Showing posts with label short stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short stories. Show all posts

Saturday, October 22, 2011

Ghost Adventures Wannabes-A Halloween Story



Emma looked up from her Ghost Hunters live show to see her three boys-Mutt and Jeff and little brother, Stumpy- lined up beside the couch. It was seven o’clock on Halloween Night.
“Mom, do you have an old radio we could borrow?” Mutt, the eldest asked.
“In my closet on the top shelf. Why?”
“We need a ghost box.” Jeff, the middle one, answered.
She watched as all three went to her room then trooped back through to the front door. She noticed all three were in head to toe black.
“Where are you going?”
“To the old mill to look for ghost.” Stumpy grinned excitedly.
Emma stared.
“Oookay. Be back before ten.”
“What? That won’t give us much time to find a ghost. Ghost Adventures are there all night.” Jeff argued.
“Ten. And watch out for snakes!” She shouted as the boys stomped out the door muttering under their collective breaths.
Outside they quickly began arguing.
“I’m lead investigator.” Jeff stated.
“No, I am! I’m the oldest.”
“So.”
“Why can’t I be?” Stumpy asked.
“Because you’re the youngest. You can be my helper and Mutt can be the tech guy.”
“Why do I have to be the tech guy?”
“Because you are the one with the video camera.” Jeff said.
“I want to be the tech guy!” Stumpy whined.
Jeff handed him the radio.
“You can try to get the ghost to talk through this.” He held out an old tape recorder they had found in the attic. “I’ll do the recording.”
“I still don’t see why I can’t be lead investigator.” Mutt muttered.
Jeff showed them his phone.
“Because I’m the one with the EMF app on my phone. Besides, I’m cooler and look better on camera.”
By that time they had reached the old mill.
“Are you sure there is ghost here?” Mutt asked Jeff.
“Has to be. It’s old, right?”
They stood in front of the awning dark door.
“Well, go on in, Jeff. You’re the lead investigator.”
Jeff reconsidered his stance, but since he didn’t want to look like a sissy in front of his brothers, he pulled out his flashlight and advanced into the room beyond, Mutt and Stumpy close behind.
The room was dark and full on cobwebs and dust. Jeff hoped there were no spiders there because he was afraid of them. He didn’t think it was warm enough for snakes. He lead the others to the middle of the room.
“Let’s start here. Start recording, Mutt.” He held out his phone with one hand and the recorder with the other. “Is there anyone here that wants to talk to us?”
They waited in apprehensive silence, almost afraid they would get an answer. But they only heard their own breathing. They went around the room asking them same question for a few minutes, but still heard nothing, till..
“What was that?” Stumpy asked.
They stood still and listened. Finally they heard a rustling near them. They tiptoed up to the sound and was just up on it when their cat, Fluffy, jumped out. With a scream the three boys fell back. Fluffy gave them an disdainful look and ran off.
“Let try the ghost box.” Jeff said.
Stumpy turned on the radio. Loud static burst forth.
“Turn it down!”
After the noise level went down, Jeff, trying to act cool like Zak Bagan, asked,
“Anyone want to talk to us? You can use this box to talk to us.”
Static filled the room for several minutes.
“Was that something?” Mutt asked.
“I didn’t heart anything.” Stumpy replied.
“I thought I heard some words.”
“Well, I didn’t and I’m holding it.”
“You to keep yakking and we won’t be able to hear anything.” Jeff punched Mutt’s arm.
“Watch it! You’ll make me drop Mom’s camera.”
Stumpy turned off the radio.
“I’m hungry. Are we going to be here much longer?” he complained.
“Real ghost hunters don’t get hungry before they find a ghost.” Jeff teased.
“Well, I don’t think there one here and I’m bored. I want to go home now.”
“We haven’t been here that long. We should stay a little longer.”
Suddenly they heard a knock above them. All three froze.
“Can you do that again?” Jeff asked.
Another knock sounded. Jeff gave his brothers an I Told You So grin.
“It’s up stairs. We should go look.” He said.
They turned to stare at the dark staircase leading to the upper floor.
“No way, dude!” Stumpy backed away. “I’m not going up there.”
Jeff looked at Mutt.
“You’re the oldest. Go on. Keep the camera on.”
“Uh uh. You’re the “Lead Investigator.” He shoved the camera at Jeff. “You go.”
Jeff took the camera and started for the stairs. He would show them he wasn’t afraid. He stopped at the bottom and looked back at them. Then back at the dark leading up to the top.
“Maybe we should all go together. Safety in numbers and all that.” He looked at them. “Come on! Go with me. Or are you chickens?”
That was the magic words. Mutt and Stumpy moved in behind Jeff and they began to climb the stairs. Just as they made it halfway they heard a deep growl come from the darkness above them. Stumpy let out a scream, dropped the radio, and bolted for the door. Another omniness growl sent Jeff nearly knocking Mutt down in his haste to make it to the door as well, Mutt on his heels. They could hear Stumpy still screaming as he raced home.
Emma looked up from her show as Stumpy came slamming into the house screaming that something was going to get him. He ran up the stairs and she heard his bedroom door slam. Seconds later Mutt and Jeff raced through the front door, out of breath and pale.
“Well, did you find any ghost?”
Jeff tried to play it cool.
“Maybe there is something there in that old mill.” Jeff shrugged and went to his room.
“But I’m not going to go back to find out.” Mutt declared as he went to his own room, slamming the door behind him.
Emma continued to watch tv, then turned to share a grin with her husband as he came silently through the back door.
“Happy Halloween, Honey.” He chuckled.




