HAUNTED - Ten Tales of Ghosts
Copyright: ©2011 Rayne Hall
The individual story are © the authors.
A Puddle of Dead is included with kind permission of Daily Science Fiction.
Cover illustration: Erica Syverson
Cover Design: Rayne Hall
Scimitar Press (Smashwords Edition)
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people.
All characters are fictional and exist only in the authors' imagination. Any resemblance to people living or dead is coincidence.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
1. GHOSTS CAN BLEED by Tracie McBride
Ghosts can bleed. Maurice knows, because he is one.
2. DANCERS by William Meikle
A country graveyard in winter can be made warm.
3. BREAKWATER BEACH by Carole Ann Moleti
Ever felt that you've been somewhere before? Perhaps you have.
4. THE PIANO MAN by Kiersten Hartrim
No one has played the old upright piano in the bar since the Lady Pianist died.
5. TAKE ME TO ST ROCH'S by Rayne Hall
Never pick up hitchhikers.
6. THE EXPLANATION FOR GHOSTS by Douglas Kolacki
Forget everything you've ever heard about what they are.
7. MOTHER MINE by April Grey
A mother's love never dies.
8. THE MINE SHAFT by Sera Hayes
Curiosity leading superstition digs an early grave.
9. DARK REUNION by Jonathan Broughton
Love sours when you commit murder.
10. A PUDDLE OF DEAD by Grayon Bray Morris
Her long-lost love is back... or is he?
ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS
DEAR READER
MORE FICTION BY THESE AUTHORS
INTRODUCTION
Even folks who don't believe in ghosts enjoy a spooky yarn.
The fun lies in the game of “what if?”: What if ghosts exist? What if they interact with the living? What if I were in such a situation and met this ghost?
All good ghost stories blend two tales. The first layer is the past tragedy which keeps the ghost haunting in search of atonement or vengeance. The second layer is about the person whose life gets thrown off course when the ghost intervenes.
The results are entertaining, scary, or thought-provoking.
In this book, ten authors offer their vision of ghosts, their idea of “what if?”, and their personal blend of two stories.
The stories I have selected are very different, and I am certain that every reader will find individual favourites. To preserve the authors' voices, I have kept their flavour of the English language, so you will find British and American spellings side by side.
Allow yourself to be haunted.
Rayne Hall
GHOSTS CAN BLEED
by Tracie McBride
Ghosts can bleed. Maurice knows, because he is one.
His wife, Doreen, can’t accept it. “Look,” she says, “you cut yourself shaving. That wouldn’t happen if you were dead.”
“Ghosts are forced to perform the same actions in death as they did in life, over and over again,” he tells her for the umpteenth time. “I cut myself shaving at least once a week when I was alive. Why should anything change now?”
Of course, some things have changed. Ghosts can’t eat, so he just pushes his toast around his plate with spectral fingers. He gets more and more insubstantial every day, so soon he won’t be able to do even that. And he can’t make love to Doreen any more. He tried it once, not long after he died. He climbed on top of her and sunk halfway into her body, sucked under by her body fat. Struggling to get out, he got caught up on her ribs. He could feel her heart beating where his used to be, a great, alien, pulsing knot of muscle, and he had to fight to hold down the gorge that no longer existed.
The only other person who can see him is his best friend Charlie. Charlie is a technician at the factory where Maurice used to work. Maurice’s job, when he was alive, was to check pantyhose for flaws. Unfurl one leg of the hose onto a flat illuminated glass frame, spin it around to examine it from all sides, repeat with the other leg, and then send the hose down the line for packaging if it was sound, or into the large red bin at his feet if it was not. At the height of his career he could accurately assess up to 1600 pairs of pantyhose a day. Now, improved technology means that the incidences of pantyhose flaws has been reduced to approximately seven a year, a margin of error that management considers low enough to be able to do away with the positions of hose checker altogether.
