Evelyn Klebert

So,
when I stop and listen
and hear a familiar step,
rounding the corner again.
And I tell myself
yes,
I’ve been here before,
lived this particular
event
one too many times.
Sure,
it’s been dressed up
differently,
different actors,
words ever so slightly changed.
But everything else
everything
I’ve seen before
lived through before,
but never quite settled.
So
here it is again,
knocking on my front door,
telling me one more time
until I find a better way
of settling things,
a different choice
until I find a better way
of making peace.

I am inviting everyone to drop by Cornerstone Cafe, and check out my new interview.

I am happy to announce that Cornerstone Book Publishers, my publisher, is extending their Thanksgiving Week Book Sale to include anyone visiting this website. All print books (including mine in the Contemporary Literature section) are 40% off this week. I hope many drop by and take advantage of this great savings. And have a great holiday as well.

Here is the announcement from Cornerstone:

“Well, the last Cornerstone Sale was very successful, but generated some upset. I received a number of mails saying that it was too short for them to take advantage. So … here is another one for any who missed the first. It will be a week long 40% off Thanksgiving Week Sale starting today and ending Sunday 11/29 on all our print books at http://cornerstonepublishers.com. Just enter the code “40sale” (without quotes) in the Customer code box in the shopping cart and your discount will show up.

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Waiting
Waiting desperately
for change to come.
eyes fixed on a different time,
so cognizant of the anxiety of the present.
Waiting
Waiting for a painful stretch to end,
blinded by the anguish and uncertainty
of the moment.
Breathing deeply
and stopping thought
that breeds discord.
Stopping thought
and moving in the present,
quietly in each moment,
learning to live peacefully
in uncertainty.

 It was like walking through a deep cave with only filtered light to guide her steps. A half hour earlier, Dr. Cassidy had given her a light sedative to relax her and slowly, gradually, she had drifted into a strange disconnected state. And then her therapist’s soft, coaxing tones had guided her down into the place she now found herself.
“Can you hear me Rachel?”
The voice sounded different now, distant; she couldn’t quite connect; everything was out of focus in her mind.
“It’s Dr. Cassidy. Expect some disorientation Rachel.”
That was it. Now she remembered. She tried to open her eyes to see the office and the long, lounge chair that the doctor had elongated so that she could lie down during the hypnosis. “I can’t,” she whispered.
“It’s all right,” the voice comforted. “You must stay where you are now.”
She was moving through, not walking, moving through the long tunnel-like cave. “I don’t like it here.”
“I know. It’s a scary place for you now. But it’s the place of memory. It’s halls are the chambers of your mind.”
“It’s cold.”
“Yes, it will be until you let the light in everywhere. Now feel Rachel, where do you need to go?”
She stopped the movement and felt the cold breeze rush by her. It hadn’t been obvious before. It had been cloaked in darkness, but she could see now that there were bends, perhaps corridors to the murky cave, all leading different places.  To her right was a quick turn, and she could see light there, feel warmth. She began to move in that direction on impulse but the voice intruded. “You must concentrate Rachel, concentrate on your dream. It will guide you to where you want to go.”
It was frustrating. She only wished to follow the light where there was some peace, some happiness. It had been so long since she’d felt anything even remotely like that. But the voice, it continued, “Rachel focus, focus on Mannette.”
Then she began to concentrate, began to focus, and as she did something materialized. At the end of the very long corridor of shadows in front of her was a figure, a figure in a long white nightgown. She willed herself to move forward, toward it, but she was elusive. “I see her,” she whispered.
“Good, follow her,” the voice commanded.
It was so difficult, different, stifling; she began to move through darkness, heavy, suffocating darkness, almost like a black drape of cloth smothering her, but ahead she could still see the girl, lightly springing ahead, just out of reach. Frustrated she lunged forward, made one strong push that seemed to rip at something inside of her as she collided with a heavy black, solid surface. “I can’t,” she whispered. “It’s a wall.”
The silence surrounded her. But then it was broken suddenly. She began to hear whispers on the other side of the wall, people speaking in muffled whispers. “I can’t,” she spoke out again.
“Try,” the voice compelled her.
“I can’t. I’m afraid.”
“I know.”
And then instinctively she let her hand travel down the heavy black wall until it reached round, cold metal. She took in a deep, cold breath before she turned the knob and pushed the door open.

