard her hand began to ache until the pain led to numbness.
Jack let go of Sara’s hand long enough to hug her harder than he had ever hugged her before. He whispered words in her ear as he had done before, over and over, but the words were different now: “I have always loved you; I will always love you. I have never left you; I will never leave you. I want to make love to you forever; I will make love to you forever.”
He squeezed so hard that Sara’s whole body throbbed so fast that her heart could hardly keep pace.
And the harmless heap of grey dust in the corner was the only thing, the last thing she remembered.
* * *
Amy Grech has sold over one hundred stories and three poems to various anthologies and magazines including: Dead Harvest, and Shrieks and Shivers from the Horror Zine. Amy is an Active Member of the Horror Writers Association.