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    Ghost Haunts
    Ghost Haunts
    Ghost Haunts
    Ebook134 pages2 hours

    Ghost Haunts

    By D J Lowbridge

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    About this ebook

    Challenge your preconceptions as you take a journey into the spirit world.

    From the battles of World War One to the depths of space; these ghosts will lead you through their hopes, fears and darkest desires.

    Ghost Haunts is a collection of short stories that will take you on an emotional journey exploring another realm. From the anguished depths of despair to a lingering love that cannot be divided we meet relentless tormentors, omens of impending doom and love that continues beyond the grave.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherD J Lowbridge
    Release dateMay 26, 2013
    ISBN9781301053148
    Ghost Haunts
    Author

    D J Lowbridge

    D J Lowbridge is a science fiction, paranormal and horror author from Essex, United Kingdom. He has two small children and 2 rabbits, 2 guinea pigs, 2 tanks of fish and a Leopold Gecko named Steph. He enjoys spending time at the beach; particularly going crab catching.

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      Book preview

      Ghost Haunts - D J Lowbridge

      Ghost Haunts

      by D J Lowbridge

      Copyright © 2013 D J Lowbridge

      Smashwords Edition

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

      I would like to thank all those who made this possible but special praise should go to my wife, children and Nanny for whom without I would never have published this book.

      Table of Contents

      The Heavy Shrapnel

      The Painting

      The Loss

      Prey

      The Visitor

      The Messenger

      Battle Prayer

      The Hitchhiker

      Guilt

      Ghost Pod

      The Grave Cleaner

      About The Author

      The Heavy Shrapnel

      The first time I saw him was at the medal ceremony. Some General was giving me the Distinguished Service Cross and from the other side of the room he stared across at me. That gaunt sinister look on his face stabbed me in the chest worse than any bullet could have done. I didn't want the medal, I didn't want the recognition. But this was 1971 and with the ever strengthening peace protests, the disillusioned soldiers fighting on the frontlines, the powers that be thought a new round of glittering shards of metal would boost the troops' moral. It didn't matter to the brass that Vietnam was a lost cause, as long as they had their orders.

      I remember feeling the psychological hit as the medal was pinned on me. Like I was a doll and the General was a boy playing with his toy soldiers. He gave me a small meaningless Congratulations son, and I gave the required salute back with a smile. But it was fake. I had nothing to smile about and the man standing in the corner, in his bloodstained battledress was just a reminder of why.

      I would like to have said I never saw him again. But that would have been simple. That would have been an easy let off. I saw him again, and all too frequently for my liking.

      On my twentieth birthday, as I was turning round from the bar I saw him. Stood in the corner all alone, his battledress out of place in the room full of partygoers. He was doing nothing but staring at me. His blood shot eyes penetrated my soul making my torso feel empty inside and took away any joy I felt. I dropped my drink in fright. Of course I told nobody why I had done that. They wouldn't have understood, so I feigned that I simply had too much to drink.

      As the night went on, my neck burned from the scrutiny. I would turn around every so often; he stayed in the same spot all night. Not moving a muscle, except to keep his dark focus on me. The thought of him being there, made me throw up, something else I could blame on an excess of alcohol.

      But there were many more times he was with me. Most of them when I could not blame drink for my paranoia. On morning runs he often appeared spontaneously standing in some nameless bush, sometimes on a corner of a random street and other occasions at the front of my flat. First few times I fell backwards, heart pounding and my mind racing at his appearance. But as time passed I got used to his presence and was always looking over my shoulder for him. His stare would often make my heart feel ice-cold and beads of sweat drip from my forehead.

      The most troublesome appearance of him was during an interview. I went for a post with a newspaper. As I was speaking with the editor I caught a shadow in the corner of the small office. His burning eyes made my hands clammy and my seat squeaked as I wriggled. His presence drew my gaze like a magnet. I didn’t want to look at him, but I couldn’t help it.