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To see more of this Halloween blog party visit A Franiful Twist.


Happy Halloween!

Saturday, October 30, 2010

The Ghost Cat

BANG

Stacy groaned and flipped over to bury her head against Jim’s back.

BANG!

Jim grunted and pulled his pillow over his head.

BANG!

“Stacy, do something about that cat!” Jim’s muffled voice came. “I can’t sleep.”

Stacy laid there, reluctant to leave the warmth of the bed. Another bang of the door came. She turned over and sat up. She could see a small white paw under the door where it didn’t quite meet the floor. She could also see the glean of a green eye staring at her next to the paw. She got up to open the door and glare down at her tortoiseshell cat, Munchie. Glancing at the clock Stacy saw that it was 3:23 am.

“Can’t you wait for morning?”

Munchie turned and ran down the stairs to the kitchen door, her miffed owner behind her. Once the door was opened she sashayed over to her bowl to sit with a queenly dignity for her very early breakfast.

After ten minutes of dainty eating and a quick wash she led Stacy to the back door. Stacy opened the door and stared out at the heavy fog that obscured the night. Munchie started out, then sat down just inside the door, looking out.

“Oh, no, you don’t. You are not waking me up again to let you out.” Stacy put her foot under the cat’s rump and shoved her out the door. Munchie turned to hiss at her then raced across the deck into the fog. Stacy turned to make her way back to bed. As she got settled back against her husband’s back she heard a jingle coming from downstairs. She raised her head. There, she heard it again.

“What the…?”

“What is it?” Jim asked.

“Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“That jingling noise. It sounds like it’s coming from the kitchen.”

He listened.

“Sounds like the bell on the cat’s collar. Big deal.”

“I put Munchie out.” Stacy got up to investigate the sound.

Back downstairs Stacy opened the kitchen door and flipped on the overhead light. There, in her bed next to the iron stove, laid Munchie. She opened one sleepy eye to glare at her in annoyance.

“If Munchie is in here,” Stacy moved to the door. “what did I kick out the door?”

Then it dawned on her. The whole previous episode was silent. Not once did the cat meow, purr, or make a sound with her collar bell

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

A Spooky Story

BANG

Stacy groaned and flipped over to bury her head against Jim’s back.

BANG!

Jim grunted and pulled his pillow over his head.

BANG!

“Stacy, do something about that cat!” Jim’s muffled voice came. “I can’t sleep.”

Stacy laid there, reluctant to leave the warmth of the bed. Another bang of the door came. She turned over and sat up. She could see a small white paw under the door where it didn’t quite meet the floor. She could also see the glean of a green eye staring at her next to the paw. She got up to open the door and glare down at her tortoiseshell cat, Munchie. Glancing at the clock Stacy saw that it was 3:23 am.

“Can’t you wait for morning?”

Munchie turned and ran down the stairs to the kitchen door, her miffed owner behind her. Once the door was opened she sashayed over to her bowl to sit with a queenly dignity for her very early breakfast.

After ten minutes of dainty eating and a quick wash she led Stacy to the back door. Stacy opened the door and stared out at the heavy fog that obscured the night. Munchie started out, then sat down just inside the door, looking out.

“Oh, no, you don’t. You are not waking me up again to let you out.” Stacy put her foot under the cat’s rump and shoved her out the door. Munchie turned to hiss at her then raced across the deck into the fog. Stacy turned to make her way back to bed. As she got settled back against her husband’s back she heard a jingle coming from downstairs. She raised her head. There, she heard it again.

“What the…?”

