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    Tales from the Grave
    Tales from the Grave
    Tales from the Grave
    Ebook645 pages8 hours

    Tales from the Grave

    By Zimbell House Publishing, Patrick Alven, Ross Baxter and

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    About this ebook

    Tales From The Grave is a ghostly collection of short stories brought to you by Zimbell House Publishing, showcasing thirty-six new voices to tempt you.

    Some of these stories are sure to have you looking over your shoulder...

    Others will have you hiding under the covers...

    Some will simply haunt you to your grave.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherZimbell House Publishing
    Release dateSep 27, 2015
    ISBN9781942818489
    Tales from the Grave
    Author

    Zimbell House Publishing

    Zimbell House Publishing is dedicated to promoting new writers. To enable us to do this, we create themed anthologies and send out a call for submissions. These calls are updated monthly, typically we have at least four months worth on our website at any given time. To see what we are working on next, please paste this link into your browser and save it to your bookmarks: http://zimbellhousepublishing.com/contest-submissions/ All submissions are vetted by our acquisitions team. By developing these anthologies, we can promote new writers to readers across the globe. We hope we've helped you find a new favorite to follow! Are you interested in helping a particular writer's career? Write a review and mention them by name. You can post reviews on our website, or through any retailer you purchased from.  Interested in becoming a published author? Check out our website for a look behind the scenes of what it takes to bring a manuscript to a published book. http://zimbellhousepublishing.com/publishing-services/process-behind-scenes/ We hope to hear from you soon.

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      Tales from the Grave - Zimbell House Publishing

      Charity Case

      David J. Gibbs

      W e’re so full of choices , these poisonous decisions that we make, each one somehow influencing the next, until there’s nothing left but shredded ribbons to hold onto.  Our arms are so full, trying to hold that weight, its heft too unwieldy for us, but still we try.  As hard as it is to do, we still try.

      He listened to her, even though he didn’t fully understand what she was talking about.  It wasn’t anything new.  For as long as Chris had known her, Charity Underhill was way smarter than he was.  While he was floundering, he was after all, a sophomore struggling with a sixth-grade vocab book, she was a senior taking advanced placement chemistry and history.  Chris knew that he was just along for the ride, but what a great ride it was so far.

      Charity was free with her body and very giving both in and out of the bedroom.  She was flirtatious and playful, and still somehow managed to be slutty.  He couldn’t figure her out at all, which is probably another reason why he was sticking around.

      Don’t you agree?

      The earnest look was there, the one that always seemed to tease something in his chest.  It made him uneasy and horny all at the same time.  Chris was shocked that those feelings hadn’t faded at all in the four months they had been going out.  He usually lost interest much quicker than that.

      I’m not sure.

      "Well, which part aren’t you sure about? 

      Pretty much everything you just said.

      Really?

      Well, yeah Charity.  I mean, you talk an awful lot.

      Are you serious? she interrupted.

      -and it’s hard to catch up sometimes.

      Chris?

      Yeah?  I mean what are poisonous decisions anyway?  I pick the wrong pair of pants in the morning and boom; suddenly I’m poisoned and dying?

      She smiled at that and looked down, her straight red hair falling from behind her ear, sweeping slowly across her face.  Her hair always looked so soft.  Charity shifted her position on the bed, the tired springs of the old mattress creaking with her movement.  He propped himself up with an extra pillow and looked at her, really looked at her.

      Chris, you are truly singular. 

      Her eyes always let him swim in them.  The deep blue, open and inviting, he always took a dip, always.  He was helpless to do otherwise.  She always smelled like she just stepped out of the shower.

      Will you do that thing again?

      What thing? Charity asked.

      Oh come on.  You know what I’m talking about, that thing.

      Chris, come on.  We don’t have time for games now, do we?

      The longer she looked at him, her eyes not leaving his, the surer he was that she was serious.   It was weird.  She would be so playful and carefree with him, that he sometimes forgot that she could be so darkly serious.  It was almost scary to him sometimes how quickly she could turn on him.  Of course, it didn’t change his mind about staying with her.

      Okay.

      Now, remember we’re still going to go to the Salem Cemetery tonight.

      Wait.   We are? he asked.

      That brought the color back to her cheeks and the look in her eyes.  He just smiled and held up his hands.

      I know, I know.  I was just kidding.

      You’d better be mister.

      Mister?  Wow, so formal all of a sudden.

      She slapped him playfully on his arm.

      So you know what we’re doing tonight, right? Charity asked.

      Of course I do.  We’re going to the cemetery, he said, drumming out a pattern on his sheet covered stomach, as he rolled over to his back.

      Chris took in every detail of her face.  She had a small pinprick of a scar near her left ear, and her left eyebrow was just a hint higher than her right.  Her lips turned down at the ends, just barely, and every so often, it made her look mean.  Even that didn’t matter to him because he was taken by her in a way no one else had taken him.

