Testament of the Dead

By Vincent Macraven

"Testament of the dead" centers on eight persons who are now among the nonliving. Telling their tales of having once lived the now dead watch Jeff. Having seen the atrocity he has committed the dead are assigned to haunt the living. See Jeff grow from a disturbed child into a disturbed man, learn of his crime against his fellow man and watch the dead pick apart the remains of Jeff's sanity. Read a tale giving voice to the dead who would otherwise remain silent, listen to their stories, see their haunting and watch the living bleed and be driven to madness. For we are all being watched.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493184125

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Copyright © 2014 by Vincent Macraven.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014904697

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-4931-8411-8

   Softcover   978-1-4931-8410-1

   eBook   978-1-4931-8412-5

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without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 05/05/2014

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CONTENTS

SPECIAL THANKS

WINSTON

GRETA

MARTIN

JEFF, THE LIVING

TONY

JESSICA

SISTER ROSEMARY

DEAD EYES WATCHING

ISABEL

HELEN

DEAD JUSTICE

TESTAMENT OF THE DEAD

DEDICATION

To the silent voices of the dead

SPECIAL THANKS

Sarah Ghoshal, Editing

WINSTON

"The manner in which I came to my earthly demise is of no consequence. The once vital moment of life has transformed into the experience of death. I am now among the nonliving; I am now spirit, a ghost, if you will. My inner consciousness has passed through to the other side. My body lay motionless, ready to be absorbed by the earth, but my soul and my spirit are alive in the otherworld, breathing and seeing like never before. And although I should be fretted by my demise, I am not. Although I should crave more life, I do not feel that I was cheated. To all that are born, and this is inevitable, there is suffering. In some version or another, suffering takes on many forms, so is there any sweeter release than that of death? Do not mistake my words, I have lived a full and gratifying life, filled with many memorable tales and sweet tastes. But the release of my earthly body has given me another experience to savor. In this new state of mind, there is something oddly enjoyable, like the shackles of my earthly body have been stripped, and my soul set free. In solitude we get the call; the bonds and connections we establish in life melt away as the call of death rings for us to answer. We pass through the door alone, meeting our final destination. I never feared being alone, so for myself, the passing was easy, but for others, their transition was more difficult I’m sure. The fear of death, of the unknown, alone, staring into the void of lifelessness, could be a frightening experience for some, but for me, it was a sweet release. I think the transition bares discussion. Perhaps it is the sins that man harbors in his soul that causes the fear of death. For at that moment, when the spirit crosses over to meet providence, man has to confront his earthly actions. Transgressions must be accounted for when meeting the heavenly father, which could cause a troubled mind to fear greatly his mortality. I am by no means a saint; I have had my share of misdeeds that have caused me to feel shame for my actions. These I will discuss later in my testament.

As I was saying, the troubled souls that walk the earth know not of the sins they commit, sins that they will carry over to the other side. And as I stated before, perhaps it is these sins, buried in the subconscious of the mind, that bring forth the fear of death, the fear of accountability. I am by no means an expert on the subject of the afterlife and be assured no one is, and anyone who says that they are and knows for certain this soul or that soul is going to the ungodly realm of hell is full of a self righteousness that is unfounded, for the truth of the matter is God is the only judge and he isn’t talking. Like I said, I am not an expert, but having crossed over this I can say with certainty: What we do to others and the world matters more then we think. Accountability happens, from kings to the indigent, and that is all I have to say on that matter. On the matter of death I must say that it is a fascinating experience, and I can see and hear in a way that was foreign to me in life. With a different degree of clarity my ghostly presence is functioning on a higher plane of consciousness, with awareness I never thought possible, and sight is like coming out of a dream into a land where truth lies. Stripped of all masks and roles, I am spirit, eternal and everlasting. And that is all I have to say on that matter. Now to the life I had lived and my testament.

I was born, raised, worked and lived in Boston all of my earthly existence. I have known no other home. Although I have traveled extensively, I always found my way back to where my heart thrives and that is Boston. My experience in New York City was most memorable and enjoyable and I must confess that if I were to reside anywhere else it would be NYC, but Boston is filled with a lifetime of memories, and it is there I will always call my home.