He still goes to work, though, compelled to do so by the arcane rules that govern the disembodied. Monday through Friday Charlie boards the number 13 bus, with Maurice right behind him. Charlie hands his concession card to the driver and asks her to clip it twice. She hesitates, willing Charlie to come to his senses, then clips it with slow, deliberate care. She shakes her head at Charlie’s retreating back as he makes his way down the aisle to the back of the bus.
Maurice sits in his usual seat in the right hand corner in the back row. He has a theory that he only appears to those people in whose lives he made a significant imprint, so he is invisible to the other passengers. Nevertheless, they feel his presence; even on the busiest days, those desperate souls who find themselves at the back glance at Maurice’s apparently empty seat, their gaze sliding over him, and invariably opt to stand.
At the factory, Charlie pulls up a chair for Maurice in an unobtrusive spot with a good view of the assembly line. He watches a batch of glossy black 12 Denier Extra Talls zip past on a conveyer belt, row upon row of artificial skins destined to be packaged, shipped, purchased and inhabited.
“You’ve got to face facts, Maurice,” says Charlie. “It’s time for you to move on.”
Maurice nods. He would move on in a heartbeat if he could. Some days he fancies he can still hear his heartbeat, like the phantom itching in an amputated limb. On those days he feels like he could almost will himself back to life and out of this paranormal rut.
The strain of living in a haunted house becomes too much for Doreen. “I’ve invited someone to see you,” she says.
“Who is it?” he says. “A psychic? A priest? A white witch?”
“A psychiatrist,” says Doreen.
“What for? I’m not crazy – I’m dead.”
“I’ve talked to Charlie. He’s very concerned about you.”
Maurice drifts about the room, scattering magazines and ornaments in his wake. “Maybe you should talk to the psychiatrist. You’re the one who can’t handle reality.”
Doreen starts to cry. Crying does not become her. Her face and chest break out in large crimson blotches, and a small bubble of snot protrudes from her left nostril. “Maurice, you are not dead,” she says. “You are very, very unwell.”
“You stupid cow!” shouts Maurice. “For the last time – I AM DEAD!” He rushes forward and thrusts his arms through Doreen’s head, wiggling his fingers as they emerge out the other side. “See?” he says triumphantly.
Doreen gapes at him for a moment, and then cries louder, her wails high-pitched and liquid. Something shifts inside Maurice, like a misaligned cog slipping into place. Is this the unfinished business he needed to attend to before he could depart the earthly realm – turning his wife into a believer? It’s funny; he thought he would be the one to fade away into nothingness. Instead it is Doreen who is becoming less and less distinct, losing substance until she is little more than an outline in the air.
He looks about for a tunnel of light or a welcoming angel or some such sign of his passing. Nothing happens. He is alone in his slightly dishevelled lounge. His body settles around him, bone and muscle and innards and skin, weighing him down until he slumps to the floor.
Fading sympathy cards crowd his mantelpiece, and a gust of wind from an open window sends one fluttering down to fall open in his lap.
“Dear Maurice,” it reads, “we are thinking of you in your time of loss.” There is a pain deep in his stomach. It could be anything – hunger, perhaps, or cancer, or grief. Whatever its cause, it is a pain too great for ghosts.
This story has been previously published in Fictitious Force and in the short story collection Ghosts Can Bleed.
DANCERS
by William Meikle
Yes, I know its getting dark, and I know its getting cold, but just come over here for a minute. It wont take much of your time. There's something I want to show you, someone I'd like you to meet.
Come on. Humor an old man who needs to tell his secret.
It's just there, behind the church. Yes, in the older graveyard. You're not afraid are you? I promise, there's nothing here that would ever hurt you.
Not you.
Watch out for the moss on the stones. Some of the slimier varieties can get embedded in your clothes, and it's murder trying to get it out.
Just about there is usually the best spot. Stand quietly now - let your eyes get adjusted to the dark. You'll soon see why I brought you here.
There she is.
Do you see her? She's standing right there. Look - in front of the large grey angel, just to the left of the patch of moonlight, almost underneath the old elm. Yes, there, beside the largest headstone.
My beautiful Sarah. Forever young, forever twenty.