      She kissed him wetly on the mouth, her hair spilling across his face and then scooted off the side of the bed.  She liked teasing him.  Chris knew she did.  He might not necessarily be book smart, he wasn’t foolish enough to think he was, but he was definitely street smart.  And, he knew when a girl was teasing him.

      Get the car, she said quietly, as she walked out of the bedroom.   

      Chris followed her progress, enjoying the way her ass did that little side to side thing when she walked.  He stretched, relishing the loud pops skittering up along his spine, before getting out of bed to find his clothes.

      His pants were in a ball near the small chair; his underwear wedged inside one of the legs.  He slipped them on and then grabbed his shirt at the foot of the bed.  Scratching a hand across the top of his head, his short hair lost the bedhead look.

      TWENTY MINUTES LATER, they pulled around to the back of the small church, a single light above the back door the only thing that pushed back the night.  It was quiet, the moon playing hide and seek among the ribbons of clouds pushing across the early evening sky.

      He had grown up just down the street from the church, the sizeable graveyard butting up against the back of the old building and he used to sneak out as a kid to smoke cigarettes and drink beer, if he was lucky enough to steal one from the garage refrigerator.  In all that time, though, he never really looked at the iron fencing and weathered gate that held the dead in their place.  He had to admit it was impressive as he looked at it, shining secretively with the light from the back of the church.

      Charity climbed out of the car; a small flashlight wedged into the back pocket of her jeans.  He frowned and walked around to her side of the car.  Waving away a bug that seemed intent on flying up his nose, Chris smacked Charity’s tight butt.  She jumped slightly and giggled.   Turning around, she looked at him, her tight body silhouetted in the light.  She raised a hand and extended her index finger motioning for him to follow her.

      What are we doing here?  I mean really, why are we here?

      You know why we’re here, she said and giggled again.

      It made him think of bits of honey in sunlight for some reason, like that commercial on TV.  He wished they were still back at Charity’s place watching a movie or something.

      The gate wasn’t locked.  There hadn’t been a burial ceremony in almost two decades, the grounds long ago filled to capacity.  The stones, once ornate and beautiful were now weathered, round edged bits of stone.  Most were blank faces, white or gray, no longer carrying the names of the dead they marked, but instead merely stood watch, staring upward.

      I really don’t, Chris said, stumbling on something sticking out of the grass.

      We should go over this way.  I think it’s over here.

      Okay, he said.

      She finally took the flashlight out of her back pocket and directed the beam over to a long row of rather plain looking gravestones.  Shaking his head, Chris couldn’t see how they were any different than the other markers.

      What are you looking for? he said.

      She waved her hand at him to be quiet.  It made him look around to see if she saw someone coming.  Not seeing anyone, he looked back in Charity’s direction.  She was crouching, her flashlight on the ground when he came up beside her.

      What are you doing?

      I was right.  This is one of the ones I was hoping would be here.

      Chris looked down at the slab of marble, an unremarkable rectangular shape cracked and aged like most of the stones in the cemetery.  The only difference was this one sealed off a grave beneath it and was missing one corner.  It was at that corner Charity was looking.

      So, we’re not making out? he asked.

      Chris.  Really?  Come on, Charity said and pulled a couple sections of the broken stone out of the corner.  I think this will work.  It’s hard to see, but I think it will be perfect.  Come over here and use your muscles, big boy.

      She stood up so he could crouch down closer to the slab.  His knees were on either side of the broken section.  Knees against the ground, he pushed against the slab, and it grated against the edges, moving slowly but steadily.  He flexed his taught frame a little more and eased the thick covering open enough so that Charity finally said, That’s good enough.

      Brushing off his hands against his shirt he looked at her and asked, Are we really going in there?

      Not we Stud.  Just me.  There’s no way you’re going to fit your Gigantor frame in here.

      After shining the flashlight down into the open grave, she muttered something he couldn’t hear and then dangled her legs over the edge.  Their eyes met for a moment, but before he could ask the question that was on his lips, she lifted herself up and then vanished through the opening.

      A moment later, he heard her hit the bottom and after a few scuffling sounds, the flashlight turned on.  He could see the light panning side to side as she looked around.  

      Chris this is so much better than I thought it would be.

      What do you mean?

      Aren’t you turned on by this at all?

      He wasn’t, but knew better than to disagree with her saying, Sure.

      Oh, come on, Chris.  I’m down here with a dead body.  This is so hot.  Way hotter than when we did it in the locker room after the football game.  Remember that?  This is so much better than that.  I can do anything I want to him, and he won’t be able to resist at all.

      Uh, okay, he said quietly, not entirely sure he wanted to see what she was doing in the open grave.

      With her light moving around in the grave, he could see the pant legs and shoes of the dead man, but nothing more.  A chill worked its way along his arms and made him shiver.  He didn’t like this and wanted to finish up and get back to Charity’s place as soon as possible.

