On Call Maybe

Dr. M and I crept through the condemned building with only his penlight illuminating our path. Shadows leapt around us. The incessant drip of water inside the walls begged me to let madness in. My nose was assaulted by a perfume of decay, mold, and human feces. The doctor was armed tools of the ghost hunting trade. I had only a knife. I began to question my decision making process.

Extended unemployment ran out two weeks after I got on it. For a couple of months I toughed it out; checking on updates to renewals between job searches. Eventually I gave up. Everyone said I’d find a job soon. A year to a year and a half was standard they said. Assholes.

Our footsteps echoed off broken walls, interrupted by the occasional cough. After it was abandoned this place became the refuge of the forgotten. Ranks I was destined to join when mom’s compassion ran out. Every time I attempted to ask a question Dr. M shushed me. It seemed ghosts were like fish.

Last ditch effort every day was nontraditional jobs on nonstandard internet boards. I came across a fulltime job for someone not afraid of ghosts. I made the call. Thinking anything is better than selling plasma is a trap.

We made our way into the central room. The girl’s body lay cold and still on a concrete slab in the center of the room. She was beautiful, with no apparent breath raising her chest. It was time to do the job.

They scheduled an in person right then. I got hired on the spot. I went a little wild during the interview, assuming this was a casting call for a reality show.  Dr. M took me on my first mission. My informal training on the ride amounted to basically nothing.

Dr. M raised his spectral disrupter, which looked suspiciously like a fireplace poker, over the corpse’s chest. Stabbing the body with pure iron was one of the few ways to kill a ghost. The poker drove down… The girl screamed and jerked upright. Blood poured from her mouth as she clawed futilely at the metal ending her life. Her eyes met mine, tears sliding from both sets. Her soul asked me why? Why had we killed her? What had she done to deserve this? So clean, newly homeless she had taken up the only residence she could find. A paranoid schizophrenic had ended her life by calling in a ghost sighting.

The doctor looked shaken but not horrified. The girl fell back. Retrieving his tool he wiped the blood on her clothing. When he walked toward the exit I stood in front of him.

“What the hell was that? That girl was alive, just breathing shallow.”

“That was a completed mission.” He spoke placidly, meeting my gaze. “It was a learning experience. Sometimes we get false information. Our good calls keep the world safe, our bad ones are why hunting monsters is no longer a publicized occupation.”

#shortstory #dark #horror #monster #ghoststory #writer #author

Night Temors

It is always the same after one of my long slumbers.

I stride down the hall unsure of how I arrived there. In the darkness I see a diminutive shape. I hear the shuffling of feet. Unsurprising as the shape is not lifting them. The half steps gain speed as the shape approaches the light from my taper. I take look around. Yes, it is exactly the same.

My home is charming. Silver chandeliers hang in every room; holding candles not gaudy light bulbs. Normally the fixtures and corners are adorned with cobwebs, but not now. Every time I hibernate there comes a knock I cannot answer. When I wake my old, dusty friends are gone. There is always a girl.

“Daddy?”

This one appears to be three or four. She stops inside the light and casts a wary gaze upon me. I am not the paternal figure she was expecting. She utters a sharp cry. I know from experience other souls will soon haunt my waking. Still I make the attempt, putting on my best and brightest smile.

“I am not your father, little one, think of me as an uncle.  Would you like a cookie?”

Previously uncertain eyes gleam to accompany her cherubic smile. That tiny head nods as one thumb creeps into her mouth. It is a testament to her grin that it can still be seen around that fist. I have her attention and I must keep it. What comes next is never easy.

“What is your name child?”

“Issbeff!” She plops her thumb from her mouth to speak her name. While she does she points at her chest with all the pride she can muster. She has the mush in her mouth most children her age do, but it is tolerable. I understand her.

“Well, Elizabeth, I need you to look at me. No matter what you hear keep looking at your uncle.”

She does not listen. They never do. Drawn by her earlier cry the mother and father charge into the hall. Upon seeing me they scream, and Elizabeth cries out with them. My presence has a different affect on adults, one to which children seem to be immune.

It takes only moments until the parents weep all the moisture from their bodies, leaving the child and I alone with two desiccated corpses. It takes much longer for me to soothe her. I finally do by making another offer of the cookie, and perhaps some tea to go with it. Taking her hand I lead the child into the kitchen. It will be days before the authorities arrive to claim her. I have to keep her alive until then. As we walk I ask her the all important question.

“Would you like to own this house one day?”

They always say yes but they never come back. I believe an adult who met me as a child would survive my murderous aura. Perhaps one day I will know for sure. Perhaps in fifteen years.

#shortstory #ghoststory #monster #author #writer #writing

Echoes of Legend

The world used to belong to us, but then monsters entered the night. One of the in particular is the thing you use to scare unruly children. He brings death with no conscience or regret. It is he that so often haunts my nightmares.

