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).
She came after sunset, entering her little room. She stood still in the shadowy corner beside the playhouse, facing the door, waiting for her grieving mother.
Mother came in after dinner, drying her eyes, then shrieked and fainted.
The next day, the Smiths called the church to perform the exorcism.
Paramita Ghosh is a mature lady with immature thoughts, as the family points out. She often works hard to reach a goal and ultimately fails. Presently she is seriously bringing up her daughter and surfing the net for new ideas.
Steps creaked. The house was foreboding.
I wouldn’t have come, but my brother said She would meet me here.
As I rubbed the dirt aside to peer in the window, a bloodcurdling screech sounded behind me. Adrenaline shot through me. I jumped and whirled, fist connecting.
My brother lay unmoving.
Trina Krieger is an artist struggling to write her memoir. When the process gets overwhelming, she writes urban fantasy instead.