GHOST STORIES: "The Blackberry" Concludes

The Blackberry

By Judith Cullen

© 2014

Continuing . . .

“The whole genus has power issues, I think,” Cara muttered.

“Come with me,” Dave reached out a hand to Cara and both she and Marcy followed him upstairs. He paused in the hallway to grab a pair of binoculars and the three of them mounted two flights of  stairs to the top of the Hall’s home. 

The top floor was one open room under the eaves, with storage and some work areas for both Marcy and Dave.  At one end there were French doors that opened onto a small balcony which overlooked Cara’s yard.  They were just high enough that they could see over Cara’s small house to the lot beyond.  Dave handed the binoculars to Cara.

“Take a look,” he said.

GHOST STORIES: "The Blackberry" ~ Part 2

The Blackberry

By Judith Cullen

© 2014

Continuing . . . 

Weeks went by and Kuja never did come home. Kiley and Cara slowly acclimated to the new environment and started to get to know their neighbors in the little cul de sac. 

There was Sheila and Tom across the way, with their sons Roger and Dan. 

There was Mrs. Wiley who lived alone in a little cottage-like house with arbors full of flowering plants and azalea bushes the size of industrial packing crates.  She had painted her front door bright purple, and had three cats.  Sprinkles had already made a loud and somewhat unfriendly foray into the territory of the Wiley cats. 

Then there was Dave and Marcy Hall, her next door neighbors.

Marcy was the adult leader of Kiley’s troop.  Cara had been envious beyond belief at Marcy’s garden.  It was an artistic arrangement of raised flower beds and winding hedges, all filled with beautiful plants with useful purposes.  Marcy was happy to enumerate the uses of each plant, it’s healing and dietary properties, and how to prepare it – whether tincture, salve, or solution.  Cara was overwhelmed, and could not help but be in awe of Marcy.

GHOST STORIES: "The Blackberry" ~ Part 1

This story was inspired by a particularly impassioned gardening incident in my back yard.  While not a traditional ghost story, I don't think there is anyone in the Pacific Northwest who would not agree with me that Rubus armeniacus seems possessed, to have power issues, and a will totally unbecoming a plant.

Enjoy!
*****

The Blackberry

By Judith Cullen

© 2014

The knock at the front door was insistent.  “Fix the door bell.” Cara grumbled as she hustled around piles of

boxes, heading for the front door. “I’m coming!”  It had been a week but their new house was still a complete chaotic disaster.  That’s what came, she told herself, from moving on a Sunday.  It had been all she could manage to get everything out of the truck and roughly sorted, even with the help of hired movers.  Then she had to hunt down a few essentials, get Kiley and Sprinkles fed, settled, and still get herself ready to start a new job the next day.

She swung the door open, reminding herself to smile, and met the worried face of Sheila from across the circle.  “Oh God,” Cara thought, “we’ve only been here a week, what’s gone wrong already? Had Kiley been too friendly and chattering?  Has Sprinkles been picking fights with other pets?” Kiley had thought the cat looked like chocolate ice cream with Halloween sprinkles all over it. Despite the feline’s fanciful name, it had a notoriously scrappy disposition outside the immediate family.

GHOST STORIES: "Walter's Sunday" Conclusion

Walter’s Sunday

By Judith Cullen

© 2014

By the time he’d finished the crossword the morning was well on its way to becoming afternoon.  He’d better get on with things.  He had chores to do, errands to run, and was expected for a family gathering that afternoon – the traditional Sunday after church lunch.  Walter only went to church when he felt like it anymore.  There were few things about the service that were engaging for him, and he got tired of people being solicitous of his maturity.  He’d never imagined himself as a “sweet old man” and he didn’t appreciate being treated like he was infirm.  It didn’t matter to him that he had the challenges of the old - he’d earned them!  And he didn’t mind being treated with respect.  He just hated being treated with solicitous consideration.  He knew the people meant well, but it just seemed fake to him.  It felt like they treated him that way because they felt they should, not because they really wanted to.

The dishes were washed and the kitchen scrubbed up in due order.  Walter was grateful for the Army.  It had taught him survival skills that had turned out to be far more valuable than marksmanship.  He watered the plants, marveling as he did most mornings that they seemed to thrive in spite of his neglect.  Jean had been the one with the green thumb.  He’d kept the plants because they reminded him of her.  It would have been easier to have chucked them out.  But he liked the way the morning light made the leaves shine.  He always heard Jean in his head, “Now don’t over water them, Walter!”  He smiled, always replying out loud “Of course not, my dear.”

GHOST STORIES: "Walter's Sunday" ~ Part 1

And now . . . *drum roll* . . . for this year's stories!  Here begins the first of two.  Enjoy!

*****

Walter’s Sunday

By Judith Cullen

© 2014

The alarm began its relentless beeping.  It continued for several minutes and Walter found himself wishing, not for the first time, that someone had developed a gadget so that he could turn the damn thing off from bed.  Then again, that would defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it?  His wife, Jean, had moved the alarm clock to its home on the dresser years ago, after an unfortunate incident in which he had hit “snooze” repeatedly for over 90 minutes.

She’d been gone for 8 years now, his Jean.  He missed her terribly.  She had always brought structure and order to their lives.  Walter was convinced that he would have made a mess of things if left to himself.  When she’s passed, he’d maintained her household regimen: running the vacuum and dusting the house on Saturday morning, laundry on Wednesdays, changing the sheets every Monday.  He did his best, but he sometimes forgot things.  Walter was 87, and his life was a dichotomy of a rigid schedule versus a firm belief that he’d earned the right to do as he pleased, when he pleased.  He missed his Jean, and he forgot things.