See how the red of her hair glows like a burning firebrand, a halo around the white perfection of her face. And look - she's wearing the dress. The one I bought her for the dance, the last dance of our youth.
Three pounds two and sixpence that dress cost me - more than a week's wages in those days. Times have changed, haven't they? My mother told me that I was mad, spending all that money on a slip of a girl who was no better than she should be. But I knew that she was worth every penny.
I was drunk with the delight that danced in her eyes when she tried it on, swaying her hips to get the full effect from the long flowing pleats. I can still remember even now, fifty odd years and many strangers' kisses later, the sweet honeyed taste of her lips as she thanked me, the pressure of her hands on my back as we embraced.
I wish she would touch me now. Just one touch, to bring us together at the end. If only she could see me. I have so much that I've never told her.
How still she is, how composed. The wind refuses to ruffle her, the rain refuses to dampen her, the earth refuses to cling to her. Yet there's something more.
Look closer. She breathes; she blinks; her lips part and then connect, but there's no steam. Not like you and I, standing here puffing at each other. It may be almost winter here, but for her it's late summer, always summer.
Those lips. How deep and red and enticing they were that night, glistening moistly as she looked up at me. Smiling, dancing, laughing, we moved across the dance floor. We were young; the war had barely touched us, and I was in love for the very first time. The night held the prospect of many new pleasures.
And then he arrived.
I knew he was going to be trouble. Right from the start I could see what he was. American, charming, arrogant and different. Hello excitement, goodbye dependability. In the space of a minute I'd lost her forever.
Shall I tell you how it happened?
He butted in on our dance. Just barged right in, excused himself, and then off they went, whirling round the floor in a flurry of legs and feet and arms. I tried to stop him as they came round again, but he had all the advantages - height, weight, diet, composure and training - while I merely had my rage.
Afterwards, as I lay there on the floor, my tongue counting teeth as my handkerchief vainly tried to soak up blood, I heard a laugh. Looking up through eyes which had already begun to puff up, I saw her. Only six feet away, but already distant, clinging to the conqueror. Her hair made a red scar where it fell on her shoulder, and in that moment I knew what I would have to do.
Can you see? She's moving. But watch. Do her legs bend? Does she walk like you or me? Or does she glide, smooth and silent like a great white owl? Listen. Can you hear any gravel being trodden underfoot? Or is there only you and me and silence?
You can't tell, can you? She deceives the brain, but doesn't brook too much attention. Try not to look too closely - set your mind on other matters.
Ah yes. The chiming. It must be eight o'clock again. Do you think she's able to hear? She'll be heading for the wall. When she reaches it she'll rest her elbows and look over there, to the field on the left, where the airfield used to be.
I remember the women, silent, waiting, listening for the sounds which would tell them that their men were coming back. They used to peel off one at a time as the planes returned, until only a few were left, watching and waiting and wondering.
See how the moonbeams dance around her, making her glow. So white, so brilliant, so pure. And no shadow to taint the vision.
He was corrupting her. I could see that, even from the few glimpses I had of them together. There they were, laughing and giggling like a pair of kids fresh out of school. And kissing! In public! Right there on the main street for all too see, and again, later, in the pub, flaunting themselves in front of me.
Of course she had stockings. And lipstick. And chocolate. And cigarettes. The price of her innocence, the wages of sin.
I hoped that I wouldn't be too late, that she was still capable of being saved. I watched. I waited. I planned. He continued with her destruction, but soon I'd have my turn.
See how she moves between the stones, not attempting to pass through them. Does she look solid to you? You can't see through her, not like in the books or the films. Do you think that if I went over there and put out my hand she'd be able to take it, be able to feel? Would she notice that I was there?
I have often, over the years, thought about why she returns. It is only now, when I'm near my own end, that I'm able to look at it dispassionately. Maybe, when I go to join her, we'll both understand.
Did you know that I used to be a mechanic? Well I was, and a good one at that. It was easy. I already had the run of the airfield, so it was simple to wangle myself in on the servicing of his plane. Once I had spent five minutes aboard, it was only a matter of waiting for the next flight.
