Hey guys. Looking for some feedback on my new book before I send it off to publisher's. First attempt at first-person narrative so I had a bit of trouble with "I and Me" during the process. To give you some background the story is about a recent college grad that can see ghosts in a different way than pop culture usually shows. It's a supernatural horror and I would love to show more, so here's Chapter I:
The morning of June 15th, 2008 was one of those unforgettable mornings. On my death bed when all my thoughts are hazy yet my memories are oddly vivid I’m positive the memories of that morning will linger at the forefront. It started usually enough, with the toast crispy and the shower hot. But the phone rang. One thing about my life that is good to note is the phone never rings before seven in the morning, unless of course one of my coworkers needs a ride to work. I burned my hand on the toast that had just popped up and I sucked on my thumb, trying to cool it, as I walked over to the phone. It was still lying on the counter because I forgot to return it to the base after getting off the phone with my mother the night before.
So as I grabbed the phone and realized it was dead, maybe that should have been taken as an indication of what was to come. But my mind doesn’t work like that, and surely few minds truly do. How can anyone be so pessimistic to believe that because the portable house phone is dead that their brother is dead as well? That’s impossibly dark.
So I set the phone on the base next to the stove and walked into my bedroom. The walk was brief, a mere eight steps from the kitchen to my bedside table. Lifting the corded phone next to my planner, I sat down on the bed as my mother started to deliver the news to my ear.
June 15th. What was so special about June 15th other than the fact that my brother died? Sometimes I look up the date on Wikipedia and just read all of the different actors that died on the day. Two celebrities died on the same day as my brother, and the funny thing is I’ve never heard of either of the aforementioned gentlemen. Which isn’t really funny because they ARE dead, but… well.
“Car accident.” She said in my ear for the fifth time. There’s something else really memorable, how many times she repeated that deathly phrase. “It was a car accident Evan. He died in the car accident. I can’t believe of all the things to take Charlie, it had to be a car accident.”
It’s because he always drove around in that damn death trap. That’s what I wanted to tell her. He always used to give me a real earful about how safe his car was supposedly and I remember laughing once and saying, “Oh yeah? If your car is so safe how about we drive down the opposite lane of the highway going twenty above the speed limit and hit the first car we see, and then we can judge by our scars?”
“Broken neck. He lost an arm too.” One hell of a scar. “The policeman said he died on contact. He was dead before he knew what was going on. Before he even knew it was a car accident.”
She said it again, car accident, so that makes seven times?
That was my last thought before blacking out.
*
So the reason my day is starting off by remembering that day is because today is finally Charlie’s funeral. I woke up alone, got dressed alone, ate breakfast alone, brushed my teeth alone (but the Girl from Somerset’s toothbrush was still sitting on my counter, I hadn’t yet had the gall to throw it away) and finally drove to the church alone. Now I’m leaning on my car, a black Honda Civic, smoking a cigarette.
I never smoke cigarettes. For one, they’re disgusting. For two, my best friend Nathan and the people at work always give me a hard time about smoking. They all happen to be real sticklers about death, but I’ll talk more about that later. The only reason the cancer-stick is on my lips now is because it helps me concentrate, and helps me clear my mind of all those regular funeral thoughts.
Could I have prevented it?
Why wasn’t it me?
Boring stuff like that.
Mom is inside the church. She has to be because her ugly ass car is a few meters down the road. I’m almost positive dad is across the street at the 7/11 doing the exact same thing I’m doing: smoking a cigarette and leaning on something wondering how long he has to stare at this church before it crumbles into dirt and this whole ordeal is postponed. But he has it easier. He has all the time in the world to go inside the church.
The more I stare and the shorter this cigarette gets, the more I realize that isn’t going to happen. So with one last look towards the 7/11 to wave at my dear, departed dad, I walk into the church.
I push open the church doors and shut them behind me. One last check to make sure my tie is tight enough on my collar so that my mother doesn’t tighten it herself, and I step towards the entrance to the main church.
“Hello Elias.” Father Prentus is standing by the door holding a jar in his hands. The jar has two folded up twenty dollar bills in it and as the jar falls to the floor and the money falls out, I can’t help but think maybe this old fool tests me because he likes seeing me angry.
“Elias!” He screams as he gets down on his knees picking up the forty dollars as if it’s the last scrap of money God will ever see.
“Do you know what today is Father?” I say, kneeling down to make eye contact with the man.
“Of course I do! It’s your brother’s funeral, and my dear boy I must say that has not put you in a very charitable mood.” The old man stands up with the jar and I swat it back down to the ground. He grunts and gets back to his knees and I crush the forty dollars under my dress shoes.
“What gives you the right to ask people for money on a day like this?” I say.
“Elias. That’s unfair. God’s grace can be appeased on any day. Those who wish to gift the Lord with the-“
“Stop.” I say, holding a hand to my temple as the old man stands up.
“You need to start coming to church again Elias. So that the Lord-“
“I said STOP. My name is Evan. My name is not Elias. Stop calling me by that name.”
“Your birth name is Elias, and so I call you by that name. I have been your family’s pastor for many years, and you all prayed with me including your departed brother.”
“Yeah, and look what good that’s done for him.” I release the money from beneath my dress shoe and open my wallet. I put a crisp Benjamin in the pastor’s hand and then I look in his eyes, “No more asking for offerings today. Have some dignity. Someone died.” I step away from the man to head into the church.
“The more we offer the less death will occur Elias!” Pastor Prentus calls after me. It takes every moral fiber in my being to not turn around and walk back over to that greedy pastor and show him how little I thought of his mantra. I do look back, but only to nod calmly to let him see I am trying to be the bigger man about this. He doesn’t see the nod though because he’s bending back over for the forty dollars on the ground, which is caked in dirt from my shoe. I smile to myself and as I turn around to walk in give thanks to whatever God sits upstairs for allowing me to walk through the mud to get to the church doors today.
“Mom.” I say softly. She turns to look at me, her eyes filled with tears and her skin paler than usual. I can see that she’s at the brink of a meltdown and I wrap in her in a warm embrace to try to stop her from screaming my name.
Her friends surround her, an older woman I know only as Rose, and two other women that I have never had any real conversation with. She holds me tight and her tears rub into my black suit and even into the white undershirt underneath my suit. Hearing my mother cry is one of the things that I’ve gotten used to over the years, but I don’t think she’s cried this hard since my father died in 2004. When did he die again? I remember it being hot, was it in J-
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