Seven seas and countless mountains circumvent the globe. Far stretched fields and highland hills clothed in grassy robes.

Snow topped peaks and hell bound pits give much to search and find, an artist’s stroke on every turn; His autograph there signed. 

Yet all that lies and fills the space holds nothing to compare, the captivation of your glimpse no sight has been so fair. 

To seek for more than distant look puts brave men’s pride to shame, yet risking pain involved in shun one dares to ask your name. 

What’s found is more than might expect from such a daunting catch, beneath these pools of crystal specs a lovely soul to match. 

While most good things there to explore and further venture in, prove their imperfections true; mere shells of white-washed skin. 

To you that rule does not apply; exception marks your steps, for truly you are greater still beyond what meets the eye. ​

Seven seas and countless mountains circumvent the globe. Far stretched fields and highland hills clothed in grassy robes.

Snow topped peaks and hell bound pits give much to search and find, an artist’s stroke on every turn; His autograph there signed. 

Yet all that lies and fills the space holds nothing to compare, the captivation of your glimpse no sight has been so fair. 

To seek for more than distant look puts brave men’s pride to shame, yet risking pain involved in shun one dares to ask your name. 

What’s found is more than might expect from such a daunting catch, beneath these pools of crystal specs a lovely soul to match. 

While most good things there to explore and further venture in, prove their imperfections true; mere shells of white-washed skin. 

To you that rule does not apply; exception marks your steps, for truly you are greater still beyond what meets the eye. ​

Seven seas and countless mountains circumvent the globe. Far stretched fields and highland hills clothed in grassy robes.

Snow topped peaks and hell bound pits give much to search and find, an artist’s stroke on every turn; His autograph there signed.

Yet all that lies and fills the space holds nothing to compare, the captivation of your glimpse no sight has been so fair.

To seek for more than distant look puts brave men’s pride to shame, yet risking pain involved in shun one dares to ask your name.

What’s found is more than might expect from such a daunting catch, beneath these pools of crystal specs a lovely soul to match.

While most good things there to explore and further venture in, prove their imperfections true; mere shells of white-washed skin.

To you that rule does not apply; exception marks your steps, for truly you are greater still beyond what meets the eye.

It was autumn. The grass was a subtle strawberry blond, and the trees were clinging to their last drops of color-filled life. Leaves of orange and red fluttered in the air, tumbling to their earthy grave. A subtle kiss of the morning breeze rushed in the open car window, and against his face, as he cruised down the old-forgotten road.

It was a quiet morning, mostly because he had switched off the radio. The concern of missing a call had left him miles ago; nothing ever happens in this town anyway. At least, that was true most of the time. In fact, it was one of the most boring places to be sheriff. The next closest town was fifty-miles up the highway. It was a bad neighborhood, the kind where even grown men walk the streets with big sticks. St. Forge had become one of the highest crime rated cities in the state. Everything from vandalism to car-jackings. But not White Mountain; no, this was a dull place to live. Being Sheriff was definitely easy. Although Rick Leedham was actually only the deputy, but not for lack of skill or experience. To be perfectly frank, his promotion papers laid ready to be signed; right next to his boss’ death certificate. Thomas “Buster” Fordstrand was the sitting sheriff and that was a good way to describe him. His daily docket included morning coffee at the local diner, checkers with Rev. Dale in front of the “seed and feed” and an afternoon nap (that extended well into the third hour) leaving just enough time to clock out and call it a day. Buster left the real policing to “Ricky,” as he so affectionally referred to him. This didn’t bother Rick much. Most of the town treated him like the Sheriff and those who didn’t were usually passed out drunk or cooling off in the holding cell. Today, however, things were different. Over the past several weeks strange things had been taking place, things that hadn’t happened in a very long time. This had undoubtedly led to some intense commotion, but it didn’t phase Rick he was on a mission: a mission to live out his recurring nightmare.

“Would it still be there?” He thought to himself, not sure what answer would be more consoling.

