The Haunted Traveler Vol 1 Issue 2

50
had left the car keys on the hall table and he would not
have to witness the carnage in the kitchen. He did not
want to vomit in front of Rhonda. She was right, he
didn’t have the stomach for this, though, if he had to,
he would bring her back a little boy or girl if the dog
proved insufficient.
Anything for Gemma.
Gemma. If he didn’t hurry he would miss her
burial. He checked his watch; barring traffic he would
be at the cemetery in twenty minutes. He drove cautiously,
all the windows open, yet he still felt like he
was cooking slowly, squinting through the white glare
of the day all the way to the churchyard.
It was a small funeral. Only her parents were
there, augmented by a few gouty uncles and acidic
aunts, a clutch of her more ’acceptable’ friends. He
wasn’t welcome. He was an embarrassment. The backstreet
boy who had bewitched their beautiful princess
(and oh, if they only knew how true that was, what
Rhonda had boiled up to seal the deal) only to lead her
astray.
They blamed him for her illness. They never
said as much but it was plain to see in their basilisk
stares. They had no idea the lengths he had went to
cure her - there wasn’t a cat left alive for miles around
his sister’s house. If anyone was to blame, it was
them; that shit in her blood that yellowed her skin and
greyed her looks was genetic. Their corrupt genes
were at fault, not his. Looking at this slack jawed
rabble it was impossible to believe she had sprang
from such a fetid pool.
Gemma was such a lovely girl, curvaceous and