I pondered bony in a shroud,
And gloat and glide o’er graves on hills,
Then all at once, I saw a cloud,
The ghost of Obadiah Mills.
In centuries or maybe more,
I ne’er saw such a spirit soar.
What horrors or internal strife
Saw this man exiled after life?
Jo Withers is a cheery soul who loves writing about death, doom, and dinosaurs. She managed to combine all three topics in her middle-grade novel 5 Simple Steps to Saving Planet Earth.
“How’d you get that shiner, Angus?”
“I visited a haunted hieland castle at the witching hour to ken what haints wear under their sheets.”
“A ghostie hit you?”
“No-o-o. In the near darkness, I lifted the wrong hem… I discovered the laird of the manor wears nothing under his kilt.”
John H. Dromey was born in northeast Missouri. Although he has some Celtic roots (in Ireland and Scotland) he does not wear a kilt.
I ate a slice of airport pizza while I waited for my flight. My dad whistled up to me.
He’d died years ago.
“You’ve got time to finish. I’ll see you at the gate.”
He whistled off.
The pizza tasted like dust. The light felt thin.
“Okay, Dad,” I said.
Iain Young prefers a window seat.
“Dad, you can’t keep appearing in my bedroom as and when you want. Please respect my privacy.”
Dad just sits there on the end of my bed, nods, and leaves the room. The room suddenly becomes very cold.
Dad passed away over a year ago now. Still seems like yesterday.
Chris is a Network Manager involved in many aspects of IT. He loves writing short stories and technical articles, photography, and playing the guitar. He is from Dudley in the Black Country. He is also a member of The Oldbury Writing Group.
The note on my door said I had passed away yesterday and my memorial service was tomorrow.
“What is going on?” I wondered. My neighbor had passed me without speaking.
I opened my door and the house smelled of roses. Everyone knew I loved roses.
I sat down and cried.
Linda’s dream is to do nothing but write but she has to eat so there goes the dream.
Furious, I walked fast to the park and sat down on a bench next to a stranger.
“My wife says she has seen a ghost laughing. Ridiculous. How do people believe in such stupid things, I wonder. Do you believe in ghosts?”
“I’m not stupid,” the stranger laughed, and vanished.
K.L.Prasad is a playwright and screenplay writer in India, as well as an actor and an activist. K.L. also teaches screenplay writing in film institutes and conducts workshops.
I stepped onto the old front porch. The empty swing creaked and swayed, despite the lack of an evening breeze.
“Is that you, Charles? You’re early tonight.” It was 80 degrees, but I felt a chill as I sat next to him on the swing.
He always was a charmer.
Susan Gale Wickes spent many years in the newspaper industry, but is now devoting her time and energy to writing poetry and short stories. She has been published in Haiku Journal, Sleeve, and 50-Word Stories.
Ah, there’s a car door. I hope it’s the realtor.
Come show this place, please. Sell it.
Get rid of it for me, finally.
The story of this house, of everything in it, has to end.
But how do you sell a house that so badly wants to be haunted?
Larry D. Thacker writes and paints in the mountains of Appalachia.
He loved her on sight. Besotted, he followed her everywhere. She neither knew nor cared.
He vowed one day they would be together. It might take years but he could wait.
For now he must content himself with haunting her house.
The dead shouldn’t fall in love with the living.
Carol Browne first appeared on the planet in 1954. She regards Crewe, Cheshire, as her home town and graduated from Nottingham University in 1976 with an honours degree in English Language and Literature. Now living in the Cambridgeshire countryside with her cockatiel, Sparky, when she’s not writing fiction, Carol spends her time as a housekeeper, proofreader, and ghost writer in order to pay the bills.
“Mommy, I’m scared. Is there a ghost in the house?”
“I don’t think there is, Evie. Why do you ask?”
“Well, sometimes when I go into the kitchen, I get chills running up and down my spine.”
“Junior! For the last time! Quit dropping ice cubes down your sister’s dress.”
John H. Dromey has a story in the anthology A Kiss Is Still a Kiss (Next Step Books, 2015).