Angry and frustrated with his chronic illness, Vincent Poulsen moves into an old lighthouse to live out the few days he has left. After a dangerous collapse, he meets the ghostly Captain Cason, who shares stories of his distant past. In the process, Vincent stumbles over the tragedy that binds the captain to the lighthouse and his haunted memories. Then fate offers them in death a chance to make right what they couldn't in life....
First Edition published in the anthology Desire Beyond Death by Dreamspinner Press, 2007
What better way to start out my Halloween-spooky-creepified reading list than with a ghost story? After the Storm is an interesting short story with even more interesting characters that is in a way reminiscent of the film classic The Ghost and Mrs. Muir but is a tale all on its own. When Vincent Poulsen decides to rent out the lighthouse to live out his remaining days, my heart breaks for him. I completely get needing the alone time, not wanting to put his family through watching him deteriorate but at the same time being alone in that situation is so sad. But he isn't really alone because the lighthouse already has a resident, Captain Cason, a man with his own heartache.
After the Storm is a lovely read that on the surface is sad and heartbreaking but underneath is quite the opposite. Vincent is getting to live out his life as he wants given the circumstances and the Captain is getting to tell his story. I won't say anything more about the plot as its a short story and I really don't want to give anything away. However, if you are wondering if this has a HEA, well in a way it does, I was pleased with the turnout. As I said, I was starting my "creepified" list but there really isn't anything creepy about After the Storm, perhaps spooky and sad but its also heartwarming and I personally found it kind of uplifting. This is a little gem that somehow completely skipped my reading radar until now, better late than never as the saying goes. Could it have been better with more detailed account of Captain Cason's past or Vincent's life and family? Perhaps. Sometimes stories don't need to be more and After the Storm is a perfect example of such a tale. I've featured Chrissy Munder's work on my blog before but never actually read them but I look forward to checking out her backlist in the future.
RATING:
Chapter One
Vincent stumbled as he climbed the stone steps to the main door of the old lighthouse, watching with detached amazement as his hand shook, making it difficult to fit the old-fashioned key into the lock where it turned grudgingly.
He was weaker than he’d thought. The short hike from the end of the lane, where the local taxi had dropped him off, left him trembling and gasping for air, but it didn’t matter. He had made it, and that was enough.
The door was stiff, resistant even, and he shouldered it open as the warped wood stuck slightly to the frame, seemingly determined to deny him entrance. He dropped his pack down in the middle of the floor, listening as the assortment of medications rattled in their plastic bottles.
His nose twitched at the stale and fetid odor he attributed to disuse. A few open windows would take care of it. Vincent walked over to the front room and tried to open the rusted locks in the casements with no success, tugging before he just shrugged and gave up. He’d figure it out later.
What mattered was that finally he was alone.
He knew there would be a small uproar when it was discovered he’d left the hospital, but he couldn’t seem to make himself care. Vincent had discovered that a chronic illness didn’t make him a nobler individual—not even close.
Instead it had left him angry and discontent, selfish and introverted. He cared, he still cared deeply about those he loved, but right now he needed all his energy, all his emotional strength just to get through each day and he didn’t have any to spare.
Tired; God was he tired of the hugs and the suppressed tears of those around him, platitudes that were voiced because no one knew anything else to say. Vincent wanted to scream and yell and wallow in what lay ahead and he couldn’t do that when he was expected to be strong for everyone else.
Those that he loved each had their own perception of how he would face the end—one based on their own immediate needs—and he found that he simply couldn’t bear it any longer. What about his needs? What about his wants?
Why was he constantly torn between doing what was best for those around him and doing what was best for himself?
Vincent needed to do what he had always done; he needed to immerse himself in the moment. He needed to paint and write and find a way to cope with the end of this life. He couldn’t do any of that surrounded by the hushed voices with their demands that he rest and save his strength.
Rest. He’d be resting soon enough.
Luckily his doctor had strong views on the rights of the dying, and with his help Vincent had readied himself. He’d gone over his decision with both a counselor from the recommended hospice and his physician. They had given him a timeline of what to expect and enough pain medication to hopefully see him through it.
Even taking residence at the old lighthouse station had been at the suggestion of his doctor. He knew the Preservation Society had been renting it out for the last few summers.
Now here Vincent was, on his own, crawling off like a wounded animal, every instinct telling him to find a place to die alone. He was afraid, he wouldn’t deny that, but at least in solitude he could face his fear without distraction, absorb it and let it consume him until he could hopefully emerge on the other side—ready.
