Without conscious thought, her feet turned toward the diner the women had pointed out. Inside it was bright and warm and clean. It smelled like bacon and bread and other delicious things.
Her stomach let out a grumble and Viola felt her cheeks heating. Ladies did not have growly stomachs.
“Can I help ya, hon?”
This waitress was marginally more respectable. Her skirt actually went to her knees and her blouse was buttoned up nearly to her throat. She gave Viola a tired smile.
“I…no. Sorry, I don’t have any money.”
“Unemployed, huh?”
“Yes. That’s right.” Viola was a little vague on the exact meaning of the word, but she caught the gist.
The waitress gave a tisk of sympathy. “These are hard times for everyone. Well, why don’t you sit down for a bit, take a load off. I think I can rustle you up something on the down low.” She gave Viola a wink and sashayed off to the kitchen.
Viola had only understood half of what the waitress had said, but she knew enough to take a seat at one of the booths. She flinched as someone turned up what she assumed passed for music, the loud screeching and thumping grating against her ears like nails on a chalkboard.
The waitress plopped down a plate and a glass. “There ya go, hon. Best I can do. But it’s better than nothing.”
“Thank you.”
Viola eyed the plate warily. It contained what appeared to be bread and butter, except the bread was very white and thinly sliced. She took a delicate bite. It tasted faintly of paste and paper, not that she’d ever tried either, but it tasted like they smelled. And people called this bread? The butter was little better, tasting nothing like any butter she’d ever tried. Still, she politely ate every crumb washing it down with the strange brown liquid she found in the glass. It was sickeningly sweet and the bubbles tickled her nose.
Cola. She remembered it from the little drug store around the corner from her home. But it didn’t taste like this cola. This cola tasted…fake.
As she finished her sad little repast, a group of young men entered the diner. Their voices were loud and every other word was a shocking vulgarity. Yet, no one took any notice. Apparently swearing loudly in public was perfectly normal. As was kicking the waste basket over, swearing at the waitress, and getting in a fight with the cook.
When one of the young men pulled a knife, Viola flew out the door and into the night, fear flooding her body with adrenaline. What a horrible, violent world this was.
A respectable looking man in a sharply pressed suit strode by, talking loudly. To himself. They let insane people out in public?
A shrill siren split the air, causing her to clap her hands over her ears. What now?
Another metal monster roared up and screeched to a halt in front of the diner she’d just left. Men in blue uniforms spilled out. And they had guns!
Viola didn’t wait to see what happened next, she took off running, forgetting completely that ladies didn’t run. She dashed across the street, nearly getting plastered by yet another metal monster. She barely noticed the driver, blaring his horn and cussing at her.
She finally arrived at Branwen’s building. Rushing inside, she dashed up the stairs until she arrived, out of breath, at the goddess’s door. She banged on the door with all her might.
* * *
Branwen was finally unwinding after her little ghost adventure. She had her pajamas on, a box of mini cupcakes at hand, and Hunger Games on DVD. What more could a goddess want?
A sudden and violent banging broke out. Apparently, peace and quiet.
With a few choice cuss words (in Welsh, of course), she got up and answered the door. It was the ghost. Well, the former ghost.
“I already gave you what you wanted. Come back tomorrow.” She started to close the door.
“Wait, Branwen, please. I need you to take it back.”
Branwen stared at Viola in shock. The girl’s eyes were wild and her dark brown hair was sticking up in a dozen different directions. There was a small cut on her hand and she stank of beer and diner grease.
Repressing her smile, Branwen waved the former ghost inside. “You want me to take it back, huh?”
“Yes, please.”
“What, so you can haunt my ass for eternity? No thanks.”
Viola grabbed her by the arm. “Please. I promise, if you turn me back I will go into the light. Like you told me to all those years ago.”
Branwen raised an eyebrow as she sank back onto the couch. “What made you change your mind?”
Viola shook her head. “This world isn’t for me. This isn’t my place or my time. Everyone I know is gone. Everything is changed. I don’t fit in here. I had my chance at life. It wasn’t much of one, but it was mine and this isn’t.” Her expression was sad, but determined.
