AN: Here we are, another chapter here.

I hope you enjoy! Please don't forget to let me know what you think!

111

Madame Lenora's singlewide on the highway—complete with the detachable front porch that was nearly detached and the non-descriptive brown dog barking at Daryl from the chain link fence in the back yard—did not inspire a world of confidence in her abilities which, according to her card, were practically innumerable.

If you wanted it, Madame Lenora could make it happen—for a price, of course.

The woman who greeted Daryl with a lit Virginia Slim hanging from her lip looked to be somewhere in her sixties—or maybe her seventies—but Daryl was also willing to accept that a diet of mostly cigarettes could have meant that she was even in her fifties or even not much older than Daryl.

She wasn't working that day, she'd said on the phone, but she could open for a special consultation. Daryl heard that as "she could open for a hearty tip," and he'd hit the ATM in town before heading her way. Madame Lenora invited him into the little office that was built right up beside the trailer. It was made from a customized building that had probably been meant to be a storage building, but it had been repurposed into a home office for Madame Lenora's "consultations."

Inside, she offered Daryl a cup of coffee, which he accepted so as to not be rude, and she invited him to sit at the table covered over with a bright table cloth.

The room smelled of incense and cigarette smoke in equally suffocating amounts. Daryl asked if she minded if he smoked, which of course she didn't, figuring that he might as well get some of the benefit of it if he was steadily breathing it in.

Madame Lenora had long black hair that was heavily salted, but had the appearance of having reached that color that, for some women, was just about as gray as they ever saw—even if they went on living for many decades to come. Daryl imagined that, when she was working, she might have a costume that went with the ambiance she'd clearly tried to create in the little room. She wasn't bothering with it today, though, and her faded t-shirt advertised an amusement park in Myrtle Beach and went well with the faded jeans she could have picked up at Goodwill.

She sat across from Daryl with her own mug of instant coffee just after she put a mug in front of him.

"You said on the phone that you don't believe in…what'd you call it? Hooey?"

Daryl laughed to himself.

"It's nothin' personal," he said. "It's just—all this? Them rocks you got there and those little bird bones over there. I mean, I'll give it to you. Lookin' around with all your boxes and jars of shit, if I was gonna believe in all of it? This is where the hell I'd choose to believe. It's just that—I don't. But—I don't mean that to be offensive."

She laughed that deep, gravelly laugh of someone who started smoking unfiltered cigarettes the day they were weaned off of breastmilk—and maybe a day or two before.

"Lucky for you, I'm not easily offended," she said.

Gone was the accent she'd used on the phone—something not quite describable or contributable to any one geographic region. It had vanished the minute that Daryl had said he was willing to come—and he'd come with cash in hand—but he didn't want to talk to some fake ass Madame Lenora. He wanted, simply, to talk to a woman who might know some things that he might find useful. Now, sitting across from him, Lenora Hoffstedder had a thick drawl that meant she was definitely a native of the area.

"You said you have—a ghost?"

"I don't know if I do or I don't," Daryl said.

"But Mr…" She hesitated.

"Dixon," Daryl said. "Daryl Dixon. But just call me Daryl, and I'll call you Lenora. If that ain't a problem."

She laughed again.

"You're the one paying," she said. "You can call me whatever you want, as long as you call me for supper." She winked at him, and Daryl felt his cheeks burn warm. He laughed quietly, though, at her teasing. "Daryl—I thought you didn't believe in hooey."

"I don't."

"Then, how can you possibly come and tell me that you believe you have a ghost?"

"I don't believe in the show of it all," Daryl said. "The performance. And I won't even ask you to defend it. I'ma just say—I know this shit's a show. I know that whole fake ass accent was a show and, prob'ly, all the damn jewelry and things you'd wear if I was someone else is a show. I didn't say that I don't believe that some of that shit's got an element of truth to it."

"You just believe it's a truth that's—not accessible to me," Lenora offered.

"Didn't say that, neither," Daryl said. He looked around. "The books on these shelves are real. And I do believe that you've got an interest in such things. You've dedicated your life to all this. That's plain to see. And you might not live in Buckingham Palace, but you've kept a roof over your head with what the hell you do here."

"Is this a vote of confidence for my abilities?" Lenora asked, clearly amused. She lit another cigarette for herself and wiggled in her chair like she was settling in for a favorite movie or something of the like.