“What if it was? What would he see? In what condition would it be? A chill ran up his spine as he thought this way; a chill which paled in comparison to the question that followed. ”What if wasn’t?“ 

Mile by mile he followed the small creek. Truly, his destination wasn’t any more than five miles from downtown, but today it felt like a trek across the country. Finally, he pulled to the side of the road - his tires sliding on the loose gravel. He exited his car and made his way down to the river-bank. The sound of crows overhead and broken twigs underfoot. The babbling brook ahead kept Rick alert to his surroundings. Then a sudden pause, “What was that?” Rustling foliage in the not so far-off distance. Rick peered as far as his 20/20 vision would allow, hoping that they would not play tricks on him. He placed his hand on his sidearm, conveniently affixed to his right hip. The cool air of the virgin morning reacted with the metal of his Glock 45 and surprised his unprepared hand. He unsnapped his holster, just in case. The scene was still. Was it his imagination? Had he heard something, or not? He breathed a sigh of relief. Then suddenly, from inside the bushes, a flash of grey fur darted off in the opposite direction!

A rabbit.

Rick’s heart sank and then caught its rhythm. The event took place faster than he had time to realize that he had drawn his weapon. He slowly restored it to its holster. 

“What is wrong with me?” He thought. 

During his time in the police academy his cohort had given him the nickname of “Stonewall.” He usually exhibited nerves of steel and didn’t jump to conclusions. But here he was, drawing down on an a rodent! Was he really going to allow these insane thoughts to cloud his judgment? He had been trained to think logically: “if you hear footsteps, think horses, not zebras!” he recited the tired phrase that his drill instructors use to quote. But if his hunch was correct, and it usually was, he was about to stumble upon a Zebra; a Zebra from the depth of hell, and nothing that his instructors taught him could have prepared him for that. 

Off in the distance he saw it the old bridge that connected the two counties. It had seen better days, but it was the same bridge. Vines viciously crawled up the stone foundations reaching for the wooden guard rail that contained a long transcript of puppy-dog relationships, etched into its weathered grain. On either side, the dirt road climbed the hill and morphed into the cobblestone floor laid across it lengthwise. What was once a smooth surface now consisted of weeds and stone protruding into the air. The bridge was fairly wide; not big enough for a car but sufficient for a rider on horse-back, which was then intention back in 1815 when the town was first established. Below the bridge was a steady stream of water - a runoff from a nearby river. The current wasn’t strong though enough the carry a beer bottle, which had been a beloved passed-time for the local kids. What it lacked in width, it made up for in depth. As a child, Rick was nearly up to his shoulders. Each stone foundation sat partially submerged with a good three feet entirely under the water. 

Rick made his way to the bank, and stared at the westside foundation contemplating his next move. He stood quietly as the water moved passed his eyes. He knew what lied just below the surface. After what seemed like an eternity, he decided that he had to see for himself. He walked back to his patrol car, placed his utility belt in the trunk, stripped down to a t-shirt and underwear, and carefully analyzed the horizon. What’s the use, this place was long forgotten. He crept back down to the water and stuck in his bare feet. The icy shocked delayed to register, but once it did it more than made up for the pause. At this point there was no going back. He had to know. Rick trudged through the water and stood near the old stones of the left bridge leg. Rather than his shoulders, the water now came up to his waist. He crouched down to his knees, taking a moment to allow his body to adjust to the temperature. Then he lowered his head. Now completely submerged he was only accompanied by the sound of blood rushing through his ears. He could feel the rocks. His vision was useless because of the cruddy water. Finally, among the stones, he felt a wooden square - then a handle. He tugged on it, but there was no give. He tried again and again, but nothing. After six or seven attempts, he had to come up for air. He took a moment to regain his faculties and then plunged again into the coolness. This time, he positioned his feet onto either side of the door and pulled with all his might. After a few seconds, the door gave, hinges and all. He looked down at the dark doorway, it was much smaller than he had remembered. Then he swam in without giving it another thought. Halfway in he began to panic: he was stuck. Terror set in as he considered the possibility that he might not be able to free himself. As if death wasn’t bad enough, he would never be found - he knew that for a fact. After several failed attempts he broke free and thrust his head above the water inside the stone structure. He was inside an abandoned smugglers hutch. It was unclear exactly why the structure had been built hollow (the foundation opposite was rock-solid), but rumors were that moonshiners had used it during prohibition. But, for the past thirty years it had housed a secret, one that Rick had worked hard to forget. As he gasped for air, he took a moment to gain his composure. He suddenly became aware of the screaming silence surrounding him. Although it was pitch black, he knew his surrounding well. He couldn’t see it, but he knew that there was a shelf in front of him. It must have been in front because his back was against the wall. He reached his hands out and waded toward that direction. He reached the shelf and hesitated.

