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 and throbbed like the heart of a dying man.
A sudden heart attack claimed him nine short months ago…
She had his body cremated.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Sara passed the heap whenever she brought her filthy 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 dresses into the washer ¾ all of them were black ¾ and slammed the lid. Sara passed the heap again on her way upstairs and shuddered. She didn’t stop shaking until she bolted the cellar door. In thirty minutes, she had to venture back down to put her dresses in the dryer. She dreaded the imminent ordeal.
Sara wore her wedding dress, which she dyed black for Jack’s funeral.
Until death do us part.
His final resting place, a black urn with JACK etched in gold letters, occupied the mantle, right next to their wedding photo. Two feet taller than she, he resembled a gentle giant. His enormous arms held Sara tightly. She lifted the cold, gold frame gingerly and recalled the splendor of their wedding day twenty years 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’s eye, 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 as gray as the heap of dust in the cellar. Sara’s gray eyes snapped open as the cherished memory faded to black.
Jack’s ashes and this photo were the only tangible mementos she had left to have and to hold. She set the picture down. Sara lifted the urn’s lid carefully and peered inside, seeking that familiar, fine powder; a void appeared 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 hardwood floor.
Sara shuffled over to the couch and collapsed. She never thought keeping Jack’s ashes close to her heart would pose such a burden.
* * *
Did I meet him when we were college sophomores or juniors?
Jack and Sara strolled across campus somewhere…she tried to recall but drew a blank. 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, perfecting intricate experiments, a bold effort to unlock the root cause of a damaged psyche.
Jack waved, a dramatic motion with his left hand. Sara returned the gesture enthusiastically with her right.
* * *
Did he ask me out on our first date, or did I ask him?
They sat on a twin bed in a small but neat apartment. Jack’s place had always been a mess, so Sara immediately knew it had been her place, her bed.
“I’m glad you came over.”She smiled, edged closer.
He took his black 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 the confines of 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. Candles bathed the room in an ephemeral luminescence. Jack kissed her deeply. She held him tight. Their shirts, jeans, and underwear were scattered throughout the room, along with a mound of throw pillows.
Jack loomed, trembling above her, his breath hot and quick in her ear. “I love you,” he murmured. Sara caught a whiff of oranges on his breath from the drinks concocted with Absolute Vodka and Minute Maid orange juice they affectionately called Absolute Minutes.
“Then show me.” She pulled him on top of her and guided him in.
Their movements were awkward and unsteady at first, but neither one of them minded much; desire bound them together. Sara wrapped her legs around his. Jack wrapped his arms around hers and squeezed tight.
* * *
Sara began to cry.
Did Jack get down on one knee when he proposed?
They stood in front of a slate blue, two-story house. His arm was draped across her shoulder; her arm was wrapped around his waist. Sara’s mother looked on from the front stoop, while her father snapped pictures of the happy couple. Jack and Sara smiled for the camera and tried not to blink.
They walked to the restaurant holding hands. He always squeezed harder than she did.
Joe’s Bistro was just around the corner. Their usual table, secluded in the back, made the candle between them romantic because it was the only light source. 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, as it sparkled in the candlelight. “Oh, Jack, I thought you’d never ask!”
Suddenly, the moment was snuffed out in her mind as if it were the candlewick that had burned so brightly between them dying.
* * *
She reluctantly ventured down to the cellar. The stairs looked foreboding, even with the cellar light overhead. She grabbed the sides of her dress and held them up to avoid a fatal fall that would leave her 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 defiantly at the dust. As she passed, the heap began to beat faster and faster.
Sara lifted the washer’s lid and tossed her wet, black dresses into the dryer. Her haphazard beeline back upstairs suddenly hindered by the sweet, fragrant aroma of oranges.
Sara looked around.
The dust had vanished!
She went over to the spot where it had been and touched the cold concrete with her fingers; not a speck remained. Sara 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 blackness used to be; Jack was back.
Sara held the urn with 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.
Sara cringed at the gentle touch of a warm hand that smelled like oranges touching hers; she screamed. Suddenly, the hand squeezed hers hard ¾ so hard her hand unexpectedly became warm, aching until the pain evolved into an uncomfortable pins and needles sensation, then perpetual numbness.
Jack let go of Sara’s hand long enough to hug her harder than he ever hugged her before. He whispered in her ear as he had done before ¾ over and over ¾ 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 up.
And the harmless heap of gray dust in the corner was the only thing, the only thing she remembered.
Amy Grech is an Active Member of the Horror Writers Association and the International Thriller Writers who lives in Forest Hills, Queens. You can connect with Amy on X: https://twitter.com/amy_grech or visit her website: https://www.crimsonscreams.com.