The doorway opened into a chilled bedroom. Her eyes immediately flew to the fireplace which was lit. Why wasn’t it heating the room? No wonder her daughter was ill.  Two men, tall grim, stood by her daughter’s bedside, one her husband but her eyes focused on the other, the white-haired man who’d been summoned that morning after they’d found Mannette unconscious, lying sprawled across the floor.
“How is she doctor?” she asked. Not allowing herself to focus on the pale sleeping girl.
She didn’t need his answer. She read it in his drawn face and in the frown about his mouth.
Then Adrien spoke, “It’s the sickness again.”
Her eyes widened as fear took hold. “That’s impossible. She already survived it. It’s gone for over a year.”
“Madame it might be best to alert the house hold that there’s a resurgence.”
“How, how can this be?” her voice came out in a panicked rasp.
Adrien’s words were broken in grief, “The doctor thinks Mannette might be some sort of carrier, and it had lain dormant in her until now.”
And then her throat began to close as the reality took hold, “No, not another child, not another daughter.”
“I’m sorry Madame. She’s already beyond help.”
And then she tried, tried so hard to pull the wall back around her heart that had always shielded her from such deep sorrows. But it wasn’t there, she couldn’t reach it. Nowhere to be found. She took a breath and then forced her eyes open only to be greeted by an astonished Dr. Cassidy.

“I know most in the medical profession don’t subscribe to these ideas, but I think you might have tapped into a past life.”
“So you think I might have actually been Marguerite Bijou.” She asked Dr. Cassidy pointedly and with surprisingly little emotion.
“I think it’s definitely one possibility.”
She nodded feeling so drained that she couldn’t quite connect with any feeling. “But it doesn’t exactly explain the nature of these dreams. They’ve always been from Mannette’s point of view, not Maguerite’s.”
The doctor shrugged, “That I can’t explain. I suppose we could attempt another hypnosis.”
Rachel wearily shook her head, “I don’t think so. It took so much out of me. I feel like I could sleep for a week.”
The doctor nodded, “Well, perhaps we should just wait and see if the dreams go away now.”
“Yes,” Rachel agreed. “Perhaps we should wait.”

The chilling night breeze whistled through her ears, brushed her skin, stung her eyes. And she should have shivered but she did not. The cold did not touch her although she could not explain why.
Yes, now you see. The whispers surrounded her.
“Why are you here?” Mannette asked the stranger whom she had seen from her window.
“You know.”
She walked a step closer to him. His skin was so pale but luminescent like the moon above them. “I remember you.”
“Yes,” he answered. Now lowering his hand, knowing that she would not take it. Not yet.
She nodded, “I saw you. That night in the room with Lanelle. That night she died.”
“Yes,” he answered. She was close enough to see that his eyes were indeed silver, an unnatural shade. But it didn’t startle her at all. She thought him beautiful. “She was afraid of me,” his voice came in a deeper whisper and she wondered if he’d really spoken at all.
“I know,” she nodded. Had she taken a closer step? The great white steed beside him stirred momentarily and then quieted.  “She didn’t understand.”
“Most don’t,” he murmured. “But you were not afraid.”
She shook her head, “No.”
And then he smiled, just slightly. But it warmed as though they were connected. “That’s why I let you stay.”
“I see,” she said. Truly understanding now. But not at all afraid, drawn, curious, compelled by the kinship she felt for the stranger.
“Are you ready now?” he asked.
And this time when he extended his hand. There was no hesitation.

Rachel awoke in the darkness but did not note the time on the clock now. She rose, pulling back the covers from her bed. The apartment should have been in darkness but she could clearly see from her bedroom an illumination coming from the den.
It didn’t really frighten her now. She simply pulled on a robe and walked through the doorway that led to the other room. There was only one lamp lit and her daughter was standing in front of the sliding glass doors that led onto the patio looking outward. But Rachel just quietly waited until Mannette turned round.
She was so beautiful, Rachel thought, like in the dream but also changed. She smiled in her greeting, and Rachel could see that it was her eyes that had changed, silvery in color, luminescent, like the moon above them. “I wanted you to understand.” She murmured so lightly that Rachel couldn’t be at all sure if she’d spoken.
But she nodded at her child. “I do.”
And when Mannette extended her hand her mother took it in hers.