GHOST STORIES: "Her Own Words" Concludes

Her Own Words

By Judith Cullen

(c) 2013

Conclusion

When she finally went to bed, sometime after three in the morning, she just stared blankly at the ceiling until the sun came up.  At eight she called her office to let them know she was staying at home.  She didn’t have any crucial appointments or deadlines, and she had plenty of time off coming.

Ten a.m. found her in the stiff cold air, opening her umbrella as the rain started to fall.  She had gotten the

name of the cemetery from the listing she had found, and the desk clerk had given her directions how to find the grave. The actual physical cemetery was a little more intimidating than the graphics on the desk clerk’s computer.  Elaine finally found her though.

Rebecca Jonas

Born August 14, 1962

Died October 5, 2006

There was no other inscription.  Elaine recognized the headstone.  There was a group of ladies at one of the big local churches who had started a charity to help people who died without means to have a proper burial.  They held bazaars, bake sales, and auctions all to provide monuments and obituary listings for people who passed and had no relatives, or whose relatives could not afford it.  What had happened to Rebecca’s family?  She had been an only child, but she’d had parents. 

GHOST STORIES: "Her Own Words" - Part 2

Her Own Words

By Judith Cullen

(c) 2013

Part Two

If Elaine had been correct, and it had been a practical joke, that should have been the end of it.  Middle aged woman annoyed – mission accomplished.  End of story.  But that was not the end of it. 

Two days later she walked into her workroom, put her bag down next to her desk, and dropped the mail on top of it.  She had avoided the room since the night of the storm, but there was work she needed to do from home tonight.  She had totally forgotten about the note.  She glanced across the desk as she began sorting the mail, separating the important things from those that would go straight to the recycling bin at her feet. 

Except it wasn’t there, the note from the other night.  There was a note there, but it was not the same note.  Or was it?  It was the same envelope, same old-fashioned looking paper, and the same familiar curvy handwriting “Elaine Harrison.”  This envelope, however, was sealed.  As it sat there on the desk, it was almost shouting at her already.  Elaine didn’t want to know what it said.  She pushed it to one side and went back to her mail.

 

Wait a minute!  If it was sealed and a new note, how the hell did it get there?  Could it have simply been the same note as before, and she just didn’t remember putting the note back in the envelope? It looked awfully neat and untouched teetering there on the edge of the desk.  There was only one way to find out if it was the same note.  She reached for it, tore open the flap, and ripped the note from inside.

GHOST STORIES: "Her Own Words" - Part One

This is the third year in which I have written a ghost story for October.  In fact this year I write two.  The certain irony is that people who publish ghost stories actually are reviewing them in February.  So I suspect I am "banking it forward" with this work.

There is something undeniable about the effect late September has on my writing muse.  In 2012 I wrote my first ghosty story, "In the Mist", which was published in A TRIO OF IRISH TALES which is available on Amazon, and remains my most popular publication to date.

"Her Own Words" was last year's (2013) story took second place in a Ghost Story Contest sponsored y author Lissa Bryan. Since  this story is only available in paperback as part of TRIO TALES 2013, I have decided to share it here, in series, as it lends itself to that.  I'll follow with this year's stories, similarly eeked out in hopefully enticing bits.

Just a side note about me and scary stories:  if you are looking for the "blood-curdling-eviscerating-entrailing" kind of story from me, you are in for disappointment.  My stories have suspenseful, possibly thrilling moments, but my inner "Pooh-Bear" always asserts itself.  So you might best categorize my scary fiction as "Spooky-Sweet."  You have been warned - Enjoy!
*****

Storm Clouds over Brent Hill by Adrian Platt

Her Own Words

By Judith Cullen

(c) 2013

Part One

The wind and rain made the trees outside her window groan and rumble.  There was nowhere Elaine would rather be than right where she was: curled up under her warm, thick comforter.  She’d grown up with weather like this, and she loved listening to it buffet and batter as long as she could do so from safely under the covers.  The cat had a similar idea, hopping up once Elaine had pulled the comforter up.  It had stomped around before becoming a cushion of purring fur and lapsing into feline snores. 

Familiar as the sounds of the storm were, Elaine was not lulled into sleep.  Her mind would not shut down.  The wind and rain reflected her own unrest as she tried to close down the thoughts of the day to get some sleep. Instead, she tossed with the branches and leaves accompanied by the sounds of the cat, which let out a low howl of annoyance each time Elaine moved.

The sound, when it came, seemed so out of place.  It challenged Elaine’s coziness.  It entreated her not-so-quiet mind to get out of the bed.  It was the squishing thump of footsteps outside.  How remarkable that she could hear them from this end of the house, with all the racket of the storm.  But hear them she did, loud and clear, and seemingly approaching her front door.  Who would be out at this time of night in this kind of weather?  Elaine’s still-careening mind ascribed whomever it was an idiot, and rolled over again.

There were two sharp raps on her front door.

AH, AUTUMN!

It's here!  For some reason this is a pretty prolific "story" time of year for me.  Witness that this year my annual traditional ghost story writing, which has been happening for several years, manifested itself into two different stories. I am planning to share those stories here, but first a little warm up.

Last year I got involved with Stephanie Mesler's Word Association Haiku Challenge, and for over three months I wrote haiku on a regular basis: single, double, cycles.  It was huge fun and I am still amazed that I stayed in as long as I did.  This ten verse cycle is from that challenge.  The task was to write ten verses with one repeating line in each to the prompt "Halloween" or "Samhain."

Blossom of summer

ripened to rich harvest gold

as the wheel comes ‘round

Damp, cold, and fall mists

creep in with bounty’s decay

as the wheel comes ‘round

Mortality knocks

beckoning our acceptance

as the wheel comes ‘round