I was subtle though. I didn't want the plane blowing up over land; not over England anyway. My work might have been noticed. No, the explosion would occur only when the plane climbed to more than one thousand feet. That should do it. By the time it reached that height it would be well out over the channel.
He took it out the very night day.
Look. She's reached the wall. See how her elbows stay white, despite the damp and moss and stone? Her eyes will be moist. Will those tears be real? Could I perhaps touch them? Touch them and somehow feel her pain?
The next day I saw the flight take off, twelve planes slowly gathering in formation before beginning their long climb into the sky. I watched them until they rose into the clouds, then listened as they droned away. Was there an explosion? Did the droning lessen? I never did find out.
Whether I'm a murderer or not, he never came back, and I never lost the guilt.
Later that day, when the sky was once more filled with sound, the women left the wall, one by one, until she was the only one remaining, trying to pierce the clouds as she peered avidly eastwards, willing him to return.
I stood, just about here, and watched, cursing her for her devotion, cursing him for his hold on her, as darkness fell and the skies grew silent.
It was late summer, and the temperature was dropping rapidly. A light drizzle began to fall, chilling me to the bone.
And still she waited, and still I watched.
See it. There's the cigarette. How ungainly it looks in those pearl white fingers. It burns - there's a good quarter of an inch of ash on the end - but there's no smoke, no smell.
He started her off on that habit. She'd told me that morning that she did it because it made her look like a real lady. As if she'd not been a lady before that. It made me angry, so angry that I could watch no longer.
See how she turns, surprised. Now she'll look confused for a second. Then she'll see that it's only me; only the young, fresh faced, solid, dependable me.
Watch closely now. You may just catch the disappointment as it flits across her face. Look, she turns her back again, returns to her vigil.
One look and I was consigned to despair. I grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her around to face me, demanding that she explain herself. She struggled in my arms but I held on as we moved around in a parody of a waltz; held her as she screamed, her once-beautiful lips contorted in rage.
She pulled away once more, and this time she was too strong for me to hold on to her. Surprised to be free so easily, she lost her balance.
I reached out desperately for her as she fell, slowly, slowly, towards the unyielding gravestones. And then came the sound, the one I hear late at night in my dreams, the sound of her neck as it broke.
So now we wait, she for a sweetheart who will never return, me for an end to the guilt and the hope of forgiveness. Which of us is more dead?
And the time passes and I watch, every night, as she dances, just for me.
This story has been published in five languages, read on three radio stations, and and made into a short movie.
BREAKWATER BEACH
by Carole Ann Moleti
Liz walked across the wrap-around porch. Rotten wood sagged under her feet. She peered through the bullseye glass sidelights. The knobby circles, muddied by layers of dirt, distorted the view of the central staircase that ascended into nothingness.
Her hands fumbled with excitement as she struggled with the old brass lock. The double doors creaked apart. She took a deep breath and stepped inside.
Looking past the neglect, she blew the fly carcasses away and caressed the wainscoting with the touch of a woman in love. A sense of déjà vu, a chill more dense than she'd ever experienced, a fleeting vision of the house bustling with activity, vanished into the silence. Liz wiped her palms on her sweatpants and opened mullioned windows, banging until her wrists ached to loosen the swollen wooden sashes.
Like life these days, there was a great deal to do to make things comfortable, but purposeful activity and moving forward made her feel at home. She tore dustcovers off the furniture in the cavernous rooms. Her footsteps echoed like leaden boots on the bare wood floors. A dust ball under an end table turned out to be the remains of a rat, eye sockets empty, teeth visible in a jawbone, desiccated fur barely holding onto the pointy tail. Bile rose into her throat.
After a fruitless search for a dustpan and broom, she fashioned a rodent scooper from a piece of cardboard and a newspaper dated January 1991. Holding it at arm's length, Liz pulled open the back door and thanked God it wasn't swollen shut.
She stepped onto the porch and tossed it into the yard. The rat hit a man marching up the path through the pine grove. It bounced off his chest and broke into two pieces.