Finis

Copyright © 2009 by Evelyn Klebert

Here is part two of my Halloween story, Reconciliations.

Hope you enjoy,

 Evelyn

****************

The great house on the Bijou plantation was surrounded completely by a grove of oak trees that was planted many generations before Mannette was born. They towered protectively about the plantation’s mansion and when the breeze rustled through their leaves they whispered to the youngest daughter of  Marguerite and Adrien Bijou. She’d told this, she remembered, only once to Lanelle, once when they were children and she’d smiled at her younger sister telling her not to be so foolish. So it became her secret that she was told by the whispering oaks of things to come, of the great storm that swept through the countryside when she was five, of the sickness that took Lanelle’s life and now of the stranger who stood waiting for her in their midst.
The breeze traveled to her before she reached him; it whispered through her cloak, through her hair and told her before she reached him that he is not at all what he seems.
Spy with your skin, with your hands, with your spirit. Don’t believe your eyes. They lie. 
She breathed in deeply and was comforted by the coolness that traveled into her chest. It was as though they were with her, the spirits, to guide and protect her.
He stood a good way from the house but she walked toward him — the blackness of the night illuminated by only a few stars and a half moon that was continually shrouded by cloud cover. But even in the semi-darkness she could see the white skin of his horse, luminescent almost as though it was made of the same substance as the moon overhead.
She stopped a few yards away from them. The man that she could see was pale, pale like the magnificent beast beside him. He extended his hand but she did not take it. She waited for he would have to come to her.

Her eyes opened, and she awoke in the shadows of her room. Beside her on the night table the digital clock gleamed 2:30 A.M. She swallowed on a dry throat and reached for a glass of water she kept for just such an occasion. She sat up in the narrow daybed that lay perched against the wall in her Mid City apartment. It was pointless, Rachel knew from experience. Pointless to try and get back to sleep now. The dream when it came was so vivid, so startling that trying to get back to sleep again would be impossible for at least another two hours.
She picked up the notebook beside her bed and the pen. And leaned her pillows up against the wall so she could write. It was Dr. Cassidy’s idea, the dream journal. Although at times she felt like simply Xeroxing her first account of it, for it rarely changed much.
“It’s important,” she’d said. “The nuances might give you some clue as to its meaning.”
“But it’s always the same,” she’d protested.
“Yes, but as you write there might be small details that differ. Try.”
Dr. Eva Cassidy was an older woman than she — silver haired in her late sixties, who had this sweet persistent quality to her that made it difficult for Rachel to refuse her.
So she began to write again for the third time this week, the haunting account of Mannette Bijou.

“So, how are you feeling?”
“Fine,” she smiled shifting a bit uncomfortably in the wide leather chair in front of Dr. Cassidy’s desk.  It crossed her mind with irritation that she was here at all today. It seemed as though a few months back that she’d made the decision to discontinue her visits to the therapist. After all as things were these sessions weren’t really in the budget at all. Her mother had suggested to her none too subtly that she was using here time here as a crutch. “The divorce is over my dear. You’re strong, you’re free. You are well on your way to a new life.”  And she was right, well as right as her mother could ever be. But if all was well why didn’t the dreams go away?
“How’s work?”
She nodded. “Fine, I mean stressful at times. Teaching full time at the University is demanding. But I like it.”
“It’s quite an accomplishment after what you’ve been through.”
She nodded as the shadows from the past began to creep in. “Well I’m trying hard to put all of that behind me.”
The older woman smiled at her and she wondered when she reached that age if she would carry as much dignity. “But you know Rachel, you do need to give things time.”
“But you see Dr. Cassidy I am impatient. I feel as though I’ve wasted so much of my life already.”
“I can understand why you would think that. But you must look on every event as a learning experience.”
“Look, I’ll be frank with you. All I want is to get rid of the dream.”
Her therapist paused for a moment and tilted her head ever so slightly at Rachel that oddly enough spoke volumes. “Is that really all that you want?” She hesitated, really considering things for a moment. Odd how her expectations of life had diminished so much over the years.  Perhaps it was years of disenchantment. But she did not desire self-reflection, only quiet and predictability. And then Dr. Cassidy added, “The dream itself, is it truly that disturbing to you?”
She frowned, again looking inward to places she had no desire to explore. “It’s,” and then she finished with frustration, “irritating.”
Dr. Cassidy looked down for a moment then returned her gaze on Rachel with an expression that was entirely unreadable. “Well, then we should get back to work. Let’s go over it again, detail by detail.”