Thoughts scurried through his mind like the maggots he expected to find. 

His heart sunk as he felt the splinters of the empty wooden shelf. He frantically felt around hoping for something. Anything. But no. It was gone.

Title: Water Under the Bridge

Genre: Thriller/Suspense

Age Range & Target Audience: I’m not exactly sure, but I would think it would appeal to readers between 21-35.

Word Count: 1500

Author Name: Devin “D.L.” Peterson

I believe this sample is a good fit because it demonstrates my ability to set a scene for the reader, quickly (yet precisely) introduce characters, and leave the reader wanting more.

Water Under the Bridge is a thriller centered on the investigation of a series of murders in a small town. The lead investigator, Deputy Rick Leedham, can’t help but notice a connection: a secret that plagues his past. While still children, Rick a group of friends have a party that leads to the death of one of there own. They hide the body where no one will find it and swear to take the secret to there grave. Unfortunately, for most of them, the grave is where they end up. Is there long lost friend come back to seek revenge! Or is there a much more sinister element involved. The burden of guilt is a heavy weight, and it often leads to psychological torment.

I am a very complex person: my personality is multi-layered. I spent my childhood traveling, a new city every week. I learned to adapt to my surroundings on the outside, but often delving deep into my own imagination and creativity. I’m good at blending in, but I have a very unique side that lies below the surface. This self is often seen more in my writing than anywhere else. I have lived in Dallas, Texas for all of my adult life. I am an educator and pastor. I have served as a chaplain in several hospitals, and thus have well accustomed to the emotions associated with death. Writing has been my outlet to decompress. I have learned to squeeze out my emotional pockets on paper when I have become overwhelmed by the things I’ve heard and seen. I earned my Bachelor of Ministry in 2014 and my Master of Divinity (with Greek and Hebrew) in 2019. I am married to my beautiful wife of five years, and we are expecting a baby in April. I love to write, and I would be honored to be able to make it a career.

The blistering wind rushed past his tear filled eyes as he strained to looked across the white landscape. Millions of white specs plummeted to the ground below, creating piles of ivory carpet. His heart pounded as the thoughts of his inevitable fate settled into his unsettled mind. It had only been a half an hour, but he knew he didn’t have much time. The Everest expedition had set out only a week before, and the journey had been a success, up to this point. Thirty minutes prior the team encountered a torrential snow storm that caused major setbacks. Then, the unthinkable happened: the guide rope (connecting him to his team) had become brittle and suddenly snapped. Having been at the end of the convoy, no one seemed to noticed that he was detached. For a few brief moments, he remained in eye shot and attempted to yell for their attention. Unfortunately, the howling wind drowned out his screams until the group was engulfed in the swirling white. Desperately he scampered in whichever direction was in front of him; searching for any site of his lost companions. Thoughts of the unspeakable began to flood his brain; the cold impacting every part of his body. Still searching for some glimpse of color (the brightness of buddy’s coat) he slowly began to lose hope. Before long, his focus shifted from attempts to reconnect with the group, and instead settled with simply staying alive. But how? Outside the expedition group, there was no hope. Walking became impossible, and he began to crawl. The cold and wet snow invaded his face. Inch by agonizing inch he moved aimlessly. His outstretched hand felt nothing but the numbness of his icy dread. Until, something different, yet familiar: the rough material of a large winter coat. Hope was within reach! Desperately he embraced his crew member, knowing that he was safe. But, his hope filled clasp was not met by the warm comfort that he had hoped to receive. Instead, only a cold and lifeless corpse. Fear gripped him as he looked up to see his team, connected by the guide rope, frozen as perpetual statues. Single file they led the way - his icy tomb awaiting.

