Tag Archives: ghosts

Ghost Whisper

“I want to eat you,” she whispered.

At first, Jose was excited, but then he realized he was alone in the room.

“Hello?” he asked, but the only light in the room was from his laptop. He muted his computer. Maybe it was one of those stupid annoying ads that starts talking to you from out of nowhere.

“I want to eat you,” the voice whispered again.

That was definitely coming from somewhere in the room. Jose looked around, in his closet and under his bed. He put his ear to the air vent.

“Jose,” a soft wind blew into his ear. Jose jumped up and bumped into something. He turned around and screamed like a little girl, his arms and legs kicking out. He smashed back into the wall, gasping for breath at the strange thing in the room. It was a person… with a sheet over her head.

“Inez? Is that you? You scared the shit outta me, girl.”

“N-nn,” the girl in the ghost costume shook her head. “My name’s Dina.”

Jose reached to pull off the sheet on her head. His hand went through her body. “What the Hell?”

“I’m a ghost.”

Jose shook his head. “You’re a hologram or something. Somebody’s playing a prank on me big-time.”

“No. I assure  you, I’m a ghost.”

“Well, ghost. Take off the damn sheet so I can see your face.”

“It’s not a sheet! This is what ghosts look like! I’m in purgatory! It’s not like I can keep my human form, jackass!”

Jose paused for a moment. “Suppose  you’re telling me the truth. What the Hell are you haunting me for?”

“I already told you.” A slit opened in the sheet’s face, exposing a wide, empty smile. “I want to eat you, Jose. I wasn’t fucking around with you, man.”

Dina’s formless body enveloped Jose. Her wide, empty smile crunched own on Jose’s skull, taking off his entire head above the jaw. Her ghostly appendages turned Jose’s body upside-down over her head to shower in the blood spritzing out of his throat. She squeezed him, juicing his body for all that he had. The blood ran over and through her spectral form. She shuddered in excitement.

“Nnnn. Oh, that’s good, Jose. So good. Thank you.”

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Filed under Flash Fiction, Session XXII

Eight Stories about Ironing (Revision)

Iron

Iron (n.): a handheld device used to steam press clothing and eliminate wrinkles. Despite the name, modern irons are made with a stainless steel sole plate, so as to keep irons durable and rust-free. In modern usage, the term “iron” is often used as a metaphor to describe the process of leveling out an article or spirit using any tool regardless of whether one actually uses an iron to do so. The ultimate goal of an iron is to flatten.

Baba Yaga

In some versions of the folklore surrounding Baba Yaga, she irons out the path behind her so no one can tell where she’s been. I just made this up.

Janet

Janet hated doing laundry but she loved to iron. As soon as her husband threw off his shirt or tie upon returning home, she would snatch the bits of clothing and begin ironing. She never kissed him when he walked through the door. He never got so much as a “Welcome home, honey.” Janet’s husband hypothesized that she did this because she is a neurotic bitch with a withered vagina. Her therapist thought the same thing, though instead he told her that she was trying to gain control over her life by ironing clothes. She needed to get out of the house, maybe volunteer or take dance lessons. Janet wonders if this was all true, even the part about the withered vagina (though no one said a thing, Janet is actually very perceptive). She decides she’s going to take up the hobby of ironing more. You see, when Janet irons, all traces of her husband go away. Gone are the scent of his sweat and cologne; gone the cardboard dust aroma from the storage room in the office; gone the smells of his secretary’s unwithered vagina. Gone.

Inventors

The inventor

Iron Age

Philosophers and historians say that time is cyclical. Or it repeats itself. The Dark Age and the Iron Age repeat themselves in one form or another, as do the Inquisition, the witch trials, and the Red Scare. I don’t know about such things. I’m not a philosopher. Or a historian. But I do repeat myself.


Confession

I was taught to iron on an 8×8 inch square of fabric. This did not prepare me for ironing out oddly-shaped clothing with thick collars and obtrusive sleeves. It did not prepare me for bumpy buttons and embossed patterns. Nor was I prepared for burned clothes and burned hands. It also did not prepare me for heartbreaks and hangovers and sucker punches.  I remain unprepared for the fickle hearts of women and the affairs of men. My life is limited to this 8×8 inch of fabric and I still can’t quite get that last crease to go down.

Baba Yaga Again

I heard she kidnaps children, steals their bones and then irons out their skins to hang and dry outside of her chicken leg house. Okay. I made part of that up, too… don’t judge me. Look at yourself.