“Why are you here?” she asked. The clouds overhead seemed to be swirling in the darkness. But he said nothing, just watched her with eyes pale, nearly silver in color, a cool unnatural shade. But familiar, so familiar as though it was something she’d forgotten. And then he held out his hand for her but she hesitated. For if she took it, everything would change.
Rachel sat up in the bed, her heart hammering fiercely. She felt her forehead, hot, burning up. She glanced at the clock on her night table. It was just after three, later tonight.
She dragged herself into the bathroom on shaky limbs. The face that greeted her in the mirror was drawn and pale, an older face than suited her thirty-five years.  A sadness flew up from the past and wrapped around her like a heavy blanket. So many years, all her young years in a bad marriage. She’d believed starting over would be so freeing, but somewhere along the way all the life had been sapped out of her. And now moving was like walking through a swampy bog.
She closed her eyes and the image of Mannette Bijou floated into her mind. She floated, like a magical thing, some beautiful angel from another sphere.  But the image of her only brought her pain, inexplicable deep pain.

She paced with near panic across the length of Dr. Cassidy’s office. “You have to calm down Rachel.”
“Look, Dr. Cassidy. I need you to give me something to sleep. With no sleep I can’t function and all my plans fly out the window.”
“I can write you a prescription but it will only address the symptoms. We need to get at the root of the problem.”
She spun around abruptly on her heel facing the grey-haired woman behind the desk. Her vision was slightly blurred from the night before and her head pounded from a headache she couldn’t seem to rid herself of. “I had to call in sick today to work. It’s a new job. I can’t go on like this.”
“I understand,” she said calmly. “That’s why I’m thinking of hypnosis.”
She felt a bit stunned at the words. “What?”
Dr. Cassidy stood up from behind the desk and moved around to her. “I can make arrangements to clear my calendar this afternoon, since clearly this is an emergency.”
Rachel felt a sort of dry panic creep into her throat at the prospect. But then again the thought of a continued excursion into these dreams night after night horrified her. “Why do you think hypnosis would help?”
“I feel that these dreams of yours Rachel are tied to some repressed memory that perhaps is too terrible for you to deal with.”
Fear swept in quickly as flashes from an abusive marriage rose to the surface. “We’ve talked about my past before.”
She nodded, “Yes I know. But perhaps there is something unresolved there.”
“I just don’t know if I want to dredge anything up. I don’t know if I can deal with it.”
“The question is do you really have a choice? Can you deal with the way things are now?”

Copyright © 2009 by Evelyn Klebert

Well it’s Halloween, undeniably my favorite holiday. What you might not know is that I have a long standing tradition with my best friend since, well 7th grade. Every Halloween we write each other a Halloween story.  So this year I’ve decided to share mine here.  If you’re more than ready for things that go bump in the night, here is part one of Reconciliations.