"I don't believe in ghosts," Daryl said. "That is to say—I don't believe in bedsheets with eye-holes cut out and the chains and the boo-oo-oo shit."

"Nor would any self-respecting ghost," Lenora offered.

"I just moved into a house in town. It's supposed to be haunted. I think Hershel Greene said it was the Pementer place or something. Man murdered his wife there over a hundred years ago."

Lenora's eyes went wide and she shifted, sitting forward. She was suddenly less relaxed while watching the movie and much more invested in the plot.

"The Peletier House?" She asked.

"That's it," Daryl said. "You've heard of it?"

"Heard of it? If the stories people tell about the place are true, then it's the place with the greatest paranormal energy within five hundred miles. And that's saying a lot given what some of the places around here have seen."

"Does that mean ghosts? Because I think I have one," Daryl said.

"You've seen something or you've heard something?" She asked.

"Seen, heard—had a conversation with," Daryl said. "Sort of. She's scared, so she isn't too receptive to conversation."

"She?"

"The wife. Carol. I'm guessin' that's her name because Hershel Greene says that's who was murdered there. When I asked her if it was her name, she just looked kinda spooked." Daryl laughed and shook his head. "I know it sounds crazy to say that her ass looked spooked when she might be a ghost, but…"

"She might be a ghost…" Lenora said, trailing the words out like she was digesting everything that Daryl said.

"I can't really tell," Daryl said.

"You can't tell…"

"You get paid by the minute or by the information you give?" Daryl asked. "Because I don't wanna pay your ass for makin' me repeat myself a half-dozen times."

She waved her hand at him.

"If the payment is problematic to you," she said, "then we'll figure out something that works for both of us. What do you mean that you can't tell? You can see her?" Daryl hummed and nodded. "And hear her?" Daryl hummed and nodded again. "And—have a conversation with her the same way that you and I are talking?"

"Sorta," Daryl said. "If I could get her to calm down, I think she'd be better at the conversation thing."

Lenora slammed back in her chair, half-laughing to herself.

"That's not how this works," she said, shaking her head. "That's not how—any of this works."

"Beg your pardon?" Daryl asked.

She leaned forward again, long hair draping over her arms as she leaned halfway across the table at him. Daryl leaned closer to her, feeling like they were about to share a secret that he'd been longing to hear. Closer to her, he was more convinced that Lenora was, at best, in her sixties. Any appearance of greater age was owing, more than likely, to a less than delicate lifestyle. She had soft, caramel-colored eyes, and Daryl imagined that once, she might have been very pretty.

"That's not how ghosts work," Lenora said. "Spirits. Beings from the afterlife. Whatever you want to call them. You were right about one thing, Daryl. And that's the—the performance. The show. The depiction of it all. Hollywood and sensationalism have created a certain way that—that people expect things to be. They expect ghosts to look a certain way. Perform certain acts. But the truth is that it's all show. It's what people want and expect—but it's not real. Usually, what's left behind his something more like energy. Energy with nowhere to go. Energy that—for one reason or another—can't go somewhere else."

"So, you do the whole crossing over thing," Daryl said.

"Something like that," Lenora said. "I mean—some people can. I suppose. I've never helped anyone to cross over anything except the street. But you're saying—you interacted with this…this being…as though she were real?"

"I'm sayin' that I weren't fuckin' sure if she was real," Daryl said. "A real ass woman. Or a ghost. Or I was dreaming."

"In most circumstances, it would be impossible to confuse a ghost—a spirit—for a real human being," Lenora said. "Have you explored the idea that, maybe, you were actually dreaming?"

Daryl sighed and lit another cigarette of his own. He drank nearly half his cup of instant coffee and Lenora got up to fill the little electric kettle she had in the sink installed in the back of the little space.

"I woke up the first night from sleeping when I heard her and saw her," Daryl said. "So—naturally, I thought maybe I was dreaming. But I had to go back to sleep after it. Got up and moved around. Went back to sleep. Still, I was willing to say maybe it was a dream. Second time, today? I felt—like I lost time that didn't get lost."

"What does that mean?" Lenora asked, waiting near her little electric kettle.

Daryl shrugged and shook his head.