     There was something terribly wrong with that woman. I knew it from the moment I first laid eyes on her. Her complexion was opaque, and her eyes were glazed over. She was frail but perfectly competent. In fact, one might even wonder if her faculties weren’t far superior to the average human being. She appeared to look through you, as though to know your secret sins. I couldn’t help but connect her presence in my life to the events that were unfolding right before my eyes. It was midnight, and I had fallen asleep at nine o’clock in the evening. It wasn’t like me to turn in this early, but I was so sleepy and kept nodding off. But, at precisely 12:00 am, I was thrust awake by the sound of my closet door creaking open. My eyes shot open, and I attempted to gain my composure. I stared at the door. It was ajar, but that wasn’t altogether uncommon. Countless times the hem of my bath-rob, which hangs on the inside of the closet, gets caught causing the door not to close properly. I closed my eyes and attempted to fall back to sleep. Creak. There it was again. Unmistakable. Something inside my closet was pushing the door from the inside. I sat up in my bed, my eyes glued to the shadowed doorway. The opening was gaping now, but I could not discern what was inside. Curiosity had its deep grips in me, but a greater fear was winning the fight. I crawled out of my bed and laid down on the floor; the bed between me and the door, all I could see was the closet from under the bed skirt. Creak. The door opened further. Any question of imagination fled from my mind, except that which recalled every horror movie that I had ever seen. I was still, frozen in place. Suddenly, I felt as though I wasn’t alone, as though some presence was sharing my air. I remained silent and listened. Then, a subtle, yet pronounced whisper tickled my ears. I couldn’t discern what it was saying, it spoke in some foreign, yet familiar tongue. Petrified, I placed my hand over my mouth to muffle the rush of sound that was inevitable to exit my throat. As I moved my hand toward my mouth, I brushed up against something heavy, dangling around my neck. I grabbed ahold of it and examined it. How did this get here? Where did it come from? When did it get placed around my neck? Suddenly I remembered where I had first seen it. It belongs to her. The woman. But not just any woman. This woman was my fiancèe’s grandmother, although, she looked old enough to be his great-grandmother. At least. I’ll never forget the first day that I met her. My fiancee, then my boyfriend, picked me up at my house and took me to his parent’s place. I walked in the door, greeted by my future in-laws. That’s when I first saw her. She was seated at the dinner table in the conjoining room, just staring at me. By her appearance and dress, she reminded me of one of those fortunetelling games that you might see at an arcade. I envisioned an old worn sign above her head that read, “The Great Zoltan.” She didn’t move, just sat and stared. I began to wonder if she was dead. As eerie as she was, I couldn’t keep my eyes off of her. Trying my best not look at her for too long, but failing miserably. 

     “Nora!” My obviously annoyed boyfriend snapped. 

     “What?,“ I asked dazedly and confused. 

     “Are you going to give me your coat?” He asked.

​      “Oh yeah, here.” I removed my coat and gave it to his awaiting hand. 

       “I asked you like three times, what’s going on with you tonight.” He asked slightly concerned and completely agitated. 

     Admittedly I had been acting a bit unusual that evening. It wasn’t my fault though. Something inside me felt, off. 

     “What were you staring at?“ ”He looked at around the corner at into the room, which he couldn’t see from where he had been standing. “Oh, that’s just my grandmother, do you want to meet her.” I honestly wasn’t sure. But before I could answer, he took me by the hand and guided me to her. 

     “Bunica, aceasta este prietena mea Norei.” I didn’t understand him because he spoke to her in Romani chib, or Romanian, which was her native language. 

     She didn’t move. I feared that she might have died and no one had noticed. She certainly looked the part of a corpse. 

    He placed his hand on her back, “Bunica!” As if yelling louder would wake the dead. “Bunica!”

     The third time must have been a charm because she snapped her head around to where we were standing and stared deep into my soul. Her breathing didn’t change, nor her position, only the direction of her smolder. It wasn’t until that moment that I noticed a beautiful ruby necklace dangling down her chest. I couldn’t help but gaze at it as it glimmered in the light of the room. I was no stranger to gems and Jewlery, but something about this particular piece was unique. It was a deep red, almost like the tent of fresh blood. He tried again, “aceasta este prietena mea Norei.” which I assume meant something about who I was and why I was there.

     She reached out, grabbed my hand and held it in hers. Her hands were old, cold, and clammy. After a few seconds, which seemed like ten or fifteen minutes, she spoke, “ceea ce este în mine, acum trec la voi.”

