Ghost River by Jon Coon (best non fiction books of all time TXT) 📕

who gave his life living by his promise to serve, trying to bring peace and closure to a grieving family. Now it’s our turn to help find that same peace and closure for our brother Charlie and his family. I ask for your prayers for them and thank you.”

Gabe folded his notes and exhaled deeply, relieved he was finished but still weighted with sorrow. He looked up and saw Carol wiping away tears. Alethea smiled sadly and nodded her approval.

Following the brief internment service, gun salute, and flag ceremony, Gabe said his goodbyes to Carol and the family. As the black Cadillac that had brought them pulled away from the curb, Gabe saw her lean into her father and begin to cry.

“It’s going to be a tough night at Charlie’s house,” he said to Alethea, who was beside him in the truck. After turning off the interstate and following the black top five miles down the road, he turned off onto a gravel and shell side road and followed it along a river tributary for another ten minutes. Another turn brought him to a long sand drive lined with live oaks and Spanish moss.

Branches overhanging the road created a tunnel penetrated by intermittent rays of golden afternoon sunlight. It reminded Gabe of diving cenotes, the caves and caverns of Mexico, with their beams of light punching through holes in the overhead stone, standing like pillars in gin-clear water.

The road ended in a small clearing, which was the yard of a cypress cabin with a rusted tin roof and creaking screen door beneath a sagging porch roof. Alethea respected his silence until they pulled in, scattering chickens, and parked. A large, white-faced, stiff-legged, golden retriever came off the porch, tail wagging and head up, happy to greet a friend.

“Hello, Cher,” Gabe said and dropped to one knee to scratch the aging dog’s head.

“Come in,” Alethea said, holding open the door.

“Let me get your firewood unloaded first. It won’t take long.” He opened the cover on the truck bed, climbed up, and began tossing out a half cord of wood he’d split for her. He stacked it by the door and covered it with a tarp.

“Are you still working on the big oak that fell last fall?”

“Yeah, there’s enough there to last us both a couple years. But it’s drying. I give it a good lick, and half the time the maul just bounces off. I need to get it done before it breaks my back.”

She sat in her porch rocker and waited for him to finish, then led him into the one-room cabin. A tiny bed and dresser filled one corner. Nearby was a wood stove for cooking and heat, a large sink with water pump for food prep and washing clothes, and two wooden ladder-back chairs sat at a cypress table. A sturdy rocker beside the stove completed the room. Two oil lamps hung from the rafters, and an outhouse, along with a cold-water shower off the small back, accommodated the necessities.

Three things in the cabin were unexpected: first was a bookcase wall filled with ancient volumes in Hebrew, Latin, Greek, German, Spanish, and languages Gabe didn’t recognize. Second, above the bookcase hung an antique crucifix, which Gabe suspected came from the Middle Ages. Doctor Guidry, with PhDs in anthropology and psychology, had chosen the road less traveled.

Third, less noticeable and generally as inert as the books, was Souriciere, a docile seven-foot white python, whose name, translated from Creole French to English, meant mousetrap. In return for eliminating rodents and other pests, Souriciere, a long-time friend, was invited to share the cabin’s warmth on cold nights on a soft pallet in front of the stove.

“You did a good job. Charlie would have liked that, I’m sure. But I can tell your spirit is greatly troubled,” Alethea said as they sat at the roughly hewn table. She poured two glasses of sun tea then took his hand in hers.

“I’d rather wrestle gators than do that again,” he sighed and gently squeezed her hand before pulling away. He put his hands flat on the rough-hewn table and stretched his back. “Who am I to be standing in a pulpit?” he asked.

“I know you don’t believe it, but you had every right to be there. And what you said proved it. That was a beautiful eulogy, given from your heart to people you care about. No one is worthy, Gabriel, but all can be forgiven. You did well. You were nervous, but it didn’t show.”

“You’re going to think I’m nuts, that the PTSD is back,” Gabe said. “And then you’re going to tell me finding Charlie and talking with him is my subconscious trying to explain what my conscious can’t deal with. So while you’re thinking about that, let me tell you about this: I saw Charlie sitting with his arm around Emily in church, and it wasn’t pretty.”

“Is that what you meant by ‘the spirits who love us’? Your theology was trending away from traditional dogma there.” She smiled with a gentle laugh.

“You know what I meant.”

“So do you want me to comfort you with psychobabble or tell you the truth?” She sat up straight and stared straight into his eyes.

“That’s what your name means doesn’t it, ‘truth’?”

She lowered her eyes as, from a dark corner, Souriciere came across the floor and put her football-sized head in Alethea’s lap. “Okay, brace yourself. I saw him too.”

“But how can that be?” Gabe asked. “I saw angels with him. He didn’t want to go. He was adamant he needed more time. Do we get a choice? When they come for you, isn’t that it? How can he still be here?”

“Did you see them take him?”

“I thought so, but the light was so bright, it happened so fast . . .” Gabe looked down at Cher, who had curled at his feet, and scratched behind her ears. Then he looked back up at Alethea, waiting for an answer.

“Sometimes spirits are allowed to linger.” She lifted