*********

“There’s nothing to be afraid of my child.”
But a cold chill seemed to sweep throughout her bedroom, perhaps from the open window. And she shivered in response, but it passed by unnoticed by her mother who sat beside the dressing table.
Mannette Bijou pulled on a long lace shawl that hung loosely off the small wooden bench that faced the long oval mirror in front of her.  Her reflection seemed like a stranger, pale, thin, eyes wide, blue, marked with the shadows beneath from her restless nights of the past several weeks.
“I know it seems sudden, but if you remember I was only fifteen when I was married and you are on the edge of your seventeenth birthday.”
“And how did you like it?” She asked with a pronounced hollowness in her voice.
Even in the reflection of the mirror she could see her mother’s face blanche at her question. She sat perched precariously beside Mannette on the bench, her blonde hair in sharp contrast to her daughter’s long dark locks.
“I,” she hesitated. And Mannette knew as she instinctively knew so many things that it was something her mother never allowed herself to consider. “I made the best of things.”
“And is that all we have to hope for? To make the best of things?”
She saw her mother’s face harden knowing again instinctively that the walls had gone up and there would be no point in pleading her case. Marguerite Bijou had spent her life doing what was expected of her and she would brook no resistance in passing that mantle down to her only surviving daughter. “You’ll be the mistress of a great plantation.”
“And take Lanelle’s place?”
She didn’t believe that her mother’s face could pale any further. But she was mistaken. Marguerite stood up abruptly and crossed the room to the other side, standing by the open window.  But again Mannette noted that she seemed unfazed by the chill that her daughter felt was so palpable in the room.
Her mother turned her back to her as she looked out onto the darkened grounds of the Bijou plantation.  “Why would you say something so hurtful Mannette?” she whispered.
Mannette had swiveled round on the bench but still remained seated. She didn’t have the strength or inclination to comfort her mother. Her mother who had been complicit in arranging this torturous future for her. “Richard loved my sister, not me Mama. To force this marriage after her death. . .”
“There was an understanding between families made long ago. It was agreed upon.”
It was fatigue, fatigue that had settled so heavily around her chest. It had come with the sickness that had swept through the countryside nearly a year ago.  It had taken the lives of so many, on their plantation alone a third of the workers, a fourth of the house staff and in their own family a younger brother and her older sister Lanelle.  It had been so strange; she’d felt keenly as though she too was meant to go with them. She’d fully expected it and she suspected that everyone else did as well.  She was ill for weeks and even Dr. Aubrand had confirmed her suspicion. She hadn’t the strength to survive but somehow against all odds, against all predictions, she had, although at times in an odd disconnected way she felt as though she really hadn’t. “A cruel contract Mama, a loveless marriage.”
And then Marguerite had turned on her heel to face her directly with a cold, shrewd expression. “Poor little fool, my fanciful little fool. Thinking that such a thing is unusual. My sweet daughter it is rare that marriage is anything else.” And then she took a swift few paces across the room to the door. Without glancing back at her daughter she said rather sternly, “Get some rest, tomorrow is your engagement celebration.” And then she was gone, closing Mannette’s door behind her with a distinctive snap.
And another chill almost in response to her mother’s exit passed through the room. She wasn’t at all sure when her mother had hardened so.  She would like to say it was at the loss of two of her children the year before. But Mannette was certain it predated that - and now in recent days she’d begun to wonder if it had always been there. Perhaps in the past she’d just taken more lengths to hide it.
Possibly it had been the defense of a young girl thrust into an unhappy life so young. And she wondered if that too would be her fate to become distant, cold, removed. But even now on the threshold of her marriage it didn’t at all feel possible, not at all real.
She heard a sound from outside her window, an animal - an owl perhaps, but it was too deep, perhaps a coyote from the nearby forested lands. She pulled the shawl more tightly around her nightgown and peered outside moving the light sheer drapes aside with her hand. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked down. It felt almost like a painful clutch in her chest.
Below her window, further out on the grounds there was a man looking up at her, almost like a statue standing beside a beautiful white horse. She stared down at him from her second story bedroom and suddenly he motioned her down with his hand, beckoning her to join him.
Swiftly she closed the window and abruptly sat down on her bed.  Surely he would leave if she ignored him.  She didn’t recognize him but he must be from one of the neighboring plantations. Perhaps a visiting relative, a man who was clearly a stranger to her, but just a glimpse of him had elicited an odd warmth in her heart penetrating the coldness that had remained present since the sickness. With great fatigue she lay down on the bed closing her eyes without extinguishing any of the lamps in her room. And she dreamed.