I was raised from the age of three by my Aunt Joan and Uncle Ted. They are the only parents I have ever known. Aunt Joan and Uncle Ted left me with nothing but the feelings of a deep and true love and I wanted for nothing growing up in their home. Tragically, my mother and father were killed in an automobile accident when I was only three and the only memories I have of them are the pictures that Aunt Joan has given me, which still left me with a deep, inner void. I had pictures and stories, tales and implanted memories of who they were, and the ghostly presence I could recall when I was a boy growing up. During the times I felt alone, it was the dead spirits of my mother and father that brought much comfort. I realize now that I never really felt alone, as you see, I never was.

Aunt Joan and Uncle Ted had a child of their own, Sally. She was really my cousin, but because of the dynamic of the household, she was like my older sister and she always viewed me as her younger brother. The way she treated me, loved me, respected me and was sympathetic to my tragic calling always drew a deep and great response of love to my Sally. My Sally, oh how I loved dearly my sister Sally.

Judge not less ye be judged. This was a lesson I learned early in my youth. It was the first time I recall that I brought myself great shame by my actions. It was also the first and only time I brought an inner pain to my dear Sally. It was a hot summer, I recall, and Sally phoned with some big news. I was on the edge of my seat waiting for her return home from college. I was excited like a little boy on Christmas Eve, for I had missed her dearly. I waited by the front door for what seemed to be days and finally, the car pulled up in the early afternoon. I don’t think I was ever so excited; I could not stop smiling. So the big news, earth shattering, was that she was getting married! She told us all that he was a colored man, Trevor. We stopped speaking for six months. Looking back now, I am ashamed of who I was, the folly of my youth, ignorant and without knowledge and the pain I caused my dear Sally. It was a long and painful time in my life. I had judged this man by the color of his skin. I was ashamed of myself for judging a man by the color of his skin. I had taken a personal journey, a soul searching journey. And after getting to know Trevor, I found out things. For one, the only difference between him and myself was the color of our skin. We both loved numbers and solving problems. We both loved baseball, and we both loved Sally deeply. I was never so ashamed of my actions. Trevor turned out to be a fine man I respected. He was a man of knowledge and integrity, and more important he was a kind man with a good heart. I was proud to call him my brother in law. I attribute my actions to the inexperience of my youth. For to truly judge a man, it is not by the color of his skin but by the measure of what is in his heart. It was a lesson I learned at an early age.

The only other time of deep pain with my sister Sally was when I found out she was going to die. I sobbed for days with the news. I was losing someone very dear to me. I was a lost soul through a darkened wilderness. I watched her deteriorate from the cancer. Her body, once so vital, became ravaged by the disease. Her face was withdrawn, and she lost much weight. I vowed not to remember her that way. I vowed instead to remember her as she was, vibrant and young, healthy and smiling. These were the pictures I would take with me as my life went on. And it was these pictures that brought me such a smile and warm feeling of love for my sweet dear Sally. And that is all I have to say on that matter.

I was a robust man in life! Standing tall with a figure of large statue, I enjoyed my meals and the snacks in between. I would often get chastised by my love, like most men of extra pounds. But that didn’t deter me from enjoying my meals and a good cigar after. Life was to be lived! And live I did! To be in every moment and live it to its fullest! Perhaps that is why now with death I have no feelings of remorse.

I met the love of my life when I was in my late twenties. The sweetness of her soul was revealed to me late one night after a long discussion over coffee. The enchantment of her eyes had captivated my every move. I relished, savored and hung on her every word, growing eager with anticipation for the next. The world around me melted away as there was only us: two strangers meeting for the first time. Yet we were not. Like for a married couple of many years, the conversation flowed as we read each other’s thoughts, knowing what was to be said before uttering a word. I had never felt anything so powerful in all of my life and in that moment I knew I would never feel it again. My heart would never be the same after she uttered the words, within my heart there would always be a longing never filled; she was to be wed to another. She was my one true love and all we shared was a kiss and some time. Is there any sweeter love than the love that was never meant to be? And that is all I have to say on that matter.

With a love for numbers, I made my living dealing with businesses on the verge of bankruptcy. I was the chief advisor at the largest bank in Boston. The position paid very well, leaving me and my family wanting for nothing. I enjoyed my work, as every man should, and I seldom took the problems of the office home with me. On more than a few occasions I was needed elsewhere in the country so I traveled more than six times a year. At work I was well respected by my superiors and by the subordinates. And after the scandal broke I was even more respected.

