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Authors: Elizabeth Brown

A Portal to Leya

BOOK: A Portal to Leya
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A Portal to Leya
Elizabeth Brown

After Leya Blackwater is murdered on the eve of Halloween, Lancelot Bryce--childhood friend and secret admirer--wants her back; he will do anything to reunite and confess his love for her. Using a blog, Lance creates a portal to Leya. When it works, and Leya returns, Lance is tormented by his desire to keep her in the physical realm.

Portal to Leya

Elizabeth Brown

2012 Amazon Digital Services


All rights reserved. No part of this
book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic
or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by information storage and
retrieval system without written permission from author, except for inclusion
of brief quotations in review.

Printed in the United States of America


NOVEMEBER (two weeks later)

I never believed in
ghosts—not until Leya was murdered. Now, I’m convinced she is nearby, an
apparition waiting to connect. There is so much I want to say that I never
said. So, I’m going to write because Leya loved writing. She once told me “You
can reach anyone with your words, Lance.” and so my blog will be the words, the
portal, the gateway where we can reunite.

My name is Lancelot Bryce. My parents were major King
Arthur fanatics. I’ve gone my whole life, fifteen-years, being called Sir Lancelot.
It’s ironic. My name doesn’t fit me. After all, I was born a preemie and
weighed about 3 pounds. My immune system sucks. I’ve had all kinds of illnesses
no one even gets like whooping cough. I wasn’t even the first born. Francis, my
older brother, was born on time, whopping nine pounds so he got a normal name. I
guess they thought I’d grow into my name. Sir Lancelot was big, iconic, heroic,
one of the greatest knights of the King Arthurian legend. He saved a kingdom, rescued
Queen Genevieve, twice. I’m not very brave, I hate the cold, and I don’t think
I’ll ever do anything outstanding. And the love of my life never knew I loved
her (like that anyway) and she was murdered a couple weeks ago. I never saved
her. Maybe I would have if I knew. I can’t now. So, I’m going to do the only
thing I know how to do—create a blog. I bet if Sir Lancelot had computers, he’d
be spineless. I bet he’d be too busy gaming, surfing the web,  to save a
kingdom or rescue a Queen.

So as I said, my blog is
a portal to Leya Blackwater. No, I’m not insane. If you think I am, sign out.
That’s your prerogative. I’ve done extensive research on electrical waves and
am convinced we can tap into each other’s energy no matter where we are in the
universe. I’ve got top PhD scholars that’ll back me up, along with a couple
engineers turned ghost hunters who have actually created devices for
communicating with spirits. I don’t have fancy machines, but I have keystrokes
and a computer. In order to tap into the right portal, I need the details. So, I’ll
start from the beginning, which was the end for Leya.

Leya’s body was found
(according to the news) in the park, Elizabeth Park, on the morning of Halloween.
Here is how it happened: Mrs. Green walks her dog Lilly, a grey schnauzer @
6:45 Saturday morning in Elizabeth Park. Meanwhile, no one was looking for Leya
because she was never reported missing. Her parents believed she spent the
night at Susanne’s (her best friend). And Susanne, on the other hand, believed
she hooked up with Neal and decided not to go to the dance. Susanne ignored the
unanswered texts she sent to Leya because, as she was quoted saying: “Leya
always did this to me when she went back to Neal. She didn’t want me to know,
because I’d yell at her.”

Mrs. Green walked her
dog at 6:45 every morning for five years without incident. This would change
for her on the morning of October 31
at 7:05 a.m. Mrs. Green sees the
bike first. She spots the gleam of a chrome fender. Maybe Lilly barks.
Something seems off, so she moves in closer, peeks down the side of the bank.
And that’s when she finds Leya at the bottom of the bank, lying next to the brook,
muddy, partially dressed. When interviewed, Mrs. Green said: “Horrible…I saw
her bike. It didn’t look right…I mean it looked as if it were thrown there…then
I saw the body…her face…that poor girl…unimaginable...I walk my dog this same
route every morning…never a problem…never….lived in this neighborhood all my
life. She was such a pretty girl. Her face was like an angel. I can’t forget

The police collect the
evidence—her body, bike, backpack with a Dr. Pepper—unopened—that she would
never drink—and her costume she would never wear—a hippy wig with John Lenin
glasses, a peace sign, and a vest. Leya loved Dr. Pepper. She loved peace
signs. She ironed and sewed peace signs onto her coats and jeans. Why someone
who loved peace so much could die so violently I have no idea.