      You like the picture do you son? asked the editor. I forced my attention away from the man and looked at the editor in the eyes. He had no idea who was in the room with us. What that shadow meant to me. Trying my best for a smile I answered that it was an interesting picture, but my voice had shrunk in the shadow’s presence. I looked quickly up at the picture to grab some detail of it, just in case there were some follow-up questions. Luckily for me, there were none.

      What did you do? the editor asked me, to get your medal.

      I attacked an enemy machine gun position alone sir, I responded quickly. The memory of that night was just as strong in my mind as the other night, the night that the man I kept on seeing knew all about.

      Brave, the editor commended me.

      The act was foolish. I had gotten lucky and I came away from it unscathed. I shouldn't have had a medal for it; I should have been given a full psychological check up. I must have been insane for what I did.

      The man followed me for a few years. Like a constant shadow he was everywhere I was. It wasn't until five years later that I broke down, worn away like a cliff is from the bombardment of a stormy sea.

      Why the hell are you following me? I screamed at him one night on my way home. I hadn't had a drink, I was as sober as you can get.

      He stared at me. His blank look hid a quiet evil about him. Shivers raced down my spine. He did not respond.

      What do you want? I demanded an answer in the strongest possible terms.

      I want the truth, he replied quietly and in a much softer voice than I had ever anticipated that man having.

      You know the truth, I exclaimed, there’s no point in telling you.

      But no one else knows the truth, the man took a step forward awkwardly shaking his head. His right leg dragged a little, blood stains covered the outside. No one knows what happened the night before you earned that shiny piece of shrapnel on your chest. His gaze flitted down to the medal I was wearing and back up to meet mine.

      A feeling of guilt washed over me as I touched the medal pinned on my shirt. It was smooth and cold.

      I had no idea it was you, my voice trembling as tears stung my cheeks and rolled down my face. By now a couple of people had taken notice and approached me. They didn't say anything; they just watched and listened in silence.

      You should have waited, the man replied angrily, his blank face disappearing in a fit of rage. You should have called out again, checked, but you didn't.

      It was the middle of the night, it was dark and there was no moonshine what so ever. There wasn't supposed to be any patrols and I heard a noise in the jungle. So I called out, I replied, racing in unison with my heart to desperately justify myself, You didn't reply with any codeword, not even an incorrect one, I paused trying to catch my breath. I took the only action that I felt was right.

      You shot!

      Yes I shot! I screamed.

      And you killed me!

      Yes! I screamed. Then I paused briefly, and with a calm voice and my eyes now fixed on the ground, I continued on, I killed a fellow soldier, an American, who had gotten lost.

      I turned to the small gathering of people who had been listening to the conversation. I looked at them in the eye and I ripped my medal off in an angry frenzy, throwing it at the nearest wall. I remember hearing the clink of the metal as it hit a sewer cover on the ground. The relief of having the heavy burden on my chest removed was invigorating but it wasn't over.

      I was scared, hungry, deprived of almost every luxury imaginable, I explained almost defiantly, and I made a mistake that led to the death of a fellow soldier. Every second that I continued to explain myself made my body feel a little lighter.

      I glanced over at him. For the first time I saw satisfaction on his face. It made my body quiver.

      If my guilt is not enough, I explained to my audience in a voice that had shrunk to nothing more than whimper. I have him following me around everywhere, disgust seeped into my voice as the hatred of the man for the years of silent, constant torture came out, my own personal ghost.

      The crowd that had gathered had puzzled looks and a few poorly hidden whispers passed from person to person.

      The reason no one knows, I preempted, is that in the morning I found the body and chucked it in the river, never to be found.

      The crowd’s whispers grew to a chorus of exclamation at this last revelation. I could hear some of the conversations clearly. I suddenly recognised a few of the faces. I lived in a small town; it wouldn't take long for the news to spread. I had just opened up to the entire community and although the weight of the truth was now lifted from my soul, the disgust of what I had done still remained.

      I left that street, being jeered by the crowd. The soldier, my personal ghost, in the middle of them; his head held high and a wide smile spread across his face. He had the best revenge he could have hoped for and you would have thought that I would never have seen him again. But the thing about ghosts is that they

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