      What are you doing?

      I’m building a sand castle.  What do you think I’m doing down here?  I’m getting off and letting this dead guy watch.  Oh, that’s it.  That did it again.

      He recognized her lust filled voice and knew she wasn’t faking any of it.  It made him a little sick to his stomach, but he stayed by the marker, walking back and forth.  He didn’t know what else to do.

      Chris didn’t honestly know how much later it was, but eventually heard Charity ask, Chris can you give me a hand?

      He walked over to the opening and saw her face in the opening.  Her head barely came up to the level of the ground.  He reached down and grabbed her by the forearm and lifted her out easily.  That’s when he noticed that she had a bag in her hand.

      What’s in the bag? he asked.

      She smiled at him in that seductive way that always turned his insides to jelly.  He felt himself getting aroused as her hand lightly brushing across the front of his jeans.  

      What’s in the jeans? she asked, that sexy edge to her voice cutting through his resolve.

      It was rough, and it was gritty, but it was so good.  She leaned back against a headstone of an angel looking to the heavens and spread her legs wider.  He had never felt her more aroused, and he had never felt so alive while inside her.  They moved together in an impassioned frenzy, the stones watching, the dead listening, and the night carefully taking notes.  The grass felt cool and wet beneath them while the night was quietly surveying them.

      As they trembled and lurched with motion and desire, her bare skin exciting him like it always did, they could hear the traffic passing nearby.  Her curves drew him in and urged him to thrust harder, his hand at her throat caressing and squeezing, as she excitedly bucked beneath him.  Their motion grew more frantic, their hands clutching at clothing, grabbing hair until finally everything swayed with one last wet rush.

      They lay together in the grass, the stone angel still staring at the darkened sky overhead, their breath still coming fast as they let the moment pass between them.  The passion slowly dissipated into the night around them.

      What was that? he asked, still a little breathless with excitement.

      Perfection, she whispered.

      A few minutes passed before she finally said, We should probably push this thing closed and get out of here before anyone comes by.

      He quickly pushed the slab back into place and tried to wedge the broken pieces of the corner back the way they were when they arrived.  It looked close enough to him.  For all he knew, nobody really paid that much attention to this place anyway.  The church didn’t hold services anymore and was only used for adult education classes.

      They drove back quietly, the night having sapped their energy.  He pulled up to the curb, and they both walked up the steps to her apartment.  As they tumbled into bed, Chris started to feel the nag of a headache coming on but fell asleep before it could take hold.

      THE KNOCK ON THE DOOR startled him.  He woke up, not recognizing the sounds he was hearing.  Tinny sounding voices and odd beeping tones intermixed with what sounded like quite a few voices.  Sitting up in bed, he scratched behind his ears and looked over to Charity’s side of the bed.  She wasn’t there.

      The knock on the door came again and this time he understood what they were saying.

      Mr. Stevens, sir?  Please come to the door.  It’s the Sheriff’s Department, sir.  We need to talk with you, please.

      He realized the beeps were coming through the communicators the officers were using outside.  He was so confused and didn’t know what to do.

      Okay, he called and walked over to the door and opened it.

      He looked around Charity’s apartment but still didn’t see her anywhere.  Two officers came in with hands at their weapons.

      Please put your hands on the wall.

      What’s this about? he asked, putting his hands on the wall.  Are we in trouble for being in the cemetery?

      The officers looked at each other before the younger of the two asked, What cemetery is that Mr. Stevens?

      Where is Charity?

      Where did you see her last?

      She was with me.  We came back home together.  She was with me last night here.

      Here in the apartment?

      Yes, Chris said.

      That doesn’t make any sense, the other officer said, running fingers over his mustache.

      His partner raised his hand to motion for him to keep quiet.

      Did you take her car?

      Chris nodded.

      They took him down the stairs, and he realized there were three police cruisers parked haphazardly around Charity’s car.  The doors were open, and officers were looking through it.  He wondered what they were looking for.

      A few minutes later, they were back at the cemetery where there were more police cars and more questions.  He still didn’t understand what they wanted and what he was doing here.

      Where’s Charity? he asked, but no one paid attention to him.

      One of the officers directed him to the grave where he and Charity had been last night.  He also noticed the angel headstone where they had had sex last night, but it was on the ground now and broken.  

      He noticed that the corner was missing from the rectangular slab over the grave and that it was open again.  He saw the red hairs along the edge of the opening and then he saw the dented flashlight with a cracked lens.  Seeing that made something flash in his mind, but he couldn’t quite get the whole picture.  He frowned trying to figure out what it was.  He heard some of the officers talking quietly.

      I can’t believe that he did that to her.

      She’s torn up inside and out.

      I don’t understand what’s going on, Chris said, not understanding what the officers were saying.

