“Daddy’s always watching over you.” It would’ve been less creepy if I didn’t believe in ghosts.
Grandpa’s been watching me since I was nine. He’s like Santa, he doesn’t come until I fall asleep. I woke up one night to the familiar smell of cigars and butterscotch and discovered him standing at the foot of my bed, hands folded over his round belly. He wasn’t the jolly Grandpa I remembered; he stared at me, expressionless.
Now Daddy’s joined him. Every night, they stand by my bed and watch me sleep. It’s been quite difficult sneaking boys into my room.
“U.S. Marshalls gunned down the poet turned America’s most wanted in this very bar.” The tour guide knocked on the wood of the pool table. “Some say his ghost still lingers.”
GG squeezed Rick’s hand. He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulled her closer, kissed her right temple. “There’s no such thing as ghosts,” he whispered.
“Why were they chasing him?” one of the tourists asked.
“Kidnapping and rape,” the tour guide answered. “She was only thirteen.”
“I heard he married her.” Rick lifted GG’s chin, winked at her.
“That’s disgusting,” a woman standing behind him spat out.
“Edgar Allen Poe married his thirteen-year-old cousin. Was madly in love with her.” Rick bent down, kissed the top of GG’s ear. She purred under his touch, turned her head to the side, extending her neck.
“Poe was a creep too,” the woman muttered.
Rick dug his nails into GG’s hip, leaving pale crescent moons in her skin.
“Apologies.” He took her hand, guided her to the back of the bar where they disappeared.
word count: 175
Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers is a weekly challenge where you write a story in 75-175 using the provided photo prompt as inspiration. Click the froggy icon to read other stories inspired by the photo and add your own.
The cemetery spread along the area known as Devils Abode.
The cab stopped in front of the sign, DEAD ZONE AHEAD. Jessie glanced at the meter as it began to glitch. She handed the man two 20s. “You don’t have to wait.” She gathered the bouquet of flowers and slid out onto the curb.
The driver made a sharp U-turn, the tires screeching, and sped back down the mountain.
There’s nothing evil about a place where the dead go to rest, she thought as she hiked toward the cast-iron gate. She looked down at the black screen of her cellphone. So electronics tend to fail here. She pulled her jacket over her shoulders. And the wind has a frozen lick to it.
Her husband’s grave was the first to the left of the entrance. She lay on the freshly shoveled dirt, placed the flowers above her head, waited for his arms to reach up and hold her one last time.
word count: 150
Mondays Finish the Story: a flash fiction challenge where we provide you with a new photo each week, and the first sentence of a story. Your challenge is to finish the story using 100-150 words, not including the sentence provided.
Click the froggy icon to read other stories and add your own.
Not every haunted house in Charleston should be a bed and breakfast. Not after we’ve finally learned to accept our ghosts. Sonja plays Chinese checkers with the little girl during late night thunderstorms when she can’t sleep. The father helps Brick train for boxing, teaching him how to properly kick and punch his Bozo bop bag so it doesn’t pop back up.
But John says we need the money, so I flip pancakes for strangers who talk of footsteps, knocking, transparent faces in the mirrors. For some reason, they can’t hear the dead mother humming “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah” from the kitchen ceiling.
word count: 100
Friday Fictioneers is a weekly challenge where you must write a story in 100 words or less using the provided photo prompt as inspiration. Click the froggy icon to ready other stories and add your own.
I see ghosts in the fog—
pale-faced shadows floating
above the surface, drifting into
what was, what used to be.
One dives down to kiss me—
grazes his frozen lips against
my cheek. He moans; I remind
him of a love long forgotten—
his only memory: her curly,
chestnut hair, how it wrapped
around his fingers like tiny
serpents, his blood flow halted—
stiff as stone. He tries to lay
me down, reincarnate his
devotion between the cracks of
a wooden bench— his limbs
disintegrate the higher he hikes
my skirt until only water
droplets lick my exposed skin.
Another fires cotton bullets
toward my head; shouts, Who is your master? Where are your papers?
I hear the crash of braided raw
cowhide behind me— the tip
of a feather quickly brushing
down my spine. The halo overhead
descends, tightens around my neck.
Dark outlines of limp bodies
dangle from willows.
I swing with them
behind the veil of weeping leaves
until the wind blows, the fog lifts, and
the spirits of my nightmare
wander into slumber
before the morning rooster crows.
I recently came across Write or Die Wednesday, which is a biweekly writing challenge that provides you with a prompt and lets you run with it. This week’s prompt was:
Read other fog writings, and have a go at it yourself!