I like your blog, Lance. I’ve no doubt you’ll connect. It’s horrific. And I
like your wave idea. Kind of neat to think we are immortal in a sense. I loved
King Arthur stories. You ever heard of Lance Armstrong? He won like seven or
eight Tour de France titles?   

just found this blog.
Too painful to even read. Why do you
torture yourself Lance? Please contact me. Leya would want you to. I know she

@susanne you don’t know what she would want.

@jabberwocky9 yes heard of Lance Armstrong. But I’m
not a fan of athletics and he’s getting his title taken away and all kinds of major
endorsements like Nike for doping. He’s refuting it all. He won’t win this
fight. Can’t we ever take someone’s word? The guy seems legit to me.


Where do we go? If there is a heaven, or something
like it, Leya Blackwater has top accommodations. But maybe she’s still here,
nearby, so I'm going to write until I make contact, tap into the spiritual realm.
I feel it already when I’m typing. I need her. She knows I do. I can feel her
presence. There is this tremendous nothing Leya left behind, this carved out
piece. The nothing is real—no kidding. I wear it like skin. And then I get
these brief moments of light, when I can imagine it never happened. I stare at
her house across the street and feel this overwhelming emptiness. I’ve known Leya
forever; she was seven and I was five when we moved to the neighborhood; it was
right after Emmet (my father) left us. She was everything to me--- a playmate, a
sister and then later a girlfriend (I wished). Now, the Blackwater house has a
void, a whorl of darkness encapsulating it. Everything is frozen in time like
some macabre photograph. The pumpkins are there, right where we left them on
the front step. I helped her pick them out. It was like yesterday. She tried to
carry the heaviest
. I can do it
, she said. The stem broke. It fell on
her foot. She laughed, hysterically:
I’m going to pee my pants
screeched tears streaming down your face. Her hair tossed like soft silk. I
wanted to touch it. I never told her that, how I wanted to touch it. No
movement now. I imagine her like energy, breaking out of her shell, a beam
zooming across the universe.


 2 a.m can’t sleep. It's a gross feeling, being out
of control, knowing what you could have said, realizing after the fact; and now
there's nothing I can do about it. I loved Leya. I know I loved her more than a
friend. Damn it. I imagined us together. I imagined it all. But I could never
admit it. I’m only human. Maybe I did it. Maybe I wanted to be with Leya so bad
that I snapped. I raped and killed her. Jesus, what’s wrong with me. That's so bizarre,
so outlandish an idea …I must be losing my mind. Weird thing is we made a pact
that if one of us dies, we’d let the other know what it’s like. I never
imagined it could actually happen. We’re invincible, teenagers; we have this
unique, but short span of time before we realize, hey, we’re just mortals.
Shit, life sucks.

You better come back and tell me!
she said.
It was a couple weeks ago, right before the day. We were eating chocolate chip
cookies at the kitchen table. She had chocolate crumbs in the corner of her
mouth. I imagined my tongue on the corner of her mouth licking hers clean. I
used my finger instead. Her lips felt warm. She was excited, alive. I swear she
exuded this kind of wild energy like beams around her body. No, I’m not insane.
Leya had an aura and it was teal (her favorite color) with yellows mixed in. I
see this shit. I’m telling you. I’m not the only one who sees auras. We talked
about death and life in one moment, one split second:
I hate people that dip
their cookies in milk. I hate that so much. It’s so gross! I don’t get it at all!
Do you?
she elbowed me. She always touched me. But lately, I’d get shivers
when she did. I’d feel nervous and jittery. My cookie bumped the side of the
glass and it tipped over. The milk spilled on the kitchen table. Leya's mom
walked in. She smiled just like Leya. They have the same smile. “Okay, what’d
you do this time, Sir Lancelot?” Leya laughed (I loved her laugh) she pulled
the paper towels, and more laughing and laughing and walking towards me and the
whole roll trailed behind her.