      He inserted the leg bones into every orifice.  Her teeth are even broken off.

      There’s so much tearing.

      I didn’t think it was possible to do something like that.   But look at the size of this guy.  It would’ve been so easy for him.

      She came home with me.  I don’t understand what’s happening.   We were at her place last night.  We stayed there after we were in the cemetery.  We came back.  She had a bag with her.

      An officer asked, Is this her bag?

      He looked at it and knew it was Charity’s.  It’s the one that he had seen her carry out of the grave.  He never did look inside of it.

      One sick puppy, said one of the other officers.

      Get him back to the car, said someone and two policemen directed him to the backseat of the cruiser that brought him.

      He sat quietly, unable to grasp what had happened.

      Look, Dale, it’s crazy but not that complicated.  We have video footage that shows these two geniuses breaking into the cemetery and stealing bones.  After having sex on the grounds we follow them all the way back to her place and even saw the two of them enter.  There're no backdoors in those apartments, and they never come out.  So how the hell does she wind up in there? one of the officers said, pointing to the grave.

      Chris continued to listen, his eyes stinging with tears.

      We aren’t going to be able to hold him for her murder.  There isn’t enough evidence.  Trespassing?  Sure.  Public indecency?  Probably.  Murder?  No way.  No jury’s going to convict this guy.  He’s an idiot.  The kid’s struggling with elementary vocab books and he’s in high school for Christ sakes.  His athletic scholarship chances are done, though; that’s for sure.

      Crazy thing is about this whole thing, Dale? asked one of the officers outside the car.

      What’s that, Winston?

      That gravestone there, the one with the poisonous choice bull crap scrawled on it?

      Dale shrugged, shaking his head.

      It was that sick bastard Dewey Sanzenbacher.  Remember how he killed all those girls back in the seventies?

      I do.  I was in high school, and they put out a curfew for everybody underage.  It sucked, answered Dale.

      Right, but do you remember how he killed the girls?

      Actually, no I can’t remember.

      Winston said, He smothered them all with his hands.

      Oh, that’s right.

      So, anything strike you as weird?

      What do you mean? Dale asked.

      How her body was positioned?

      Holy shit, he whispered, shaking his head, Dewey’s skeleton was on top of her and his hands were over her mouth-

      -Like, he was smothering her, finished Winston, turning away from the car and folding his arms over his chest.

      Dale paused for a few moments before saying, Holy crap.  Wait a minute.  You’re not saying what I think you’re saying, are you?  You’re not saying that he came back somehow are you?  Like back from the dead?  Some weird zombie stuff?  Like Dewey came back-.

      -for one more?  I don’t know Dale.  I just don’t know anymore.

      Charlie

      John Robinson

      Charlie haunts my house .  This brittle white house upon this leering hill, this house stricken with pops and groans and a constant howl of wind at the eaves.  I do not know where he came from, if he lived a life before this, or if he was ever a living man at all.

      Charlie haunts my home, and maybe my life as well.

      I built this house, or, rather, I had it built.  I was left a widow, my dear husband, Finley, having died in the war.  Normandy Beach.  He died there on the sand, the surf reaching to claim him, to drag him into its depths.  I was left a widow with two daughters, both of whom I have outlived.  People say you should never have to bury your children.  That is true; though it does save them that horrid act of having to bury you.

      I had this house built the year after Finley’s untimely, and unfortunate, passing.  A year after placing my husband in the ground, my daughters and I moved into this house.

      That is when Charlie moved in as well.

      I was the first to see him.  A bright day in October.  We had been living here two weeks.  I was changing my bed linens.  I turned, and he passed my bedroom door.  Just a glimpse of him, from behind.  Slicked black hair.  Dark blue suit.  I was startled, to say the least, and I screamed.  My weak knees dumped me onto the bed.

      Clutching a letter opener that had once belonged to Finley, I searched the house.  Of course, there was no intruder to be found.  But I had followed him throughout the house, a devious game of cat and mouse it was.  Every time I turned, I would catch a glimpse of him passing the door or turning the hall corners.  Always just a glimpse.

      Shivers and insanity, that’s what I had.

      I found an empty nook and curled up and cried.  I cried for the loss of Finley, and over the thought of going insane and losing my daughters.  I cried, God how I cried until my aunt arrived in the late afternoon with my children.

      Though the weather was not exactly favorable, I allowed the girls to play outside.  I confessed my fragility and oncoming collapse to my aunt.  She said nothing, only hugged me and then searched the house herself from top to bottom and back up again.  Naturally, she found nothing.  The new resident in our home didn’t bother to show himself to her.  My aunt reassured me I was not going crazy.  Then she went about her merry spinster way.

      In the days, months, and years that followed, Charlie showed himself only enough to let us know he still lived here.  My daughters would catch those brief, fleeting, glimpses of him as he passed the doors.  It didn’t frighten them; they found the ghostly phenomena, as a whole, very fascinating and full of wonderment.