Paul & Susan

Paul always did it himself. Started his own company. Self-made millionaire. Business trips on his own coin. Ironed his own clothes at the end of each day. One day, they found him at the front of the hotel, smashed into pavement and surrounded by broken glass. His death was documented, photographed, and he was filed away in the morgue.

Susan didn’t want to be young or sexy. She just wanted her face to be perfect. She hated stubble and the texture of a burning log in the fireplace. She went online and looked for porn of people wearing masks. Her favorite was comedy and tragedy masks, but those are hard to find. She read about Paul in the newspaper and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Susan got Botox and didn’t have to worry about choices anymore.

The Ghost of Iron

The ultimate goal of the iron is to flatten. There is a mass grave – a surplus of irons that have done their job and gone to rest. Their ghosts still haunt us, clinking on chains woven from Jacob Marley’s skin. Every year, they come to this very spot, bury their faces in the ground, and howl into pillows made of dirt.

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Filed under FEATHERTON II, Flash Fiction

Eight Stories about Ironing

Iron

Irons are handheld devices used to steam press clothing and eliminate wrinkles. Despite the name, modern irons are made with a stainless steel sole plate, so as to keep irons durable and rust-free. The term “iron” is often used now as a metaphor to describe the process of straightening/leveling out an article or spirit using any tool, spanning from tangible to emotional to metaphysical.

Baba Yaga

In some versions of the folklore surrounding Baba Yaga, she irons out the path behind her so no one can tell where she’s been. I just made this up.

Janet

Janet hated doing laundry but she loved to iron. Any chance she would get, she’d iron. Sometimes as soon as her husband threw off his shirt or tie, she would snatch it up and begin ironing. He hated this and thought it was because she was a frigid bitch with a withered vagina. Her therapist thought the same thing, though he told her that she was trying to gain control over her life by ironing clothes. Perhaps this is all true, even the part about the withered vagina. All Janet knows is that when she irons, all traces of her husband go away. Gone are the scent of his sweat and cologne; gone the cardboard dust aroma from the storage room in the office; gone forever the pine tree he brushes up against on the way to and from the driveway and the smells of his lover’s unwithered vagina.

Iron Age

Philosophers and historians say that time is cyclical. Or it repeats itself. The Dark Age and the Iron Age repeat themselves in one form or another, as do the Inquisition, the witch trials, and the Red Scare. I don’t know about such things. I’m not a philosopher. Or a historian.

Confession

I was taught to iron on an 8×8 inch square of fabric. This did not prepare me for ironing out oddly-shaped clothing with thick collars and obtrusive sleeves. It did not prepare me for bumpy buttons and embossed patterns. Nor was I prepared for burned clothes and burned hands. It also did not prepare me for heartbreaks and hangovers and sucker punches.  I remain unprepared for the fickle hearts of women and the affairs of men. My life is limited to this 8×8 inch of fabric and I still can’t quite get that last crease to go down.

Baba Yaga Again

I heard she kidnaps children, steals their bones and then irons out their skins to hang and dry outside of her chicken leg house. Okay. I made part of that up…

Paul

Paul always did it himself. Started his own company. Self-made millionaire. Business trips on his own coin. Ironed his own clothes at the end of each day. One day, they found him at the front of the hotel, smashed into pavement and surrounded by broken glass. His death was documented, photographed, and he was filed away in the morgue.

The Ghost of Iron

Nobody uses iron anymore. Everything is stainless steel or synthetic or both. Even irons are being replaced by steamers and lifestyles that can afford wrinkles in clothes. But their ghosts still haunt us, clinking on chains made of Jacob Marley. Every year, they come to this very spot, bury their faces in the ground, and howl at the earth.

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Filed under FEATHERTON II, Flash Fiction

The Phantom Rave

Deep in the underbelly of New Orleans, there exists a haunted basement beneath a bar that specialized in Cajun cuisine. This building is now abandoned and in terrible disrepair even four years after the events of Hurricane Katrina. The bodies found down there were drowned and trampled, discovered with glowsticks and ecstasy pills floating on the water below like a host of wading spirits. These were ravers, once, but the locals say that they still haunt that basement.

Loud acid and house beats can be heard at street level late at night. People walking by say that they feel something rubbing up against their arms or feeling their coats. One woman heard the sound of a pacifier sucking loudly in her ear, and a few people reported sightings of flashing lights, like floating glowstick being tossed around. They call this anomaly “the phantom rave.”

So far, these phantom ravers have never hurt anyone. Children sometimes go to the building on dares and local stoners stop by to see if they can catch a supernatural light show. During the day, when the ghosts are not around, people still whisper quietly around the building. Some leave flowers or cards or raving paraphenalia. It has become a spiritual place, a raving Mecca for some who travel from around the world to witness the phenomenon for themselves.