Did that creep Neal Lourdes really kill her? I really
don't know. I never thought of him as that kind of a guy. Sure, he’s a jerk,
but a murderer? I don't know who could do that--murder someone so amazing, so
brilliant? It's like destroying the sun!



man you’re in bad shape dude. Don’t let it get away from you, reality I mean.
I’ve been there. Live in FL now but I knew that suspect, Neal. He was a punk.

I can’t imagine you’ve “been there” and how did you know Neal?

his mom and mine belonged to some book club. So his family came over Christmas
Eve. He stole my mom’s ring out of her jewelry box. We know he did it. But we
can’t prove it. We lived in Hartford. My family moved to Florida last year.



I’ve read about famous people that off themselves
because they were lonely. I never got that. Loads of fans and money and you’re
lonely? Now I get it. It's an internal thing, sort of like a computer drive
that's corrupted by a virus and then wiped out. The outside is deceiving. The
external is left intact as the outer parts deteriorate. I feel wiped out. It doesn’t
help to have Leya’s house right across the street. Every time I look out my
bedroom window, there it is. I should visit her parents, bring a cake or
something. I’m sure they’re in bad shape. But I'm a coward. I'll admit it. I
never had someone die like this before. I'm new at it, I guess. Dorrie (aka
Mom) said I should. Ben (aka Mom's boyfriend) chimed in with a “Why don’t you?’
I have this feeling they are waiting for me to explode. I haven't cried at all,
yet. I guess parts of me are solid, strong like an Arthurian knight. Crap. Maybe
that's not normal, that I don’t cry I mean. I caught Dorrie crying. She was
wrapped up in Benny’s arms and he was rocking her back and forth saying “It’s
okay” like she was some small child. I have to admit, it disgusted me. Mothers
are not supposed to be rocked like babies. I told her I was writing a blog and
she said "That’s a great idea, Lance,” and she said it in this perky tone.
It made me mad. I don’t understand how she can be perky now. Ben was grinning
like he understands how I feel. Maybe he does get me. I pretty much like him.
He doesn’t cry either. But he holds Dorrie. And he kisses her and I think they
are probably having sex. And that grosses me out. But they have each other. Francis
is gone so I don’t even have him anymore. I could really get depressed if I
keep writing about these things. But I feel like I have I have no
control over my fingers. So maybe it's helping in some freakish manner.

School tomorrow…what I waste of time. I know enough.
I know something sinister. An evil source took Leya's life…sweet Leya. I can’t
even begin to describe her. She was perfect, maybe too perfect for this shitty
world. The dark got her. Dorian’s equations pale in comparison. There is no
solution for the problem of Leya’s death. I know real life now. I know darkness
like a best friend.
Hello darkness my old friend, I've come to talk with you
. Now I get him, that dry dude, Bob Dylan. “He’s a brilliant poet,”
Dorrie argued. I never understood the appeal. Now, I can relate. I thrive on it
now, this dark web that’s got me tangled up on the inside. It is somewhere
inside me, latched on like a virus.



blog dude. Get some help.

is slowly slipping, dude. I can’t stress enough that you need some booze, weed,
meds, something to get you back on the right track.


I feel odd—more so today—strangely small. I swear
I’m shrinking. I keep thinking of
The Metamorphosis
by Franz Kafka how
that dude transformed into a bug. I always loved that story. Maybe I was
prophetic, knew it would apply to me one day. I can relate. I can so relate
now. I feel like that dude, Gregor, the pathetic salesman who transformed into
an insect. I think my limbs are becoming immobile. I can barely move. Leya had
loads of positive energy. She was always moving, hyper. That energy had to go
somewhere. No way any amount of energy like that is squelched. This blog, my words,
will emit a signal, an electric current and she will be drawn to it. Then we
can reconnect. Bottom line is this:  If I write there's a better chance we stay

BOOK: A Portal to Leya
12.23Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

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