      When we did not see Charlie, he still made his presence known.  To share a house with a ghost is one thing; to share it with a prankster and thieving ghost is another.  He would often move objects, such as a glass when we were pouring refreshments.  Jewelry and other trinkets would go missing, to resurface days later not in their proper places.  A treasured brooch of mine had remained missing for almost exactly sixteen years before I found it in the medicine cabinet one morning.  Portraits were taken from the walls never to be seen again.

      Life with Charlie could, at times, be tedious.  But it became normal, even downright commonplace, for us.  We accepted it.  What was that noise? Who is playing with the lights? Who slammed the door? Who moved the bread box?

      Charlie.

      My daughters asked why I called him Charlie.  Why not? A random name drawn from the ether for a random roommate cast from the same mold.

      Charlie became one of us, one of the family, one more standard in our daily lives.  He was our little curiosity, the family member we trotted out to startle and entertain friends and other guests.  My daughters’ friends would receive a right good jolt seeing him walk by the door.  Maybe we were as much his entertainment as he was ours.

      Everyone became accustomed to Charlie.  I believe, often times, most of the visitors to our home came to socialize with him as much as they did us.

      As my daughters grew, as they became more involved with school activities and discovered their interests in boys and dating, Charlie became more and more a comfort and companion to me.  I would often talk to Charlie, even when I wasn’t alone, in the same manner as I talked to all my intimates, if not more openly.  The conversations we had...even though he never spoke a word or uttered a sound.

      By the time my daughters left home for university life, I didn’t feel alone in this house with its pops and groans and its constant infernal howl of wind.  I had Charlie.  Through my daughters’ marriages, their own children, their careers, and divorces, their victories, and heartaches- I had Charlie with me, sharing this empty nest.

      And through the ordeal of my daughters dying, Charlie was the shoulder I cried on, the ears who heard my sorrows.  He was my therapist, my confidant, and confessor.

      My youngest died first.  Cancer.  Five years later, a drunk driver claimed my eldest.  For all the condolences offered me, for all the comfort of the family left to me, for all the sympathy given me, none was as understanding as Charlie.  He never said he knew my pain or felt my loss.  He would simply walk the house, letting me know he was here.  Here.  Silent.

      As I advanced in years, family and friends dwindled.  Those who did not die faded away.  The grandchildren visited less and less.  They did not share the affection, or the slightest curiosity, we had for Charlie.  I was the old lady in the big house.  The grandmother losing touch.

      Soon, it was just me and Charlie.

      Of course, on my deathbed, the family crawled from the woodworks.  I dismissed them all.  They didn’t care to see me when I was in fairly well health, so I didn’t care to see them as life slowly ebbed from me.  I kept the nurses.  And Charlie.

      I would watch Charlie from my antique four-poster bed.  I would watch him, that quick glimpse of the back of him, his slick black hair, and dark blue suit, as he would just pass the doorway.  I watched him as the nurses watched me.  Watching, waiting, wondering.

      I do not know when I died.  I only know I left my bed, not surprised that I was able to walk.  I left my bed when I saw him pass the door.  I followed.

      Now it is just Charlie and I.  Just us, alone.  I still have yet to see his face.  He is always steps ahead of me; I am always following.  We walk the house.  Maybe we are searching, or passing the time.  I don’t know.  We walk in silence.

      We wander the house, Charlie and I.  Our house, this brittle white house upon this leering hill, this house stricken with pops and groans and a constant howl of wind at the eaves.

      Chasing Ghosts

      C.E. Stokes

      Time had not been kind to the old farmhouse.  For over a century, it stood abandoned at the edge of town.  The windows were long gone with only a few shards of the original glass remaining in the frames.  Paint that'd once been white had faded to gray.  Part of the front porch roof hung down and threatened to drag the rest with it.

      Even in the dimming light, I knew where the rotten boards laid.  I hopped over a weak plank on the way to the empty doorway. 

      The flashlight cut through the darkness and drifted over a pile of discarded beer cans.  It slid over peeling wallpaper, casting strange, curling shadows that twisted into new shapes with each step.  Decayed wood creaked under my sneakers.

      What’s with you and this dump, Eric?  The floorboards protested again as Amber trailed behind me.  Everyone thinks you’re nuts for lurking around here.

      You brag that you're into this kind of thing, Amber.  Or is that just an act you do?

      Don't call me Amber.  It's Raven now.  With a toss of her dyed hair, her eyes followed her own light around the room.  The edge of my beam caught the ring in her nose and sent sparkles off the gold. 

      Right.  Raven.  I forgot. I rolled my eyes.

      Let's go to Rachel's party.  Her parents are out of town, and she's got beer.