My superior was embezzling funds. He was always a shifty man that I never did care for. His manners and the way he held himself was something to be desired. And so this man, my superior, was on the verge of a breakdown when he came to me asking for help to cover his tracks as the wolves were at the door. Naturally, I played along and told him that of course I would help in any way I could. With much relief, he left my office. I immediately phoned his superior and told him of the dealings. And so, after showing my loyalty to the bank, I was promoted. Myself and my family celebrated for the entire weekend with fine food, drink and dance. That was until we heard the news that the embezzler took his life by throwing himself before a moving train. The celebration was cut short. It seemed in very bad taste to celebrate my promotion while a man lay dead. Of course it was by his own hands, the whole fiasco, stealing, and then taking his life, but to celebrate, very bad taste.

After I had passed on, I always thought that I would see my departed loved ones. But here I am with no sign of my family or friends. I did though have a revelation that I think I have to commit an act first. I have this overwhelming feeling that I have to accomplish some deed before moving on. I think perhaps then I will move on to the next level and see my mother and father, Sally and others. And I think it has to do with what I have seen, witnessed and been disgusted by.

My thoughts turn to a college’s wife. She is an interesting woman, about the same age as myself and a student of art. With depth of insight she could examine a painting and give a rare account of the painter’s expression of the piece, examining the shade to such a degree that cast her own inner account of her revelation of the piece. For example, Van Gogh’s Starry Night comes to mind. In her picture she sees the flame as the burning bush in the front with a church steeple in the back. This is something I would have never thought if she hadn’t pointed it out to me. And the magic swirling sky was a mystical night of a religious experience. I found her mind to be the most extraordinary. She always had a sharp wit about her with deep insight on not just art but life. I must confess on more than one occasion, I let my mind wander to seeing her undressed and in my bed. Of course I would never break the friendship I had with her husband. And for my wife for that matter I could never bring about the pain, the mistrust, and the damage to our relationship, not again, like I did on one hot summer night.

There was a young flower, when I was married to Bea, that brought about my shame. It was the only time, and this before God do I confess, that I disgraced my vows to my wife. I was away on business, feeling lonely, and this beautiful flower took notice. I am a man of hardly great handsome looks but this young lady with deep blue eyes and black hair offered to buy me a drink. I was never approached in such a manner and to be truthful, it was the last time. So the evening progressed and we laughed, telling stories of our lives. She was wearing the most beautiful black lace dress, almost see through. As soon as she sat I could see the outline of her undergarments, and I must confess I was interested. So the night grew into a long evening of her telling me about her plans for the future. She was to attend a local college for the arts. She wanted a life in film or theater. I was taken aback, for I could very easily see that face on the screen. As far as her acting abilities, though, I was a little skeptical. I told her about my family and my upbringing, being without a mother and father. It was then she touched my hand and I knew we would wind up in bed together. It was a night of passion with a stranger who mistook me for a father figure, when in fact I was putty in her hands. After the night, she asked me if she would ever see me again, and I told her no. She stated that she didn’t mind, and she had had a memorable night. After dressing, she kissed me on the forehead and departed from the hotel room. I was left alone with my feelings of enormous guilt, and all I could think was of Bea. Her face haunted me throughout my stay in the city. I resigned not to confess my transgression. But foolishly, the young flower’s red lipstick was smeared across my garment. Bea was in tears when she confronted me. Maybe I wanted her to know on some level, maybe I selfishly needed to unburden myself. I hurt a very dear woman, my wife, my love, my friend and my advisor. The shame and guilt consumed me for quite some time as I could barely look her in the eye. We stopped speaking for at least six weeks and to be truthful, after she forgave me, it was never the same. How often do we go about our lives not knowing what we have, until we lose it by the humane folly we make? And that is all I have to say on that matter.

I can hear differently. To the backdrop that is now death I could hear differently. The soft sounds surround my ears. Like angelic rhythms playing in the land I now inhabit the soft caress of a timeless piece echoing in my mind. I cannot play the piece. It is too far off. As a living man I did enjoy music. But now this piece, the one that I cannot hear, is haunting me. I am trying to listen distinctively to its cords, but it evades me. As a living man I could place the classical music I loved. But with this piece, it is still too far from my grasp. I find myself fearful of the sounds. I was never fearful but now I find myself in a state of panic trying to hear. It is approaching, like a wave of water coming to drown me. My God I could hear it! It is Beethoven’s Ode to Joy! I find myself now drowned in my own tears. The sound is