He watched it fall to the ground, brushed off his shirt, and shook his head. “Now there's a brave lady,” he said with a heavy Cape Cod accent. “Not only doesn't she scream for help when she sees a mouse, she heaves it at the fella who's got the nerve to come walking up to her back door unannounced.”
“I'm so sorry, sir!” Liz glanced up as he ascended the rickety steps. About the same six feet as Gerry, he sported a neatly trimmed gray moustache and beard. His voice was more lilting than the broad chest and arms suggested. Muscles bulged under a “Yankees Suck!” tee shirt. His eyes, framed by delicate laugh lines, were the same shade of blue as the sky.
“You must be from New York.” He removed his cap. “The ladies from down there don't put up with anything, particularly from Red Sox fans.”
“It was a rat, and I wanted to get rid of it. I'm from Boston. Liz Levine.” She extended her hand.
He grabbed it in a gentle but firm handshake and winked. “And I didn't even ask which hand you used to pick up the rat.” He backed down the stairs and kicked the carcass under the privet hedge bordering a broken picket fence.
“Now it's fertilizer. Mike Keeny. I live up Stony Brook Road and came to see who bought the house. I've had my eye on it for a while, but the cost of real estate in Brewster is sky high, and this place needs some restoration.”
His gracious humour put her at ease. “So you appreciate historical property, Mr. Keeny.”
“They don't build them like this anymore. And it's Mike. My mother called me Michael, and only the nuns and priests called me Mr. Keeny.” His voice deepened, his eyes swam in tears, as if he had been pulled back into memories of happier times.
“Yes, they called me Miss Mulcahey and my mother, the prim and proper Brit she was, insisted on calling me Elizabeth.”
“So where is Mr. Levine?”
The warm feeling vanished. She struggled to hold back her own tears. When will it be more than two hours that I don't cry? “He's deceased.”
“Jesus Christ, I'm so sorry. Is it okay for me to call you Liz? Or do you prefer Mrs. Levine?” Mike took her hand. “I lost my wife two years ago. I know how terrible it is, and I'm a shade older than you.”
“Liz is fine. Being a widow isn't fun at any age.” She pulled her hand from his grasp.
“No, it isn't. Well, I better get going. I live at 68 Stony Brook, the small colonial. Nothing as grand as your 1875 Victorian, but Brewster is the prettiest town on the Cape, nonetheless. If you need to use the phone, or anything else, it's a short stroll.” Mike fumbled with his hat.
“I have a cell, thanks.” She wished he'd leave.
“I don't have any technology. Just an old-fashioned kind of guy.”
“Thanks for stopping by, Mike.”
“I'd like to see the place, once you've fixed it up.” He wasn't giving up.
“Of course. I'll run it as a bed and breakfast.” Liz half-turned to go inside.
At last he got the hint. He tipped his finger in a lopsided salute, put his Red Sox cap on, and strode back through the pines.
Something about him seemed familiar; maybe she'd seen him on the beach during one of the summer seasons. Liz let her tears run.
Gravel scrunched in the driveway, and she wiped her eyes with her sleeve and paced the porch towards the front yard. An army of young women jumped out of a van, each carrying a bucket, a mop, and a vacuum.
A stout redhead got out of the driver's seat and bounded up the path. “I'm Mae of Mae's Irish Maids. You must be Missus Levine.”
“Please call me Liz.”
“I've got my best crew with me, Lizzy. This place needs a bit of freshenin', don't she now?” Mae grabbed Liz's hand and shook; the grip of her calloused, cracked hands firm.
The brogue brought back memories of her grandmother.
“Okay girls, two to each room. When yer done with the downstairs, we'll take a wee break, then to the upstairs. Just the major cleanin' today. Tomorrow the finishing touches.”
The girls crowded through the door, giggling as they put on work gloves and masks. Irish brogues echoed through the house. Mae trundled a vacuum cleaner into the kitchen.