      The party can wait, I said.  I shone the beam up the dilapidated staircase.  You promised you'd hit the second floor with me.  I bet that's where he chopped them up with the ax.

      I thought he shot his wife and daughter. Her own light drifted toward the stairs.  Broken posts below the handrail cast stark, bar-like shadows on the faded wall.

      Don't you know the story?  Old man Wilson goes crazy and thinks the world's ending.  Hid his life savings somewhere on the farm.  Believed his wife and daughter were after his treasure.  One night, after they go to sleep, he creeps up these very stairs with an ax and chops them to bits.  Then he puts his gun in his mouth and...BANG!  Jamming the flashlight under my chin, I lunged at her with fingers curled like claws.

      Raven jumped back with a yelp.  Her flashlight slipped from her fingers and rolled across the floor and created moving shadows behind the handrail.

      You're so immature.  No wonder no one else would come with you. She scoffed.

      On certain nights, the ghost of the little girl appears and leads people to the treasure.  I finished lamely.

      What type of nights? Dark and stormy ones?  Tuesday nights?  What crap.  Besides, it's Mr. Wilson who leads you to his remains.  He wants to be buried so he can be at peace.   If you don't take his bones; he kills you.  Raven lowered her voice.  Even in the dim light I could see she was pale under her heavy makeup.

      That's stupid.  How's a ghost kill anyone?  I leaned over the handrail.  The dense darkness gave no sign of what was upstairs.  The flashlight did little to pierce the blackness.

      The space between my shoulder blades itched.  I tugged at the shirt, but it didn’t relieve the tension.

      Will you quit staring at me? I snapped and glared at Raven.

      She looked up from the pile of trash she'd been poking at, what’d you say?

      Never mind.  I turned away from her and took my first step up the staircase.

      She stepped forward to grab my arm.  Her fingernails bit into my skin.  Don't go, she said, her eyes bright.

      My muscles tensed under her fingers.  I sucked in a breath between my teeth and forced myself to relax.

      Then come with me or wait here.  I jerked my arm free from under her sweaty grasp.  My own hands were damp.  I scrubbed them on my jeans to dry them.  She should've gone to the stupid party.  She was getting me all creeped out. 

      I moved up the staircase one step at a time.  They groaned under my weight but didn't break.  Raven kept her mouth shut as we made our way up.

      Do you see anything? She whispered.

      Darkness there and nothing more. 

      Her hand whacked me between the shoulder blades.  My chuckle was lost in the surrounding gloom.

      The light glided over the doors, raising dull glints from the ball-like doorknobs.  The sense of unseen eyes was stronger up here and had the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end.  I shook it off and reached for the nearest closed door.

      All right, we’re upstairs.  Can we go now? Raven's attention focused down the hall in the opposite direction.  Her arm was wrapped around her stomach.  Her flashlight shook in her white-knuckled grip.

      The quiver in her voice made me hesitate.  My hand fell away from the doorknob.  I turned to tell her we could go to Rachel's stupid party.

      The words didn't make it past my lips before the air between us rippled, like heat rising off a summer sidewalk.  The waves rolled outward and moved faster.  It grew denser and took on a chalky color.  A faint outline took shape and grew more distinct with each passing second.  The shape of a little girl stood between us.  Her nightgown faded into nothing, leaving the child floating above the dirty floor.

      Raven stumbled and slammed into the wall.  Her forearm was jammed between her teeth.  Her bright eyes darted toward me, and she lowered her arm, It's a little girl!

      The ghost glided toward the staircase, looking over her shoulder.  One vaporous hand dropped to the handrail.   Her head bobbed as she went down the stairs on invisible legs.

      I pushed past Raven and crept behind the ghost.  She followed.  Her loud breathing didn't seem to bother the ghost.

      Snap! The step gave under Ravens weight.  Her piercing shriek was accompanied with a thump as she collided into my back.  I waved my arms, but couldn't keep my balance.  We thudded down the steps.

      My arms flailed as I tried to grab anything to stop us.  Nothing.  We hit the base of the steps.

      Raven's flashlight bounced and hit the ground beside us.  The shattered glass scattered across the floor with a tinkling noise.

      I rubbed my elbow and searched for the ghost.  There was no sign of it anywhere in the hallway.  I shone my light into the front room.

      She's gone!  I searched the hall one more time, looking in vain for the ghost.

      I think my ankle’s broken. She rubbed at it and whimpered.  Her makeup smeared where tears rolled down her cheeks.  Her ankle swelled like a balloon and was warm to the touch.

      It's probably just twisted.  You're fine. I said.

      You're taking me home, or I'll tell everyone at school I laughed at your tiny dick and you cried like a baby.

      Fine. I kicked the post of the handrail and wished it was her stupid ankle, it would've been cool to find some money.

      It took some maneuvering, but she got her arm around my shoulders.  She climbed to her good foot.  She put weight on her bad ankle and grimaced.  With hopping steps, she hobbled toward the door.