“What is it?” Jim asked.

“Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“That jingling noise. It sounds like it’s coming from the kitchen.”

He listened.

“Sounds like the bell on the cat’s collar. Big deal.”

“I put Munchie out.” Stacy got up to investigate the sound.

Back downstairs Stacy opened the kitchen door and flipped on the overhead light. There, in her bed next to the iron stove, laid Munchie. She opened one sleepy eye to glare at her in annoyance.

“If Munchie is in here,” Stacy moved to the door. “what did I kick out the door?”

Then it dawned on her. The whole previous episode was silent. Not once did the cat meow, purr, or make a sound with her collar bell.
 
 
 
 

Saturday, May 30, 2009

A Short-Story, The Honeysuckle Incident

I shut off the vac. In the absence of it's industious roar I could hear the squeals of little boy delight and the screams of abject terror. Sighing deeply I left off the never ending housework when there are childern around.
I went out onto the porch, stepping over my black chow Pudgin (don't ask), and looked up just in time to see one of my nephews, Patrick, careen around the corner of the house, his face pale and tears in his eyes. Behind him in hot pursuit came his four year old baby brother, Dalton, giggling that evil laugh that you only hear in a Stephen King movie. He had something in his hand raised up as if to throw it at his fleeing brother.Pat rushed up the steps and hid behind me.
"What is going on out here?"
"Dalton's trying to kill me!" Pat wailed. "He's throwing honeysuckles on me."
I looked at the white blond-haired, big blue eyed mini demon in front of me and saw that in his hand he indeed held a tiny honeysuckle blossem. The wooded area behind my house was covered in them.
Normally the throwing of honeysuckle blossems would not matter, but recently we found out that Pat was allergic to the nectur inside. He had sucked it out along with his brothers last summer and blew up like he had been bee stung. Which resulted in a trip to ER, many doctor visits, and shots. Understandably he was very paranoid about honeysuckles.
"Dalton, why are you chasing your brother with that?"
"Fun!"
I shuddered. I swear Dalt sounded just like that kid off of Pet Semetery.
"Dalton, sweetie, I want you to find something else to entertain yourself besides terrorizing your brother."
"No!"
Why is it that that is the first word every child learns first?
"Do it or you will come inside for a nap."
He started to cry.
"Don't want nap." He stomped his little dirty feet. "You're mean. Going tell my mommy."
"Yeah, right. I'm shaking in my flip-flops."
He stomped his foot again, threw down the blossem as if to make a dent in my porch, and ran off toward the swingset, Pudgin right behind him.
"What if he does it again?" Pat said, sniffling.
I looked at the red-headed eight year old. Time to nip this paranoria in the bud, pun intended.
"Patrick, did Dalton force you down and stick the honeysuckle in your mouth"?
"No."
"Did the honeysuckle spit evil sweet-smelling goo at you?"
"No..."
"Did the blossem sink little teeth into your skin to suck out your blood?"
He just stared at me.
"Then I don't think you'll fall over dead if a honeysuckle should hit your skin. Now, go play-quietly-while I finish the housework."
He shuffled off the porch and headed in the other direction from Dalt. Somehow, though, I knew was not the end of this. I fully expected to be back out here breaking up another fight within the hour.
As I turned to go back inside my eyes landed on their older brother, Cory.
"Why didn't you stop this?"
He shugged.
"I knew it wouldn't hurt him and it was fun to watch."
I let out an aspirated sigh and headed back in with a slam of the screen door.
And it was only alittle after ten am.

Thursday, September 18, 2008

New Story?

It's was dinnertime and a storm was rolling in. Ugly, dark clouds were slowly getting closer, rising over the top of the mini mall, a looming beast threatening to break. The humidity was unbearable and I didn't really think the storm would cool it off any. Proberly make the heat and humidity worse. That's a southern summer afternoon for you.
I was sitting in my car, all the windows down, hoping for a breeze, in the parking lot of the mall. I could faintly smell the honeysuckles climbing the hill behind me over the smells of gas fumes, hot asphalt, chinese food and burgers from the restraughts on the strip. The noise from the main street was a loud rumble over powering my radio which was blasting out some screaming heavy metal lyrics. Pulling my shirt away from my neck I watched a young black woman leave Krogers, buggy full of plastic bags and little children, while two more older kids pulled at her shirt. She looked harried. Poor girl. She reached a battered Nissan and, with much pulling, chasing, and yelling, finally got the bags and kids in. I glanced at the entrance as she pulled out.
Where the hell was he anyway? I was getting tired of waiting. I began to fan myself with the manila envelope that arrived in the mail that morning. The envelope with no return address.
A large drop of water landed on my windshield. Then the storm hit with all its fury.

