Sebastian Wright can't have some time alone
|Fresh and cool, conifer-infused air in the early morning was what he loved when he was a teenager, loved when he was an under-21 soccer player. It envigored him for his early morning runs, kept him motivated through the rest of the day, kept him focused on his writing, even as the sun heated up and caused the sweat to pour from his hair. Sebastian Wright sat in the Adirondack chair and looked out at the lake, lit by the just broke sun, and sipped on his orange juice. He wondered what the day held for him.
“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” It was a very heavily accented whisper in his right ear. The familiar voice of an ancestor, Sebastian smiled and nodded.
“That it is, J.P.” He called his great-great-how many greats he never gets it correct grandfather by his initials, Jean-Pierre sounded too pretentious.
“I do miss being able to feel the breeze,” the spirit added. He touched the young man’s shoulder and sent a chill coursing through his spine.
He sighed: He did wish the ghosts who spoke with him could enjoy mornings like this. He finished his juice to the serenade of a loon.
Driving the purple Plymouth Barracuda that he purchased at a police auction always relaxed him, even as he had to travel for research and for book signings. He loved to “just take off and drive” into the country, like his parents had done with him and sisters in the ‘70s. But this was not one of those times.
The call came an hour earlier, someone from Oldham and Newbury needed him back in the city. Oldham and Newbury, the detective agency where his great-grandfather Julian Kowoleski worked in the 1920s and 1930s, held part of his inheritance, journals written by “Dziadzek” Jules and his grandfather Aleksander, a man who Sebastian thought was just an Army cook but was much more.
“Someone came in and had some attorney letters,” Olivia Pounder told him. When pressed for more information, the secretary stated that they looked official and his presence was needed.
With Earth, Wind, and Fire blasting, Sebastian couldn’t think of who could want access to the journals. Worse, he thought nobody else knew of their existence. That caused him some fear.
“Someone could take them,” he whispered to himself as he slowed. He didn’t need a ticket, and he knew Beverwyck County had a reputation for ticket handing.
“Don’t worry,” a familiar spectral voice reassured him. “No one can see them.”
Sebastian joked. “Easy for you to say.”
“Trust me,” the ghost of another ancestor, Dominique Youx, added.
Since he was 11 when his gift of being able to see and communicate with ghosts, awake and in dreams, they’ve never let him down. And for the writer, now was not the time to change his thoughts on it.
“You know more than I do.”