My senses swell with the dead. My mind whispers lies. The latter I forever thwart, but sometimes old habits endure like the distant fable of voices whenever I hear thunder. The devil’s riding his two black horses and chariots across the sky. Ingrained superstitions never die, though I see them for what they are—outright fallacies, unfounded fears that darkened my childhood, but education colored me wiser. Yet one cannot dispute personal experiences. Ever since my trip to Natchez, Mississippi, I can no longer discount the afterlife. But falsehoods I’d tossed out long ago still boomerang around my consciousness.
The devil’s riding his two black horses and chariots across the sky.Delphine Randolph, an ancestral ghost, opened my eyes wide to the afterlife, made me a believer, and unlocked a p