    I jumped. It was as if her words were somehow inside of me. I shot a look my boyfriend; I needed to know what she had said to me. He shrugged his shoulders and replied, “She’s a crazy old bat, who knows what she’s rabbling on about half the time.” 

    I quickly relieved my hand from her grip, and she returned to her previous focal point. Dead ahead. Emphasis on dead. My boyfriend and I left the room and enjoyed an evening with his parents over dinner. We ate in the kitchen and, surprisingly, his grandmother didn’t join us. As a matter of fact, I didn’t see much more of her after that night. She was around, but no one really interacted with her much. On the car ride home I asked my boyfriend about her. 

     “To be honest, I don’t know a lot about her. I know that she use to be a circus performer or something. I think she read people’s fortunes.”

     “That’s so funny! I thought she looked the part.” 

     “Yeah, my dad’s family were all from Romania. I vaguely remember him telling me stories about how people would come from all around to have their palms read and speak to their dead relatives or something like that. Personally, I don’t buy into all of that, but its a pretty big deal with my family’s culture.”

     “Well, I think its cool. I’d love to talk to her more about it.” I was genuinely interested.

     “Yeah. I wouldn’t recommend that.” He said hesitantly. 

     “Why not?”

      “She’s kind of crazy now; my parents say that she talks to people who aren’t there and is always rambling on about things that make my parents very uncomfortable. She’s kind of a burden on my folks. She’s really old, and they don’t totally know what to do with her.” He said concentrating on the road, wet from the pouring rain. 

     “Why don’t they put her in a home?” I asked with concern. 

     “Yeah, Romani’s don’t really do that. Families take a lot of pride in taking care of one another, its just kind of the way that we are.” 

      “Well, that’s sweet. What was up with that Rudy necklace around her neck? That thing must have cost a fortune.” I asked, awaiting some exciting story about a beloved family heirloom. 

     He looked at me puzzled, “What necklace?” 

     “The Ruby necklace that she was wearing. You couldn’t have missed it, that thing was huge!” I asked, very confused by his question. 

     “She wasn’t wearing a necklace. She can’t afford jewelry, especially not like what you just described.” 

      “I know what I saw! She was definitely wearing a ruby necklace. It was beautiful.” I saw insistently.

      “Okay, whatever you say babe.” He said with a condescending tone that I had come to loathe. 

       That was three years ago. I didn’t think much about the necklace since then. In that time we became engaged and began planning our wedding. My career as a stock-broker took off, and I had received several promotions. My partners all said that I seemed to have an uncanny knack for predicting price fluctuations, they said it was like nothing that they had ever seen before. Tomorrow is my wedding, and I opted out of the traditional night before wedding bachelorette party. Oh, how I wish I hadn’t done that. Now here I lay, a ruby around my neck, and this thing haunting my bedroom. What is it? Why is it here? And what does it have to do with this gift: the ruby necklace?

​

​There lies in rhythm a hippocampus,

which relentlessly recalls the former.

The past and present stand chiasmus;

whispers of that which was. 

Summer warmth and children’s laughter hide within every note.

The movements of the soul’s lost dance, divulge through tearful sighs. 

Steady vibrations caress the heart; piercing through the bone. 

We see through sound and feel through light permeating through brass and string. 

Artists play what stirs the heart and makes the widow sing.

The fading glow of past lives lived out of grasp and reach.

Though, for this one moment time stands still and those that were do breach. 

The joy that flows through music played, sends shivers up the spine.

To touch and kiss, just one last time, that sound which was once mine.