“Mannette,” it came in a whisper.  But she heard it clearly, loudly in her mind.
“Mannette,” light but insistent. But no one was in her room. She awoke alone, the echo of the whisper reverberating in her mind. The chill wrapped all around her, and of the two oil lamps in her room one had burned down to nothing, while the other remained, though barely a flicker. She pulled the lace shawl tightly around her as the whole room now felt like ice. As did her skin. Was she dreaming? Or had she just awoken from a heavy slumber?
“Mannette,” again the voice called, a woman’s voice delicate but unyielding. It called; it pulled, insistent. Without thought she headed out of her bedroom door, bare feet although the wood beneath felt like her skin, chilled, cold. The hall on the second floor of the great house was darkened. It must be late she thought to herself but she continued onward, down to the other end where her feelings led her.
She passed the turn that led down to her parent’s suite, but continued onward, past the twin’s rooms, her two older brothers, and then past Gregory’s room, her younger brother who’d been taken along with Lanelle the year before.
Losing him had been a blow but her parent’s had raised the boys and girls separately, so there was not that degree of closeness that she had experienced with her older sister, that bond.  The two of them were like survivors of a passing storm, clinging to each other while all was chaos around them. Lanelle had always understood the difference in her younger sister, but shielded the world from seeing it.
She had coached Mannette in deception and protected her from her parent’s expectations. All her young life Lanelle had participated in the world while Mannette continually felt pulled away from it. Her visions she confided to no one but her older sister who compelled her to keep them secret.  Compelled her to use artifice to convince everyone that she was not who she was. And then she had gone leaving her on her own to assume the mantle of family responsibility.  More than once she had prayed for deliverance, prayed for escape.
She stopped in front of the black oak doorway at the end of the long hallway. It had been a year but nothing had been changed. One day her mother had taken her inside briefly insisting she go through her sister’s things and take what she wanted, but it had been impossible — the emotion, the feelings so tangible to her; she’d run sobbing away down the hall.  Her mother hadn’t understood. But that was not surprising. They didn’t exist in the same realm and her interpreter had left the earth.
Shakily she turned the brass doorknob and let the door float softly open.
She expected darkness but there was none. The room of her sister was illuminated in a soft glow. And more surprising than that it felt warm to her, beckoning. With eyes downcast she walked inside and felt the door behind her close by an invisible hand.
She moved forward, cheered by the glowing fireplace against the white plaster wall. She didn’t look elsewhere but simply moved toward it holding her icy hands before it to be warmed.
“You’re chilled,” the gentle voice whispered behind her. But she didn’t turn round. She just focused on the warmth that was seeping through her fingertips.
“Mannette,” it whispered. But she wouldn’t turn round, out of fear, out of obstinacy.
“It’s your fault,” she rasped shakily. “It’s your fault. This should be your life, your marriage. I didn’t ask for it.”
“I’m sorry dearest one,” the voice consoled in an echo.
Her throat filled with tears, how could she be so selfish, how could she be so angry at her poor dead sister. “I didn’t want to live,” she whispered. “I never belonged here anyway. This was your world.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “That’s true enough.”

And then Mannette’s eyes opened into the darkness of her room. She sat up in her bed. Both oil lamps had burned down into nothingness. She breathed in deeply still smelling the embers of the fire in her deceased sister’s room. The wind flapped through the gossamer drapes and she crossed the room and looked out the open window. He still stood beneath, the stranger with the white horse, not motioning now, just staring up at her. She backed away hesitating for a moment, then decisively pulled on her black boots on, grabbed a cloak from the armoire, and hurriedly headed downstairs.

Copyright © 2009 by Evelyn Klebert

With An Uneasy Traveler’s recent release on Kindle I wanted to share a new review of the book by
J. Stefan Jackson
Author of “The Golden Talisman” and “Cades Cove”

*******************************

“Not normally one who’s drawn into romantic story lines, I found the intertwined journeys of both Aubrey Mason and Jacob Wyss extremely compelling.  Eloquently crafted by a gifted author, I found it hard to put An Uneasy Traveler down once I started reading the novel.  Aubrey and Jacob are hardly typical soul mates, and yet most definitely brought together by more than chance…a fated collision while traveling along their respective ‘life paths’.

But what made the novel one where I simply had to turn the page to find out what would happen next were the spiritual aspects, and a whole new way of looking at the unseen world around us.  The story’s supernatural aspects are layered nicely—subtle influences, and yet when necessary, powerful forces bent on reuniting two familiar souls.

Ms. Klebert presents a remarkable visual experience for the reader.  One that will surely stay with me for years to come…. I can honestly say this since I first read the novel a year ago, and have revisited this story several times since then.”

J. Stefan Jackson

Do I have to wait
for something to change?
For someone else to decide
that they’ll be different?
Do I have to wait
for life to take a turn,
for chains to melt away,
for something to change?
Do I have to wait?
Or can I simply decide
to stop waiting,
to change,
to be free,
and melt my own chains.

Just to let you know if you are a Kindle fan all of my books including The Left Palm and Other Halloween Tales of the Supernatural have recently been put on Kindle.