Some say the ravers are angry at the government and rave in protest. Others say that they are caught in some kind of limbo or Hell, forced to do the sinful things they did in life. Still other claim that both of these views are way off the mark: they’re simply raving because they love to rave.

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Filed under Flash Fiction, Session XII

The Twin

You’ll always feel it as a sibling; but as a twin, it’s even worse. Why him? Why not me? I know my parents are thinking the same thing. When they look at me, they see him. I’m a reminder for them, an open wound. Maybe I’d be better off dead, and then they could move on without having to live with a ghost.

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Filed under Flash Fiction, Session XII

Page for Dr. Mueller

The first few times they heard the page, the hospital staff just thought it was technical difficulties. “Dr. Mueller,” a woman’s quiet voice would always say then cut out. It continued, however, and Dr. Mueller, the hospital’s surgeon-in-chief, a short-fused man and recent widower came stomping over to the nurses’ desk.

“You girls might think this is funny, but your shenanigans are blocking up the paging system that we use for emergencies!”

The nurses stared at him blankly until the head nurse spoke up. “It wasn’t us doctor. We’ve all just been here or doing our rounds. It’s much too busy around here lately to pull any pranks.”

“Then who–” Dr. Mueller threw up his hands, though he stopped short when the paging system static started. It was the woman’s voice again, only she was laughing this time. “Someone’s playing games with me!” He stormed off.

Over the next few days, rumors began circulating among the nurses and patients about a ghost haunting the hospital. Dr. Mueller was often seen rushing about the halls every day to find the culprit whenever a page went off. He even threatened to disconnect the phones.

Eventually the paging got to the half-deaf ears of the chief of medicine, Dr. Brown. Though Dr. Mueller’s complaints had been merely a dull buzzing in Dr. Brown’s ears, the talk of ghosts was beginning to spook the superstitious old man. He agreed to Dr. Mueller’s plan to have any staff available guard the phones. As it turned out, there really wasn’t that many staff members available, so they disconnected most of the phones for the day and locked them away.

At first, Dr. Mueller’s plan seemed to be going well, but then the voice came again in a chill whisper. Dr. Mueller looked around at the people in the hospital looking up at the intercoms and then at him. They began whispering to each other without taking their eyes off of him.

“Stop it!” he screamed, tearing down the halls, taking the phone with him. He began ripping all the remaining phones out of the walls, but still the voice followed him.

“Where is it?” he shrieked, circling a pile of phones. “Where’s the last one?”

“Dr. Mueller!” the concerned reprimand came from Dr. Brown’s shriveled lips. “What are you doing with all those phones?”

“There are more phones, Dr. Brown! Secret ones! Where are you hiding them?” The voice over the intercom laughed again. Dr. Mueller screamed and tried to climb the walls to get at a speaker. Dr. Brown promptly called for personnel to pull him off the walls.

Dr. Mueller never came back to the hospital after that day. He retired, citing emotional trauma over the recent loss of his wife as the official reason. The rumor mill still turned and a few said that Dr. Mueller’s wife was the one on the intercom. Some even said that she was haunting the place because he’d killed her, or he never loved her enough, or that she really did love him a lot and was calling to him from beyond. A few said that it was a patient that had died under his operating table at the hospital. Some said that it really was a prank, others that it was Dr. Mueller himself who planned it. This was never really accepted, though, since the man had no sense of humor. No one never really knew for sure, but things continued at the hospital as they always did after that. If anything, it may have been a little brighter, like a curse had been lifted. But that’s just superstition.

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Filed under Flash Fiction, Session X

L.A. Ghost Story

One light-polluted night, in the most crowded part of the City of Angels, a family went out past 8:00 for a late dinner in their Ford Explorer. They went driving down the packed highway, down the windy roads to visit their favorite vegan restaurant. When they got there, they saw the parking was $20! Disgusted, they decided to find a place farther away and walk. But it was a Friday night and they were in an area with a lot of clubs! They drove and drove and could not find a spot anywhere. Every empty spot was in front of a driveway or fire hydrant. There were SUVs double-parked everywhere! When they went back to the expensive valet area, it was at full occupancy. They say that the father went into a wild rage and weaved out of Hollywood at twice the speed of traffic—40 miles an hour. The police found the wreckage of their car somewhere off the highway in Malibu. Sometimes late on Friday night, you can still see the taillights of their Explorer making right turns around the Hollywood, still trying to find that parking spot to this very day.

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Filed under Flash Fiction, Session VIII