Gratitude is a peculiar thing: often, it’s the very thing that we thought was a problem that we become most grateful. Likewise, that which we strive for, believing that it will somehow add value, often proves to be a curse. The reality is we rarely know what we actually want until we come face to face with an inescapable situation. In the event that we have worked to established a thing, one that does not prove to be what we really wanted, we suddenly wish for something else - usually something simple and more manageable. On the other hand, those moments and objects that we come to hold most dear, are those which spring upon us in ways that we never would have expected. We strive to control the factors surrounding our traditions, rituals, and memories, but it’s when we take a step back and observe that which is, rather than that which we desire to be, that we understand the less control we attempt to invoke, the more pleasant and more palatable the result. Life is not a sequence of planned events, rather it is a vast series of unexpected realities, that are, at times, influenced by our choices and desires. More than authors, we are interpreters translating the signals and stimuli that cross our sensory paths. The more we can speak to these events, the more we may feel a sense of control. But, every event and experience that we encounter contains the predictable inevitably of the unpredictable. We never know when the events before us will drastically shift in a different direction. It is in these moments that are gratitude is tested. Usually, we show our appreciation when things turn out the way we hoped they would, or at least close. But this is not so much gratitude as it is a sigh of relief that we still have control in our lives and experiences. True and pure gratitude is a much different sort. The truly gracious person appreciates whatever gift the moment produces, understanding that life is the giver of the gifts that we need. Since need is different that want, we are not always enthusiastic about the reception, but grateful nonetheless. There is a common misconception that gratitude should be accompanied by happiness in the moment, but this is not necessarily the case. One should show gratitude even in the midst of despair. Every event in life is a lesson to be learned, and our gratitude should focus on this reality. We may not be happy about the lesson, and most probably won’t be, for if we were happy about it, it is probably a lesson that we have already learned. We are not happy about that which has yet to be learned, because we are aware that this quality is a substance to which our soul is void. This is not a realization that brings about the emotion of happiness. However, for the sojourner who desires to grow, this understanding should produce gratitude in the fact that life has opened a path toward growth in a direction that we were not headed before.

There was something terribly wrong with that woman. I knew it from the moment I first laid eyes on her. Her complexion was opaque, and her eyes were glazed over. She was frail but perfectly competent. In fact, one might even wonder if her faculties weren’t far superior to the average human being. She appeared to look through you, as though to know your secret sins. I couldn’t help but connect her presence in my life to the events that were unfolding right before my eyes.

It was midnight, and I had fallen asleep at nine o’clock in the evening. It wasn’t like me to turn in this early, but I was so sleepy and kept nodding off. Bu, at precisely 12:00 am, I was thrust awake by the sound of my closet door creaking open. My eyes shot open, and I attempted to gain my composure. I stared at the door. It was ajar, but that wasn’t altogether uncommon. Countless times the hem of my bath-rob, which hangs on the inside of the closet, gets caught causing the door not to close properly. I closed my eyes and attempted to fall back to sleep. Creak. There it was again. Unmistakable. Something inside my closet was pushing the door from the inside. I sat up in my bed, my eyes glued to the shadowed doorway. The opening was gaping now, but I could not discern what was inside. Curiosity had its deep grips in me, but a greater fear was winning the fight. I crawled out of my bed and laid down on the floor; the bed between me and the door, all I could see was the closet from under the bed skirt. Creak. The door opened further. Any question of imagination fled from my mind, except that which recalled every horror movie that I had ever seen. I was still, frozen in place. Suddenly, I felt as though I wasn’t alone, as though some presence was sharing my air. I remained silent and listened. Then, a subtle, yet pronounced whisper tickled my ears. I couldn’t discern what it was saying, it spoke in some foreign, yet familiar tongue. Petrified, I placed my hand over my mouth to muffle the rush of sound that was inevitable to exit my throat. As I moved my hand toward my mouth, I brushed up against something heavy, dangling around my neck. I grabbed ahold of it and examined it. How did this get here? Where did it come from? When did it get placed around my neck? Suddenly I remembered where I had first seen it. It belongs to her. The woman. But not just any woman. This woman was my fiancèe’s grandmother, although, she looked old enough to be his great-grandmother. At least. I’ll never forget the first day that I met her. My fiancee, then my boyfriend, picked me up at my house and took me to his parent’s place. I walked in the door, greeted by my future in-laws. That’s when I first saw her. She was seated at the dinner table in the conjoining room, just staring at me. By her appearance and dress, she reminded me of one of those fortunetelling games that you might see at an arcade. I envisioned an old worn sign above her head that read, “The Great Zoltan.” She didn’t move, just sat and stared. I began to wonder if she was dead. As eerie as she was, I couldn’t keep my eyes off of her. Trying my best not look at her for too long, but failing miserably.

“Nora!” My obviously annoyed boyfriend snapped.

“What?,“ I asked dazedly and confused.

“Are you going to give me your coat?” He asked.

“Oh yeah, here.” I removed my coat and gave it to his awaiting hand.

“I asked you like three times, what’s going on with you tonight.” He asked slightly concerned and completely agitated.