Branwen allowed the smile to appear. It hadn’t even taken the full twenty-four hours. “All right then, go into the light.”
Viola blinked. “What?”
Branwen pointed at a bright orb that suddenly appeared, hovering in the middle of the living room. “There it is. You want it? Take it.”
Viola frowned at the glowing ball. “But I’m alive, how can I go into the light?”
Branwen sighed. “I’m a goddess, remember. You’ve got thirty seconds. Either go or stay. Your choice.”
“Can I have a cupcake for the road?” Viola asked, eyeing the box.
Branwen grinned. She loved a fellow sweet-tooth and she felt kind of bad for tricking the girl. HQ would have never allowed Viola to stay human, but it was better the girl came to the decision on her own.
“Sure.” She held up the box. Viola grabbed a chocolate cupcake and took a delicate bite.
“Best cupcake I ever had.”
“I know right?”
The girl started to reach for another, but Branwen stopped her. “Enjoy the one you have. I’m sure they have much better cupcakes where you’re going.”
With a nod, Viola stepped toward the glowing orb. With a flash, orb and girl were gone leaving behind no trace of their passing save a half eaten cupcake lying in the middle of the living room floor.
#
Shéa MacLeod is obsessed with ghosts and cupcakes. Not necessarily in that order.
Find more information on Shéa and her books at sheamacleod.wordpress.com, or follow her on Facebook and Twitter
May I Go Play?
Heather Marie Adkins
The hulking structure sat at an intersection in Savannah: empty, abandoned, shadowed. It was the kind of place that exuded despair and neglect. An unwanted orphan or a forgotten time capsule of an age past. The hot Georgia sun couldn’t penetrate the thick gloom that blanketed the property, just as the natives didn’t penetrate the thick, barred wall that surrounded it.
Heart fluttering wildly, Micah Noble shifted on her feet, staring at the key ring in her hand.
“It’s just a house,” her husband said softly. Garrett was always the optimist, and the skeptic—a psychology professor with five degrees on the wall and an ever-present five o’clock shadow. Stick thin, tall as a bean pole, and handsome; but not in any traditional sense. His glasses always seemed to be falling down his nose, and there was a gap between his front teeth that he whistled through even though it drove her nuts.
Micah shook her head, her thick blonde hair moving over her shoulders like a caress of fingers. She shuddered. “It isn’t just a house.”
Garrett glanced over his shoulder. Elliott sat in the backseat of the SUV with Sticks on her lap, his black-and-white snout panting through the open window. Assured that their daughter wasn’t listening, Garrett murmured, “Micah, this house did not kill your great aunt. It belongs to you now. Push away your family’s silly legends, and let’s go see what condition it’s in.”
She wanted to argue. She wanted to snap that he hadn’t heard the fear in her mother’s voice two months earlier when Micah called to tell her.
* * *
“What? My mother lef
t you Bowridge?” Momma Jean gasped.
“Yeah.” Micah flipped a page in the packet her lawyer had given her. “The house, property, and any possessions inside. According to Skinner & Fulsom’s appraisal, the contents of Bowridge are worth a lot of money. This could be the answer to all our prayers.”
Micah glanced around the tiny apartment. The kitchen bled into the living room, which bled into two bedrooms. A family couldn’t make a home in a place like this; Elliott needed better.
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Micah could hear the faint sound of a television in the background. She glanced at the clock—three in the afternoon. She’d interrupted her mother’s soaps.
“Honey pie, you don’t want that house,” Jean finally murmured. “That house is evil.”
“It’s gorgeous, Mom.” Micah flipped to the full-color picture in the back of the packet. An off-white Greek revival with a bit of weather damage.
“Why on earth would Momma leave you that house?” Jean murmured, and Micah had a feeling the question wasn’t truly directed at her.
“Because neither you nor your sisters wanted it.”
“She should have burned it to the ground,” Jean said sharply.
“Mother.”
Jean lowered her voice. “You know what happened to your great aunt, Millie.”
Sighing, Micah sat the packet aside. “I know, Mom. But Aunt Millie killed herself. How long are you and your sisters going to blame Bowridge for Millie’s actions?”
