Storybook Corner: John and I

Copyright Adam Ickes

Copyright Adam Ickes

The voices led me there. They prodded and poked until I finally gave in, never told me where I was going, only gave me directions. Turn left, turn right, go straight, faster… that sort of thing. I’m not certain how many voices there were, but I know it was at least three working in unison. Once I’d made up my mind to listen I heeded their directions without hesitation…that is until I came upon the graveyard. I didn’t even know it was there-tucked away on Wallace Street between a Lutheran church and a deli I’d never heard of.

I stood at the open gate and wondered why the voices led me there. My feet planted firmly in place, the voices tried to urge me onward. To be honest, I was scared. There’s this fear I have of graveyards. I feel like something is going to reach through the ground and grab my ankle. I’ve never cared to venture a guess as to what goes on after it’s grabbed me. I’d rather not think about things like that. It’s an irrational fear, I know, but it creeps in every time I see a cemetery.

After enough urging from the voices and enough positive thoughts to block the image of a hand breaking through the ground to get me, I finally continued forward again. Why they led me to the grave of Pvt John Weakley I’m still trying to figure out, but the voices stopped immediately upon arrival. I haven’t heard them since. I never told anyone about the voices until they were gone. Even then I only told my girl, Karrie.

I’ve been back to visit John every Tuesday since those strange voices first led me there. I feel a strange draw pulling me there, like we’re connected somehow. I have so many questions and very few answers. Karrie has this theory that I was John in a past life. See… I have these dreams of fighting in the Civil War, usually on Monday nights. That’s why I visit him on Tuesdays. Karrie thinks they might be memories rather than dreams. It’s hard to wrap my head around such a concept, but the more time I spend with John the more I wonder if she might be right. I mean, really, who visits a dead guy they never even heard of on a weekly basis?

Let’s say for the sake of argument that I am John… I mean waswas John. What exactly does that mean? Why does it even matter?

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About Adam Ickes

Adam Ickes is a writer who has made a home in central Pennsylvania with his wife and daughter. He is obsessed with releasing the horrors in his mind on an unsuspecting world. His stories live and fester in the twisted confines of his imagination before demanding to be released from their prison, usually at gunpoint. ... Like Adam on Facebook ... Follow Adam on Twitter ... Join Adam's Mailing List ... Find Adam on Amazon View all posts by Adam Ickes

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