Admittedly I had been acting a bit unusual that evening. It wasn’t my fault though. Something inside me felt, off.

“What were you staring at?“ ”He looked at around the corner at into the room, which he couldn’t see from where he had been standing. “Oh, that's just my grandmother, do you want to meet her.” I honestly wasn’t sure. But before I could answer, he took me by the hand and guided me to her.

“Bunica, aceasta este prietena mea Norei.” I didn’t understand him because he spoke to her in Romani chib, or Romanian, which was her native language.

She didn’t move. I feared that she might have died and no one had noticed. She certainly looked the part of a corpse.

He placed his hand on her back, “Bunica!” As if yelling louder would wake the dead. “Bunica!”

The third time must have been a charm because she snapped her hand around to where we were standing and stared deep into my soul. Her breathing didn’t change, nor her position, only the direction of her smolder. It wasn’t until that moment that I noticed a beautiful ruby necklace dangling down her chest. I couldn’t help but gaze at it as it glimmered in the light of the room. I was no stranger to gems and Jewlery, but something about this particular piece was unique. It was a deep red, almost like the tent of fresh blood. He tried again, “aceasta este prietena mea Norei.” which I assume meant something about who I was and why I was there.

She reached out, grabbed my hand and held it in hers. Her hands were old, cold, and clammy. After a few seconds, which seemed like ten or fifteen minutes, she spoke, “ceea ce este în mine, acum trec la voi.”

I jumped. It was as if her words were somehow inside of me. I shot a look my boyfriend; I needed to know what she had said to me. He shrugged his shoulders and replied, “She’s a crazy old bat, who knows what she’s rabbling on about half the time.”

I quickly relieved my hand from her grip, and she returned to her previous focal point. Dead ahead. Emphasis on dead. My boyfriend and I left the room and enjoyed an evening with his parents over dinner. We ate in the kitchen and, surprisingly, his grandmother didn’t join us. As a matter of fact, I didn’t see much more of her after that night. She was around, but no one really interacted with her much. On the car ride home I asked my boyfriend about her.

“To be honest, I don’t know a lot about her. I know that she use to be a circus performer or something. I think she read people’s fortunes.”

“That’s so funny! I thought she looked the part.”

“Yeah, my dad’s family were all from Romania. I vaguely remember him telling me stories about how people would come from all around to have their palms read and speak to their dead relatives or something like that. Personally, I don’t buy into all of that, but its a pretty big deal with my family’s culture.”

“Well, I think its cool. I’d love to talk to her more about it.” I was genuinely interested.

“Yeah. I wouldn’t recommend that.” He said hesitantly.

“Why not?”

“She’s kind of crazy now; my parents say that she talks to people who aren’t there and is always rambling on about things that make my parents very uncomfortable. She’s kind of a burden on my folks. She’s really old, and they don’t totally know what to do with her.” He said concentrating on the road, wet from the pouring rain.

“Why don’t they put her in a home?” I asked with concern.

“Yeah, Romani’s don’t really do that. Families take a lot of pride in taking care of one another, its just kind of the way that we are.”

“Well, that's sweet. What was up with that Rudy necklace around her neck? That thing must have cost a fortune.” I asked, awaiting some exciting story about a beloved family heirloom.

He looked at me puzzled, “What necklace?”

“The Ruby necklace that she was wearing. You couldn't have missed it, that thing was huge!” I asked, very confused by his question.

“She wasn’t wearing a necklace. She can’t afford jewelry, especially not like what you just described.”

“I know what I saw! She was definitely wearing a ruby necklace. It was beautiful.” I saw insistently.

“Okay, whatever you say babe.” He said with a condescending tone that I had come to loathe.

That was three years ago. I didn’t think much about the necklace since then. In that time we became engaged and began planning our wedding. My career as a stock-broker took off, and I had received several promotions. My partners all said that I seemed to have an uncanny knack for predicting price fluctuations, they said it was like nothing that they had ever seen before. Tomorrow is my wedding, and I opted out of the traditional night before wedding bachelorette party. Oh, how I wish I hadn’t done that. Now here I lay, a ruby around my neck, and this thing haunting my bedroom. What is it? Why is it here? And what does it have to do with this gift: the ruby necklace?