      She had her arm clamped around my neck, and I had little choice but to go with her.  I glanced back toward the staircase one last time.

      The ghost hovered in the hallway and drifted toward the back of the house.

      I can still get my money. I shrugged out from under Raven’s arm and crept after the ghost on tip toes.

      She wobbled and leaned against the wall.

      It’s not your anything! Raven’s voice followed me.  Instead of waiting there, the sound of her clumsy steps came down the hall.

      The misty form lingered near the back door.  She met my gaze and passed through the wood and broken glass as if it wasn’t even there.

      The wood must’ve swelled over the years because no matter how I pushed at it, the door wouldn’t budge.  I threw my shoulder against it.  With a loud squeal of the last remaining hinge, the door opened to hang drunkenly against the frame.

      The night air brushed against bare skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake.  I rubbed my arms with my eyes glued to the misty vapor as it crossed the yard.  The bright moon cast shadows of the tree branches on the ground.  The flashlight wasn't necessary.

      The ghost stopped next to some bushes.  Her small white figure passed through the branches.  With deliberate motions, she lifted her hand and pointed next to her as she faded from sight.

      Raven’s uneven footsteps drew closer.  She plopped down on the ground and rubbed her ankle.  Her breaths came in pants.

      The branches cut into my hands as I pulled them back.  It's a cave, I said.

      It’s more of a hole.  Let's come back in the morning when it's daylight.

      What if the cave is only visible on certain nights?  Like the ghost?  I’ve gotta do this.

      Why?  This is beyond stupid.  There’s no way I’m going in there. She said.

      I scowled at her.  Then wait here.  I don’t care what you do.

      It took some effort to crawl into the hole.  Rocks scraped against me as I wriggled my way forward.  The earth pressed down from above.  My arms were tight against my ribs and my elbows scraped the dirt as I squirmed further into the tunnel.

      With each rocking motion forward, the light bounced.  The beam did little to illuminate the darkness ahead.  Dirt kicked up, and I sneezed.  It bounced off the confines of the tunnel and echoed back to me.

      After a few feet, the tunnel grew wider.  I climbed onto my hands and knees.  Tiny rocks bit into my palms and poked through my jeans.

      Do you see anything?  Her voice sounded far away.

      Not yet.

      Keep the light still.  Her clothes rustled as the material scraped by the rocks.  Her head emerged, and she wriggled faster to get out of the narrow passage.

      I thought you weren't coming?  Something about me being stupid? I said.

      I’m not staying alone anywhere there are ghosts. She dragged the rest of her body out of the tight tunnel.

      The flashlight buzzed.  Our eyes locked on it as the light dimmed.  The blackness crept closer.

      I tapped the rim against a rock.  The beam grew stronger.

      With a sigh of relief, Raven crawled the rest of the way in.

      The tunnel was now more of a small chamber.  I braced my weight against the wall and climbed to my feet.  The ceiling brushed the top of my head, but at least I was off my knees.  I inhaled the musty air as I peered around the cavern.  Against the far wall, wooden crates were stacked.  Pieces of the boxes pulled away from the frame.  The gaps left behind showed moldy canvas bags.

      I started toward them.  My feet trampled what I assumed was sticks and leaves that had somehow blown in.  Dropping to my knees, I dug at the lid of the nearest box with my fingers.  The crate splintered.  The slivers of wood caught my skin. 

      The light caught the glass of some mason jars.  They glittered like gems.  Each one was filled with silver coins.

      It took some effort, but I twisted off the rusted lid.  It clattered to the floor with a tinny sound as it hit the small rocks.

      Eric, look at the ground. Her shrill voice bounced around the small room.

      What now?  Scared of the sticks on the ground?

      Those aren't sticks! Raven's voice hit the edges of my attention. 

      I ignored her as I poured the coins into my hand.  They sounded like the silverware mom pulled out once a year for Christmas dinner.  I held one in the light, making out a woman in profile with a date from the 1880's.  Flipping it over, I saw an eagle with its wings spread.

      Eric!  Look around. Raven's voice pleaded.

      I dragged my eyes off the coin to glance at the ground.  The sticks curved up, looking more like ribs then the branches I thought.  Bits of fabric clung to them, looking gray in the dim light.  A little further off was another set of curved ribs.  The empty eye sockets of a skull faced the crates.

      Holy crap, those are bones! I said.

      She noticed the coins in my hand.  Her hand trembled as she plucked one up.  Her gaze moved over the boxes.

      We’re rich, she said.

      We’re not anything, I said and used my shoulder to shove her away, You’ve done everything you can to keep me away from my treasure.  It’s mine.

      Her face scrunched up into a glare.  Before she could retort, the air rippled, and the misty figure appeared.  Raven squeaked and dropped to her knees to scuttle near me.  I grabbed the flashlight, holding it out in front of me like a sword.  The ghost appeared, standing tall in the little room.