Liz followed in their wake focused on moving in, moving on. “All the rooms are going to be re-painted and re-decorated. They just have to get rid of the major dust and grime.”
“Miss Lizzy, paint won't stick to these here walls unless they're clean. And the windows, surely you won't be replacin' them now! Ain't too many houses that have the original glass. When we're finished, you may have less to fix than you planned.” Mae plopped a rubber bucket into the sink, poured in an entire bottle of cleaning solution, and ran hot water. “Kitchens and baths are my specialty, Lizzy. If you like my work, perhaps you'd be needin' a permanent housekeeper and handyman? My husband and me can help you out. This is a big house.”
“As a matter of fact, Mae, I will need regular help when the bed and breakfast opens. There's a caretaker's cottage out back, near the stable. It's been rented, so it's in better shape than the house. I would also like to get some horses.”
Mae's face lit up with a bright smile. “Kevin used to do stable work. This sounds like it might work out fine. It costs too much for folks like us to live here in Brewster. The girls 'n boys, well they come for the summers, they clean, they baby-sit, they wait tables. When the season's over, the work dries up. Kevin and me had to move into a shack near the Bourne Bridge.”
“We can talk about it, Mae. Nothing will happen until next year. I have restoration experts coming in to redo the roof, the shingles and trim, repair the windows, and upgrade the electric and plumbing.”
“You'll be staying at your place in Boston then.”
“No, it's sold. I'm living here, starting today.”
“Brave lass, moving from Beacon Hill to this. And yer husband?”
“I'm a widow, Mae.”
“You don't even look like you old enough for menopause and yer a widow! Accident?”
“Cancer.” Liz tried to be angry, but this woman was too genuine. Besides, she reminded her of Grandma Mulcahey. “And you're right, I'm not menopausal yet.”
“We best be findin' you a nice fella to keep you company. Age don't matter a twit. Believe me, it only gets better. Children?”
“One son, eighteen. He's in New York City now. Starting college in the fall.”
Mae's battery ran down while she scrubbed the sink. “Kevin 'n me, well we never got to have kids. Those priests, they told us none of that stuff doctors do to help out with infertility is acceptable. I shouldn't have listened.”
“A lot of things priests say aren't realistic,” Liz answered.
“Is it like that fer the Jews?" Mae asked. "They don't make stoves like this anymore either. Don't you be replacin' this one, Lizzy.”
“I won't, it's beautiful. I'm Catholic. My husband was Jewish, but not religious. I haven't gone to Mass lately. Saints Jude and Anthony didn't help out with Gerry's illness, but maybe I didn't deserve any miracles.”
Mae had another power surge. “Now don't you go startin' that, Miss Lizzy. With all the mischief the good fathers been gettin' into, Cardinal Law included, I can't imagine that the likes of you would be on the Lord's shite list now would you? I'll be happy to take you to Our Lady of the Cape to meet the pastor.”
Guilt about not going to mass, and not doing anything, spurned Liz to put on a pair of work gloves and start washing walls. “I know that church. My husband and I rented in Brewster every summer. He was a lawyer in Boston. I was a teacher and spent summers up here, with my son. Gerry commuted back and forth.”
“Now don't you be tellin' me yer retired too! Mary, Mother of God yer too damn young fer that.”
Liz dropped her sponge into the bucket. “It's a long story, Mae. I can't talk about it right now.”
Mae stripped off her gloves and hugged her. “Now, Miss Lizzy, you listen to Mae. Life ain't fair and 'tain't easy. But the Good Lord doesn't give you anything you can't handle. He answers all prayers, in His own time, but sometimes you don't like the answer. Run along now, I'm the hired cleaner. If yer goin' to be stayin' here tonight, you best be gettin' some groceries and linens now.” She smiled and got back to scrubbing.
Liz washed her hands, picked up her purse, and got into her car. Before she turned the key in the ignition, she heard Mae calling to the workers.
“Put a move on it, lassies. The missus is stayin' here tonight. That master suite needs to be spotless! Four of you to that room and the bathroom. I need help in this kitchen, right now!”