“We blame Bowridge because it was the direct source of all of Millie’s problems,” her mother snapped. “Micah Louise, if you move my granddaughter into that hell house, I will sue you for custody.”
“Oh, Mother.” Micah sighed again. “No, you won’t.”
But the seed was planted. Micah began to remember her mother’s tales, and the way ‘the aunts’ spoke of Bowridge in hushed tones. And in the months leading up to their move, Micah became a believer.
* * *
A stairway led from the cracked sidewalk to a door of heavy wood and stained glass. Beneath the regal, swirling staircase, a gated door—closed and padlocked—hid the servant’s entrance on the lower floor. The circular gate gaped like the house’s jaws, eternally screaming.
Micah stared up at three stories, the stucco exterior, and a gabled roof. Bowridge sat on a stately square with heavy traffic in downtown Savannah, surrounded by other equally magnificent southern mansions. Fifty years ago, it was probably one of the most beautiful homes in the neighborhood. Now…
Now it watched her.
When she didn’t acknowledge his assurance that Bowridge was “just a house,” Garrett swiped the key from her open palm—“Now or never, love.”—and swept up the crumbling stairs.
Micah waited a moment as a shiver ran up her spine. Then she followed her husband to the front door.
* * *
The mail slot set into one of the ebony doors was broken. The golden lip that should have hung over it was gone, leaving a rectangular hole through which Micah could see a stairwell. She could feel cool air escaping through the bronze slot, a kind of reverse vacuum.
“Why is it cold?” she asked, placing a palm in the rushing wind. It flowed through her fingers: an icy flash that raised the hair on the back of her neck. “It’s ninety degrees outside. It should be hot as hell in there.”
Garrett shrugged as he shoved the key in the scratched brass lock. “Maybe the lawyer had the electricity turned on for us.”
“In a house this big?” Micah scoffed. “You’re loony.”
The door opened with ease, the hinges barely squeaking. There was a whooshing sound, and musty, disused air filtered out, giving Micah pause.
“Momma?” Elliott’s voice drifted up to them from the street.
Micah turned her back on the open door and walked to the railing of the balcony as her husband disappeared inside. Elliott was hanging out of the back window of the car, her small palms pressed to the door as she gazed at the house.
“Come on up, baby,” Micah called down to her daughter. “Bring Sticks.”
It wasn’t that she wanted her little girl inside the house. Ideally, Micah wanted Elliott far away from Bowridge with neither knowledge nor memories of the place to tarnish her innocent outlook on life. But that wasn’t an option. Not since the fire…
Elliott just didn’t like to be left alone. So there was no way Micah could go inside without her. Bowridge was their new home. A new start.
Girl and dog jumped from the car. Using all fifty pounds of her body weight, Elliott slammed the heavy truck door and raced for the steps, Sticks only a few steps ahead of her on his hot-pink leash.
Micah took her daughter’s hand with a smile. White blonde hair, sun-tanned skin, and skinny legs just like her father’s that jutted from beneath her blue jean skirt. She was the most beautiful child in the world.
Micah couldn’t even see the scar anymore. Hooray for modern medicine, she thought, brushing her fingertips across the soft skin of Elliott’s bare arm.
“Watch where you step and stay close,” Micah warned, giving Sticks a playful nudge with her toes. He nipped at her flip-flop playfully.
Elliott nodded succinctly. “Yes, Momma.”
The foyer was fairly small for such a large home. Straight ahead, a worn wooden staircase climbed the pale yellow wall before making a hasty ninety degree turn up to the second floor. An ancient chandelier clung to the ten-foot ceiling above their heads. Beneath the second set of stairs, another archway revealed a staircase that led down to the ground floor.
It was cool a full ten degrees cooler inside, as if the AC were running. Micah raised an eyebrow, holding firmly to Elliott’s hand as she reached to flick the light switch next to the door.
Nothing happened.
She flicked the second switch and stepped outside to make sure it didn’t control the porch light. The shattered globes on either side of the door weren’t any help.
“How can that be?” she asked her husband as he appeared in the archway to the living room. She shut the door, cutting off the ambient street noise. The house fell into eerie silence.