      Oh, it's just you, I said to the ghost and jammed the coins into my pocket.  They pinged against each other with a musical sound.  I reached for another jar.

      The ghost pointed at some of the bones.  Fabric clung to them, looking dark compared to the ribs.

      I think that set is her bones, Raven said, We’ve got to get them out of here.  She wants them buried.

      We'll leave when I'm ready.  After all, she's been down here so long already; a little more time won't kill her.  I pried off another lid and stuffed more coins into my pocket.  The last one sat in my palm.  The silver felt cool against my skin.

      She led us here to find the bones, not the stupid coins.  Besides, it’s the right thing to do.

      Shut up, Raven.  She’s already dead, she's not going anywhere.

      The ghost's lips pulled back into a sneer.  Her eyes narrowed as she pointed again with more force.

      You’re an asshole.  Give me the light, I’ll take her bones. Raven grabbed the flashlight.

      I couldn't pry her fingers off, so I shoved her.

      She pushed against my chest.

      Blood pounded in my ears.  The edge of the coin dug into my palm.  I punched her cheek with my closed fist.

      A dribble of red appeared in the corner of her mouth.  She squealed and wailed.

      Why wouldn’t she shut up?

      My fist tightened around the metal handle of the flashlight.  I swung it and vented all my frustration at her whining and nagging into it.  Her head snapped to the side, but she still didn't shut up. 

      She tried to drag herself away.

      I swung again and again until the only sound in the cave was the dull thud of the flashlight hitting skin.

      I staggered back, my eyes glued to the still figure.  My chest heaved with each breath.  My hand and the flashlight were sticky with blood.

      The ghost ignored the body.  She gestured again to the bones under her.

      This is your fault.  I hope you rot down here forever.  My words bounced off the walls of the cave.

      The ghost vanished only to appear in front of me.  Her hand shot out, diving into my chest.  Ice wrapped around my heart.  I stared at her, my mouth opening and closing like a fish.

      She squeezed.

      Unable to control my limbs, I fell away from her.  My fingers convulsed, and the silver coin hit the dirt with a dull thud.

      My hand flopped toward the coin.  One fingertip brushed its ridged edges.  My mouth opened in an attempt to scream, but neither air nor sound escaped.

      The flashlight hit the ground, rolled away, and fizzled out.  My last seconds of life were spent in pitch blackness.

      Coach

      Sharon Frame Gay

      My name is Lindsey Stone.  I’m writing this in my journal, in the darkness, under my blanket with a waning flashlight.  I am writing to tell whoever finds this that I know who killed me.  I want to be avenged, and the other girls avenged.  I am hiding this journal deep in my locker at school.  When you find this, I am dead, and you need to tell the police everything I have written here.  I know I am dying.  It is just a matter of time.  Of opportunity.  But my bones already ache from the cold of death, and my heart is silent as the darkest night.

      It all began this September when school started.  The happiness in my junior year was greatly diminished by the disappearance of four young girls within just a few weeks of each other.  Three girls were from different townships, not far away, and the fourth was a freshman here at Loden High, my school, in the tiny town of Pine Ridge, Missouri.  Two have been found, raped and mutilated beyond recognition and tossed in local ponds.  Two are still missing.  A pall has been cast upon our school, our festivities, our studies.  The whole town is jittery, and nobody is allowed out past dark until the killer is caught.  Girls are always told  to walk in pairs, or bigger groups, never alone, and never after the sun goes down.  

      Thursday started off just like any other day at school, except for the shimmering reminders that we were all potentially in danger, but kids being kids, we still found time to laugh, to joke, to huddle in corners with friends and chat in the lunchroom.  My dad dropped me off at school as he always did.  My friend Katy and I were staying after school today to help out with cheerleading trials after our gym class.  We were going to get a ride home with Jason, Katy’s big brother.  We were heading for the showers when Jason ran down the hall after us. 

      Wait up, he cried.   We have a problem here.

      What’s up, Jay? asked Katy.  

      The old clunker broke down in the parking lot, and the tow truck is on its way to pick it up and take it to the mechanic.  I have to go along with it.  Hurry up if you want to ride downtown in the tow truck with me.  Mom will pick us up from there. 

      No way, said Katy.  I have a lot to do at home and Linds and I can walk – it will still be light when we get outta here.  Right, Linds? 

      I suddenly felt nervous and edgy, but I knew we had some time before the sun went down, so I nodded reluctantly.  I would much prefer to ride with Jason, but I had to stick around with Katy. 

      Okay, have it your way, but Mom might get pissed, Jason said as he turned and headed back down the corridor.  See you at dinner.

      Downstairs in the girls’ locker room, we were met with an eerie silence.  Everybody, it seemed, had showered and gone

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