The
Shadow
A
friend just sent Janice one of those “there-was-no-one-else-in-the-room”
photos. It was a shot looking into the living room of her apartment and in a
corner of the room was a blurry, shadowy person-like thing. There are no facial
features, just darkness in the shape of a human. Cass said she was freaked out
and asked Janice to come over, which she did.
The
two women had lost contact for about a year, so it was a good opportunity to
catch up on her life, thought Janice, but she was shocked when Cass answered
the door. Her old friend was pale and gaunt and looked like she hadn’t slept in
days. They each had a glass of wine and Janice droned on with gossip and ranted
about the men that had come and gone in her life. She finally realized she was
literally doing all the talking.
“What’s
going on with you, Cass? Are you okay?” A chill suddenly gripped her body.
“I’m
so sorry, Janice.”
“Sorry?
For what?” The light coming in from windows behind her was being blocked out.
“It
makes me do this.”
The
room was growing dark as if an eclipse was underway. “Do what?”
“Lure
its prey.”
Janice’s
panicked scream was quickly muffled as the smoky shadow enveloped her and began
feeding.
The
Spirit Box
There
were three sharp raps on his dorm room door, but before Jason could get up and
answer it, Flip Sherman sauntered in and set a white box on Jason’s desk. It
was about the size of a paving brick and resembled a radio.
“It’s
a spirit box,” announced Flip.
Jason’s
expression turned quizzical. “A spirit box? You don’t mean the “talk to the
dead” kind of spirit box, do you?”
“I
do. I’m starting my own ghost hunting crew. Wanna join?”
Retaking
his seat, Jason shook his head. “Ghost hunters? No thanks, man. I’m a science
major for a reason. I only deal in facts and reality.”
Undaunted,
Flip picked up the box and turned it on. Annoying static filled the room.
“Flip,
come on...”
“Is
there anyone here with us? Please tell us your name.” The static continued
until the whispery word “Charon” broke through the white noise. “Sounded like ‘Karan’
to me.”
“But
it’s a dude.”
The
voice was louder this time. “Charon.” Once again, it barked, “CHARON.”
Standing
in the hallway, Glenn knocked impatiently on the door, then called out. “Jason?
You in there?”
He
pushed open the door and entered the room. It was empty, but static escaped
from the spirit box sitting on the desk. Glenn walked over and picked it
up.
“Glenn,”
came a warbly, frightened voice just above the hissing noise. “Help us.
The
Promise
The
man in the coffin at the end of the room was my husband Edmond Copper. Not a
successful or lucky man, he’d owned several small businesses during his lifetime
that failed for one reason or another. He also endured two marriages far longer
than he needed to because he was never very good at reading the signs of a
relationship in trouble. I was his second wife, and toward the end we were only
going through the motions.
Edmond
committed suicide a few days ago.
I
came home from work one evening and found him on the bedroom floor, blood
pooled around his thin, pale face. He’d been in a state of deep depression for
months, and while I was horrified by the scene, I wasn’t completely surprised.
After
the funeral I returned to my empty, lifeless house and poured a glass of wine. Trying
to relax on the couch, my eyes landed on a photo of the two of us taken on our
vacation to Hawaii several years ago. I don’t know why, but I recalled we
promised each other that whoever died first would contact the other one. Those
were the kinds of conversations we had after several Mai Tais. Tired, my energy
spent, I climbed the stairs and went to my bedroom, only to pull up short as I
neared the bed.
Lying
on the comforter were two objects; a photo of my lover Paul, and Edmond’s .38
Smith & Wesson.
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