Thursday, September 11, 2008

On Being A Writer (and, oh, don't we all dream of being writers)

It started when I was a teen. I wanted to be a writer. I dreamed of it, the signings, the fans breathlessly awaiting my next book, the fame and fortune. Yet here I am, still wanting to be a writer. I have the characters, titles, and quite a bit of the writing done. But still no book. I find it hard to come up with a whole 80,000-100,000 words novels. I just can't come up with that much material. And forget short stories. When I start writing, I can get pass the word limit for a story and keep going. So what's a girl to do?

I was thinking about just finishing the books as novallas, and use createspace.com to publish them on my own, then sell them on my own website, myspace, blogspot, etc. I could advertise them as quickie reads. I like quickies myself, something to read at one sitting. If I publish one every four months that'll be three a year, or four a year if I publish every three months. I'd love to use the same characters in the books to support the background of the hero/heroine of the story.

If anyone reads this post and has any ideas, thoughts, or just general comments, please feel free to post them. I would love to hear from all of you.

Saturday, June 28, 2008

A Word Picture

A hot wind moves across my skin, sweat trickles down my face and back,
dry grass crunches beneath my feet, a bee buzzes by.
Under the trees of my backyard woods, in the dark shade
yellow eyes watch me warily from a darker shadow
and blue eyes look up at me pleadingly from a little gray and tan face,
softly meowing for a pet. All around me my flowers droop, thirsty and dying roses, honeysuckles, and tigerlillies.
Is that thunder I faintly hear? Is that a dark cloud on the horizan?
Is rain finally coming? Please, God, say it is.

Saturday, June 14, 2008

The Honeysuckle Incident

I shut off the vac. In the absence of it's industious roar I could hear the squeals of little boy delight and the screams of abject terror. Sighing deeply I left off the never ending housework when there are childern around. I went out onto the porch, stepping over my black chow Pudgin (don't ask), and looked up just in time to see one of my nephews, Patrick, careen around the corner of the house, his face pale and tears in his eyes. Behind him in hot pursuit came his four year old baby brother, Dalton, giggling that evil laugh that you only hear in a Stephen King movie. He had something in his hand raised up as if to throw it at his fleeing brother.
Pat rushed up the steps and hid behind me.
"What is going on out here?"
"Dalton's trying to kill me!" Pat wailed. "He's throwing honeysuckles on me."
I looked at the white blond-haired, big blue eyed mini demon in front of me and saw that in his hand he indeed held a tiny honeysuckle blossem. The wooded area behind my house was covered in them.
Normally the throwing of honeysuckle blossems would not matter, but recently we found out that Pat was allergic to the nectur inside. He had sucked it out along with his brothers last summer and blew up like he had been bee stung. Which resulted in a trip to ER, many doctor visits, and shots. Understandably he was very paranoid about honeysuckles.
"Dalton, why are you chasing your brother with that?"
"Fun!"
I shuddered. I swear Dalt sounded just like that kid off of Pet Semetery.
"Dalton, sweetie, I want you to find something else to entertain yourself besides terrorizing your brother."
"No!"
Why is it that that is the first word every child learns first?
"Do it or you will come inside for a nap."
He started to cry.
"Don't want nap." He stomped his little dirty feet. "You're mean. Going tell my mommy."
"Yeah, right. I'm shaking in my flip-flops."
He stomped his foot again, threw down the blossem as if to make a dent in my porch, and ran off toward the swingset, Pudgin right behind him.
"What if he does it again?" Pat said, sniffling.
I looked at the red-headed eight year old. Time to nip this paranoria in the bud, pun intended.
"Patrick, did Dalton force you down and stick the honeysuckle in your mouth"?
"No."
"Did the honeysuckle spit evil sweet-smelling goo at you?"
"No..."
"Did the blossem sink little teeth into your skin to suck out your blood?"
He just stared at me.
"Then I don't think you'll fall over dead if a honeysuckle should hit your skin. Now, go play-quietly-while I finish the housework."
He shuffled off the porch and headed in the other direction from Dalt. Somehow, though, I knew was not the end of this. I fully expected to be back out here breaking up another fight within the hour.
As I turned to go back inside my eyes landed on their older brother, Cory.
"Why didn't you stop this?"
He shugged.
"I knew it wouldn't hurt him and it was fun to watch."
I let out an aspirated sigh and headed back in with a slam of the screen door.
And it was only alittle after ten am.