"That's the best I can say it. Like—I was just there and then I felt like I was waking up. Like I'd nodded off. Saw Carol. Talked to her. Went downstairs to where I had been when I felt like I nodded off. My damn coffee was still hot. Hadn't cooled down more'n it would have just from the time it took me to have the interaction I had with her. I never woke up again—so it wasn't a dream. And I never went back to sleep. I called you right after that, and I drove over soon as we hung up. Unless—you're part of this whole long dream."

Lenora smiled.

"I'm not a dream," she said.

"Then Carol wasn't no dream, either," Daryl said. "And that's why the hell I'm here. I may not believe in the show if it, but I do believe that you're equipped to know more than I do, and I sure as shit believe you've read more of these books than I have."

Daryl accepted another spoonful of instant coffee grounds and fresh hot water with a thanks. It was strong and bitter, but at the moment it tasted the best that he could remember coffee tasting. He watched Lenora fix her own coffee and stir both mugs with the same metal spoon clinking against the ceramic sides.

"Most people only want to connect with lost loved ones," she mused. "Or know if they'll meet the person they're going to marry, or get rich, or…when they'll die. What is it, exactly, that you want?"

"I wanna know if Carol is real," Daryl said.

"Or if you're hallucinating?"

"I know I'm not hallucinating," Daryl said. "I know that shit was real."

"Then—you don't want to know if she's real," Lenora said. "You've just told me that she's real. So—what is it that you've come seeking from me?"

Daryl smiled, and she smiled back at him. The smile curled all the way up to her eyes. It was a line she'd said before, many times. He could tell. It was part of the cheesy, hokey performance. But, all at once, he understood it.

"I wanna know her," Daryl said. "I can't explain it. Almost like I felt drawn to her. As soon as I saw her—as soon as I saw the damn painting of her—I wanted to know her. Really know her. And now? I wanna know her even more. Can you like—conjure her? Make her appear?"

Lenora laughed and shook her head.

"It doesn't work like that. Besides—it sounds like you're not having too much trouble with that on your own."

"Is she real?" Daryl asked.

Lenora shrugged.

"Spirits are usually just—leftover energy," she said. There was something noncommittal to her tone.

"You don't sound sure," Daryl said. "And you didn't sound sure before, either. What the hell ain't you tellin' me? I'll throw another hundred on there if you got somethin' decent to tell me. If you can tell me how to get Carol there—talkin' to me. Not feelin' so scared. I'll throw more'n that on there if you can do more."

"What exactly do you want me to do?" She asked.

Daryl's stomach twisted. The answer to that question, maybe, was still a little frightening to him. Lenora nodded her head like she understood without him even having to speak to her. He didn't remember if telepath was one of the impressive things that she had listed on her business card.

"You said you felt sort of drawn to her?" Lenora asked.

"I can't explain it, but I've never felt it before," Daryl said. "Not like that. Like a tugging in my gut pulling me to—hell—somethin' that ain't even there."

"And you may not ever feel it again," Lenora said. She sighed and stood up. She searched through the shelves around the room that were heavy with old, worn books. Some of them looked like the kinds you could see in museums with tattered leather and cloth covers. She pulled one of those from the shelves and held it in her hands. It looked like it might crumble before she so much as made it to the table. "I've only read about this, but there is this thing—this phenomenon. It's very rare. At least these days. There are some kinds of…cloudy reports of it in very old stories. But these days, it's very, very rare. So rare, in fact, that the last time it was recorded was in 1692. The woman involved was burned at the stake. You can imagine, then, why it never seemed to happen after that."

"What is it?" Daryl asked.

Lenora sat down across from him and opened up the book that was held together with questionable integrity. The pages were brown, and dry, and the words appeared to be handwritten, though Daryl tried to convince himself that they were only printed to appear that way.

"Nexum de comes animae," Lenora said. Her warm brown eyes met Daryl's and she smiled—this time it was a peaceful smile and not the teasing or conspiratorial smile that she'd worn earlier. She raised her eyebrows at Daryl like she was settling in to tell him a story—a story that he desperately wanted to hear. "Loosely translated, it's the connection of companions of the soul." She shrugged and her smile grew. "The Soulmate Connection. According to what I've read? In some cases, it can be a very spiritual connection—if you catch my drift."