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    Not Just Any Old Ghost Story: Steve Vernon's Sea Tales Book #7
    Not Just Any Old Ghost Story: Steve Vernon's Sea Tales Book #7
    Not Just Any Old Ghost Story: Steve Vernon's Sea Tales Book #7
    Ebook79 pages57 minutes

    Not Just Any Old Ghost Story: Steve Vernon's Sea Tales Book #7

    By Steve Vernon

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Tommy has come home from the city to visit his Dad for one last time. He is determined to get to the bottom of all of the secrets that his Dad has kept for hidden behind a smokescreen of storytelling and charm.

    It turns out that some secrets are best left untold.

    NOT JUST ANY OLD GHOST STORY is a quiet little story about coming home and ghosts that you can never escape and a love that never dies. It is a story that will take you to the very heart of storytelling itself.

    "If Harlan Ellison, Richard Matheson and Robert Bloch had a three-way sex romp in a hot tub and then a team of scientists came in and filtered out the water and mixed the leftover DNA into a test tube, the resulting genetic experiment would most likely grow up into Steve Vernon." - BOOKGASM

    "Steve Vernon was born to write. He's the real deal and we are lucky to have him." - Richard Chizmar, CEMETERY DANCE

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSteve Vernon
    Release dateSep 11, 2016
    ISBN9781370751686
    Not Just Any Old Ghost Story: Steve Vernon's Sea Tales Book #7
    Author

    Steve Vernon

    Everybody always wants a peek at the man behind the curtain. They all want to see just exactly what makes an author tick.Which ticks me off just a little bit - but what good is a lifetime if you can't ride out the peeve and ill-feeling and grin through it all. Hi! I am Steve Vernon and I'd love to scare you. Along the way I'll try to entertain you and I guarantee a giggle as well.If you want to picture me just think of that old dude at the campfire spinning out ghost stories and weird adventures and the grand epic saga of how Thud the Second stepped out of his cave with nothing more than a rock in his fist and slew the mighty saber-toothed tiger.If I listed all of the books I've written I'd most likely bore you - and I am allergic to boring so I will not bore you any further. Go and read some of my books. I promise I sound a whole lot better in print than in real life. Heck, I'll even brush my teeth and comb my hair if you think that will help any.For more up-to-date info please follow my blog at:http://stevevernonstoryteller.wordpress.com/And follow me at Twitter:@StephenVernonyours in storytelling,Steve Vernon

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      Book preview

      Not Just Any Old Ghost Story - Steve Vernon

      NOT JUST ANY OLD GHOST STORY

      A

      TALE

      OF

      THE

      SEA

      BY

      STEVE VERNON

      SMASHWORDS 2016

      I have heard an awful lot of stories and I’ve even told a few and nearly every story I’ve ever heard or told was born from my dad. I guess this one is no different and why should it be? My dad has told me nearly everything I’ve ever learned and twice as much as I’ll ever be able to forget.

      And even now I remember it all.

      He has told me about snow snakes and mud trout. He has told me how dreams were nothing more than stories waiting to be born. He has told me that the ocean was made out of tears cried by a woman who sits upon the bottom sobbing and shaking so hard that the waves toss and turn in their sharing of her sorrow. He has told me how my home province of Nova Scotia once served as Glooscap’s bed and Prince Edward Island was the pillow for his head.

      But Cape Breton was the old dark fooler’s canoe, you bet, Dad would tell me. Hunting or fishing, when Glooscap wanted to get himself anywhere handy to interesting he came right straight up to old Cape Breton Island.

      My dad has told me how the raven stole the sun from the heart of winter and traded his song to keep it. He has told me how icicles are nothing more than snow angel tears wept down for all of the snowflakes that never reached a child’s out stretched tongue. He claims that the flounder got to be so ugly-faced a fish after losing an ill-planned swimming race with a fast-moving skate.

      That old flounder pulled a face in disgust and it just stayed stuck, Dad told me. Believe you me, nothing sticks harder than regret.

      And maybe that’s so.

      I mean, think about it.

      We all learn to carry so much unnecessary regret. We drag it around behind ourselves and wear it sewn into the inner lining of our shadow. I think that the heart of every ghost story ever told is awash with the soft faded autumnal color of pure unredeemable regret.

      Why do you tell me so many stories? I once asked Dad.

      A man is nothing more than the stories he knows, Dad answered. And here in Nova Scotia we grow our stories long, rambling and deep. Life isn’t all about cable television, cell phones and newspaper. There are the silences that whisper between the words, those secrets not shared that linger long after any story ever told. Believe you me, mister man, there is a tale to be told for every wave that washes the shores of Nova Scotia.

      This story is one of them, I guess.

      Chapter 1 – In Which I Get a Ride

      Get in, the trucker said, so in I got.

      I had been standing here on the side of the road just short of the east most end of the city limits of Toronto, my thumb hooked hopefully into the contrary-minded west wind, just wishing for a ride when that big old semi rig pulled up.

      When it hissed to a halt I was halfway lost in a day dream, wander-bound and telling myself a slow quiet sort of nothing-thought story, staring off down the highway and thinking on how absolutely miraculous it was that this single patch of road could tie one end of our country to the other and by nature must touch nearly every other road in North America. It is like my dad always said - bloodstreams and building blocks – a body sometimes wonders just how much of the world is made out of nothing more than it self made big.

      So I clambered into the truck before the driver could think to change his mind.

      Strap your self on in, the trucker told me. I don’t slow down from here on out.

      The trucker was built big, even sitting down. He was all shoulders and arms looking like he had strength enough to tear that steering wheel off the dashboard and tie it into a forget-me-knot about my gawking neck. He looked like he had been poured out of concrete into the seat of that semi truck and let harden for a while. He reached over and shook my hand clear down to my toe bones. I counted my fingers when he let me have them back again.

      They seemed mostly intact.

      Have you been out there long? he asked.

      Long enough, I said.

      Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t nearly as terrified of him as I was scared of what might be waiting for me back home in Deeper Harbour. Going back home

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