Vincent joined his pack on the floor of the hall, placing his head on the bulky surface and closing his eyes for just a moment. He’d look around soon enough. His tiredness made it easy for him to drop into an uneasy slumber and he never noticed the shadow that crept over him and hovered, motionless, watching as he slept.
As one, the sealed windows on the first floor opened, shutters slamming against the stone sides of the old lighthouse as the cold breeze off the lake blew in one side and out the other.
Vincent stumbled as he climbed the stone steps to the main door of the old lighthouse, watching with detached amazement as his hand shook, making it difficult to fit the old-fashioned key into the lock where it turned grudgingly.
He was weaker than he’d thought. The short hike from the end of the lane, where the local taxi had dropped him off, left him trembling and gasping for air, but it didn’t matter. He had made it, and that was enough.
The door was stiff, resistant even, and he shouldered it open as the warped wood stuck slightly to the frame, seemingly determined to deny him entrance. He dropped his pack down in the middle of the floor, listening as the assortment of medications rattled in their plastic bottles.
His nose twitched at the stale and fetid odor he attributed to disuse. A few open windows would take care of it. Vincent walked over to the front room and tried to open the rusted locks in the casements with no success, tugging before he just shrugged and gave up. He’d figure it out later.
What mattered was that finally he was alone.
He knew there would be a small uproar when it was discovered he’d left the hospital, but he couldn’t seem to make himself care. Vincent had discovered that a chronic illness didn’t make him a nobler individual—not even close.
Instead it had left him angry and discontent, selfish and introverted. He cared, he still cared deeply about those he loved, but right now he needed all his energy, all his emotional strength just to get through each day and he didn’t have any to spare.
Tired; God was he tired of the hugs and the suppressed tears of those around him, platitudes that were voiced because no one knew anything else to say. Vincent wanted to scream and yell and wallow in what lay ahead and he couldn’t do that when he was expected to be strong for everyone else.
Those that he loved each had their own perception of how he would face the end—one based on their own immediate needs—and he found that he simply couldn’t bear it any longer. What about his needs? What about his wants?
Why was he constantly torn between doing what was best for those around him and doing what was best for himself?
Vincent needed to do what he had always done; he needed to immerse himself in the moment. He needed to paint and write and find a way to cope with the end of this life. He couldn’t do any of that surrounded by the hushed voices with their demands that he rest and save his strength.
Rest. He’d be resting soon enough.
Luckily his doctor had strong views on the rights of the dying, and with his help Vincent had readied himself. He’d gone over his decision with both a counselor from the recommended hospice and his physician. They had given him a timeline of what to expect and enough pain medication to hopefully see him through it.
Even taking residence at the old lighthouse station had been at the suggestion of his doctor. He knew the Preservation Society had been renting it out for the last few summers.
Now here Vincent was, on his own, crawling off like a wounded animal, every instinct telling him to find a place to die alone. He was afraid, he wouldn’t deny that, but at least in solitude he could face his fear without distraction, absorb it and let it consume him until he could hopefully emerge on the other side—ready.
Vincent joined his pack on the floor of the hall, placing his head on the bulky surface and closing his eyes for just a moment. He’d look around soon enough. His tiredness made it easy for him to drop into an uneasy slumber and he never noticed the shadow that crept over him and hovered, motionless, watching as he slept.
As one, the sealed windows on the first floor opened, shutters slamming against the stone sides of the old lighthouse as the cold breeze off the lake blew in one side and out the other.
Chrissy Munder writes contemporary M/M romance filled with everyday men and extraordinary passion to transport readers into their personal world of love, laughter, and desire
She is an avid reader, a wanderer of Michigan’s wilderness, and, while not in any particular order, a lover of lists, zombies, and bad sci-fi. She’s also perpetually behind on everything—except feeding the cat. There are those who might tell you she started writing LGBTQ romance as a way to justify her office supply addiction, but shhhhh! don’t listen to them.
After too many jobs in too many states she’s eagerly awaiting a far too distant retirement and the chance to become a full-time Lake Michigan beachcomber. Until then, she’s excited to share her love of romance, laughter, and happy-ever-afters.
Chrissy loves to chat with her readers so don't be shy! Visit her on Twitter, her website, Facebook, or Goodreads.
EMAIL: chrissymunder@yahoo.com
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