I look up to see him crouched on the sill just outside the window. Murder resides in those cold eyes but the most horrifying thing is the smile that graces his alien lips. He enjoys this. He loves the terror he brings to those like me. There is glass between us but that would not stop the likes of him. Thankfully there are bars between the two of us as well.

He is known as the Brother of the Book and he believes he is righteous. In the dream he leers down at me with the implements of death hanging from the ends of his hands. The bigot truly believes we should die because we are different. My skin is different than his. I eat different foods. I see the world in shades of grey that his black and white mind cannot tolerate.

When will people learn not to judge on things like that? Why does he wish to harm us because we are different than him? Do we not deserve the chance to live and thrive as much as anyone? If I were to ask him he would scream, No, no, no! Then he would end my life.

The dream comes at least three times a week. In the end he is always tapping at the glass and I wake with a scream in my throat.

Tick, tick, tick. The sound of metal on solid glass causes my eyes to pop open. My stomach turns to water as I see the monster of my nightmares in his customary place outside my window. This time he has set tools of homicide aside and used a torch to cut through my protective bars however. With that done he is hammering at the thin layer of glass that will not keep me safe for long.

I have a moment to lament and grow philosophical. It is a short moment as the glass shatters, spraying inward to litter the room. He will not waste words, he never does. Shooting through the opening he follows the shards down to land near my bed.

I think of how it used to be. When we ruled the night, when we were legends. Those were better times but then men like him came. They determined my kind must be exterminated for the good of others. If only he could see, if they all could. Those things the condemn us for are what they have become.

Those are my thoughts as his cheap cologne fills my nose, the crunch of broken glass reaching my ears. Then he is nailing me back into my coffin with silver. Hunters will never change.

Note: The man referenced is the main character of one of my current projects.

#ghoststory #horror #shortstory #monster

Eben Echt

So I do not remember the actual prompt for this one. I could look it up but instead I am going to be lazy. I know it is one of my favorites that I have done on the prompts over there at WD.

Like that moment in the movies where the main character wakes up gasping for breath. Everyone thinks they understand but only those with sleep apnea or who have almost drowned do. That’s how I wake up.

My throat is raw, my nose clogged with the dueling scents of lemon and pine.

I know I am approaching middle age but the memories between the room I wake in and then are indistinct. I have lived that life in a dark cave. Surrounded by dream things that flit away when glimpsed.

I want my mama. –I need to have a conversation with the mother.-

I’m suddenly in the hall. I see her, call out to her, “-Beep… beep…-” Love fills me as her eyes move past me, pretending not to see. It’s the peekaboo game! A big boy version she always plays with me when I am sick or sad, which is most of the time.

Three year old legs are not meant for running but when she steps into the kitchen I give chase. One step, two. I’m in the kitchen like I teleported the rest.

She looks through me. Ice water slides over my soul. She looks so old, she must be fretting. That’s how she looks when I’m really sick. This isn’t the game. She’s giving me the silent treatment. I must have done something bad. That makes me mad. I stamp my bare foot and spew forth words in a voice filled with squeaky thunder!

“Don’t be mad mama! I’m a good boy! Anger’s –survival is not realistically viable.-“

Our house is creaky and old. My pint sized fury rattles the dishes. Mama looks surprised. Tears spring onto her cheeks as her mouth opens in an O. When words finally come they are in a whisper.

“Spencer, you can’t be here.”

Now I’m crying too. Doesn’t she love me anymore? I know I’m trouble, it’s not my fault I’m always sick. I intend to wail for forgiveness.

“I –always kept her secret.-“

The spicy tang of Old Spice mingles with the other scents in my nose. My dada is behind me. I ache for him to lift me up, to hold me. To ruffle my hair and tell me, everything’s okay champ. But his touch would shatter me. I’m –too fragile to be transferred.- When he speaks it is in a voice as old as mama looks.

“Susan, do I need to get your sister here to look after you?”

Mama stares at me. She falls to her knees, rivers running through the deep valleys on her cheeks. I want to run to her. I need to wrap my chubby arms around her waist and tell her she’ll get through this, that we can face anything together; like she always does for me. I can’t, I hate her! But I’m a good boy.

“I… I’m sorry, Spencer.” She is choking on the words. “We had to remove the breathing tube. You were in a coma for thirty-nine years! I’m sorry baby. Forgive your mama. It’s my fault, I let them do it!”

Dada is saying something, trying to console her but his voice is tired. He just lost his son again too. Why can’t he grieve? I don’t hear the words. My world shrinks to just me and mama. I am going to forgive her; going to return all her favors. I’ll tell her that!

“-I suspect there is more for the mother to feel guilty about.-“

Why do I keep saying these things? My world narrows more. Mama sobs out something. It must be bad. The floor shakes as dada falls to his knees. My tiny eardrums quake with his bellows of rage and denial.

Now I want to comfort him too. Instead I stare at the cupboard where mama keeps lemon scented Pinesol.



#shortstory #ghoststory