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|
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
There were two sharp raps on her front door.