Garrett shrugged. His shaggy black hair was sticking straight up as if he’d stuck his finger in a socket. “Lights in there don’t work, either. Electricity must not be on.”
“But the air pressure?” Micah gestured to the mail slot. They would have to get that fixed stat. She imagined all manner of city vermin climbing through the slot alongside bills and bank statements.
“I’m sure it’s just some kind of negative flow. There are broken windows upstairs.”
Micah felt a rush of relief. “Oh, that’s true.”
Garrett leaned over to kiss her gently on the forehead while he ruffled Elliott’s hair, making the little girl giggle. “Hey,” he said softly against Micah’s temple. “Quit worrying. Let’s bring our stuff in, and I’ll pull out the laptop and get the electric hooked up, ‘kay?” He grinned. “This will be fun.”
Micah exchanged glances with her daughter—even their young child knew a hopeless case when she saw it.
“Famous last words,” Micah said, rolling her eyes.
* * *
“They’ll be out in less than an hour.”
Micah turned around from gazing into the jungle of a backyard. Or side yard, rather, seeing as the house was long rather than wide, and the teeny quadrangle of yard was situated just outside a side door. Elliott stood in the fenced enclosure with Sticks, throwing a Nerf ball for him to fetch. His floppy red ears bounced with every sprint.
“That’s fantastic. How did you manage that?” Micah asked, uncapping her bottled water for a drink. The liquid was refreshing; the energy she had expended carrying luggage inside had made her thirsty.
Garrett rubbed his hands together, a gleam in his eyes. “I have my ways,” he intoned, swooping forward to encircle her waist with his arms.
He swung her around so that her flip-flops left the floor and she
felt weightless. Micah squealed, “Put me down!”
He did, but instead of pulling away, his lips caught hers: soft, sweet. They tasted like Carmex, his drug of choice. She relented beneath his touch, pressing her body into his—the perfect fit. Ten-year-long puzzle pieces that still clicked together with a perfection borne of friendship.
The kiss grew heated. Micah wanted to shove away her fears about the house, her worries about the cost of restoration, and take her husband right there on the living room floor between the aged, plastic-covered sofa and the coffee table. Judging by his reaction to the kiss, he agreed.
A low giggle brought Micah back from the brink, and she broke the kiss with an audible smack. She glanced over her shoulder to find Elliott in the open doorway, the concrete patio and ivy-trimmed verandah visible behind her.
“You were kissing,” she accused.
Garrett slapped Micah on the rump and pulled away. “I’m going to run to the drugstore. We need a couple of necessities. Like toilet paper.”
“We’ll go with you,” Micah said quickly, striding across the floor to get her purse.
“No, you guys need to stay here just in case the lawyer beats me back.” He slipped his wallet into the back pocket of his cargo shorts. “No use making him wait outside.”
“I’d rather wait outside,” Micah grumbled.
Elliott launched the Nerf ball into the foyer, and Sticks’s claws scrabbled for purchase as he took off after it. Micah couldn’t even force herself to get on Elliott for throwing balls in the house. She met Garrett at the front door.
“Don’t leave us alone here,” she said softly, shooting a glance at her daughter. The girl wasn’t paying them any mind.
“Micah.” Garrett smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear gently. “Love, it is just a house. Now.” He pressed a quick kiss to her lips. “I’ll be back shortly.”
Then he was gone.
* * *
“This place is so big,” Elliott said, her voice awed.
“Six bedrooms,” Micah agreed as she led her daughter down the upstairs hallway. At the apex of the staircase, you could walk left, passing closed doorways—presumably to bedrooms—to the back of the house and a giant bathroom equipped with tub, shower stall, toilet, and a double sink. They were now walking towards the front of the house, where the hallway ended at a gorgeous bay window seat that looked out over the street below.
Sticks’s claws clicked along the hardwood floor, the sound much louder in the abnormal silence than it should have been. Micah rolled her eyes at a pile of timber on the floor—that would be a pain to get down to the basement. Or the half-basement, half-ground floor, whatever the heck these southerners called those weird in-between floors underneath the main level.