The Ghosts

by Carolyn Ridder Aspenson

  Praise for

  Unfinished Business

  An Angela Panther Mystery

  "I laughed and I cried…and laughed…and cried… throughout the entire book! This book was so real (yes even with the heroine seeing her mother's ghost) and the emotion in it will stay with me for a long, long time!"

  —Joe Cool Review

  "It definitely touched a chord with anyone who has ever lost a loved one. The writing was strong and the dialogue—which many people simply cannot write—was terrific."

  —Christie Giraud, editor, Editingpro.com

  "What a fantastic read! I couldn't put it down! I had to keep reading just to see what twist life was going throw out at Angela next!"

  —Chicklit Plus

  "The author has a great sense of humor, even about death, but when the story called for it, she was reverent and empathetic in the way her characters handled each other."

  —Caroline Fardig, Bestselling Autho

  of It's Just a Little Crush

  Praise for

  Unbreakable Bonds

  An Angela Panther Mystery

  "This story is absolutely rammed with fun, happiness, anger, stupid decisions and a fair amount of rocks!! I think this diversity is actually part of the magic that Carolyn Ridder Aspenson brings to her books. I find it hard to get my hands on books that can pull on every single heartstring and laughter muscle you have like hers."

  —Noemie Verlan, BestChickLit.com

  "Unbreakable Bonds is wonderfully written, witty and laugh out loud funny."

  —Lynn Shaw, Two Girls and a Book

  "Angela is a character that all women can relate to, and all of us want to have a friend like Mel. You will not go wrong in choosing these books to read, but you will find yourself haunting Amazon until the next one comes out!"

  —Tamara Hatch via Amazon.com

  "Unbreakable Bonds was one of those books I couldn’t put down. The dialogue was snappy, the characters were real, and the plot was perfectly crafted. This was a great follow-up to Unfinished Business, and Carolyn Ridder Aspenson’s writing just keeps getting better and better."

  —Caroline Fardig, Bestselling Author

  of It's Just a Little Crush

  The ghosts

  An Angela Panther Holiday Short

  Carolyn Ridder Aspenson

  Carolyn Ridder Aspenson

  October 2016

  Copyright 2016 CAROLYN RIDDER ASPENSON

  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

  Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

  Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.

  No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.

  Inquiries about additional permissions

  should be directed to: info@booktrope.com

  The Ghosts is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental, except for the ones that aren't, and those people, they know who they are.

  EPUB ISBN

  For my mother,

  Rita D. (Palanca) Ridder

  And my father,

  Richard L. Ridder

  Always in my heart

  “Hello? Anyone here?” I tapped on the front door and slowly pushed it open. “Bueller?”

  Mel smacked my arm. “Don’t tick it off.”

  “How would referencing a classic ‘80’s movie tick off a ghost?”

  She shrugged. “I dunno, but it’s the day before Halloween, and we're in a haunted house, is it really worth the risk?”

  “Good grief.”

  I walked through the solid oak front door of the old abandoned home and planted my feet onto the battered wood floor, Mel trailing behind me. My head instantly pounded from the assault of multiple energies overwhelming my senses. I closed my eyes and focused on compartmentalizing them as best I could so I wouldn’t pass out or explode, which might cause Mel to freak, and understandably so. When I opened my eyes, I caught the tail end of something as it flashed past.

  A loud boom jarred us both, sending Mel sprinting back through the door, sailing off the porch and hitting the Georgia clay with a thud. Wiping the dirt off her pants, she said, “You go ahead, I'll just wait out here.”

  I ran out and yanked her back up the steps and inside. “Oh no you don't. We do this together, or we don't do it at all.”

  She opened her mouth to argue but before she could the door to the room on our right banged shut and a high-pitched woman’s scream echoed, pierced our ears.

  One of us yelled “Sweet Baby Jesus,” though I wasn’t sure which one. We bolted out the door together and vaulted off the porch, our arms flailing and waving above our heads like teenagers on a rollercoaster.

  She grabbed her chest and worked to catch her breath. “Okay, I’ve seen enough. Let’s go.”

  I couldn't leave. “Come on, not yet. We came to check this place out, and so let’s do it.”

  The house, a Civil War era plantation home nestled in the mountains of North Georgia, had sat abandoned for years. Stories of ghost sightings had been featured on various ghost-hunting shows but never once had any of them officially proven it was haunted, at least not to my level of proof. Of course, most of those shows were garbage, and I was the real deal, so when I dreamed about the place and got the impression someone there needed me, I did what I had to do. I dragged my best friend kicking and screaming to check it out with me

  “We came to see if it’s haunted and clearly it is, so our work here is done.” She folded her arms across her chest as if that would persuade me to leave.

  “It's an old house, and it's falling apart. Things are going to move, but that doesn’t mean it’s haunted.”

  “Do old houses scream too?”

  She had me there. “It could have been a broken pipe or something,” I lied.

  As if to prove me wrong, the front door slammed shut with enough force the porch quaked and the deep booming laughter of a man echoed from the other side of the door.

  Mel jumped back and shook her head fiercely. “Oh hell—bender no. Not doin’ it. Nope. You’re on your own with this one.” She flipped around and headed back to my car, which, unbeknownst to her, was locked.

  I chased after her. “Come on, we’re a team. Partners. Two peas in a pod. Besties. Don’t wimp out on me now.”

  She pulled on the passenger handle, but it didn't budge so she threw her arms up in the air and yelled at me. “Seriously?”

  I pulled my keys from my pocket and clicked the FOB. “Fine. Wait here. I’ll do it on my own you big scaredy cat. “

  I’d planned to stomp off like a spoiled kindergartener who’d just been tossed into a time out, but she latched onto my arm before I could turn. “I may not be able to sit and chit chat with the dearly departed, but I've got my own little sixth sense about you, and right now it's tellin’ me something’s goin' on, so spill it, woman.” She poked me right smack on my breastbone like my seventh grade English teacher used to do when I hadn’t memorized the assigned prepositions.

  “Ouch. That hurt.”

  That’s the thing about best friends. Even when you’ve kept a secret from them, they know. They can feel it in their bones. Sometimes that was good but other times, not so much.

  I leaned against my car, resigned to the fact I’d just dove into a deep pile of do-do. “A few weeks ago I had a dream about this place.”

  She thumped her head against m
y car window. “Son of a beach ball.” Mel and her boyfriend Aaron, my boss-but-not-really-my-boss, had recently given up swearing and had come up with some entertaining alternatives.

  “And someone told me to come here.”

  “Was it a dead someone or an alive someone?”

  “A dead someone.”

  “Like your mom, maybe?”

  I shook my head and bit my bottom lip hoping my innocent look would win her over. The soft growl humming from her closed mouth told me I hadn’t.

  Mel’s Asian and when she gets mad, her eyes morph into these teeny thin lines, and the 80’s girl in me can’t help but think of the Huey Lewis song Walking on a Thin Line, which if I thought about it, had a double meaning at that moment. Unfortunately for me, when I’m in an awkward situation, I use humor to get through it. That time it wasn’t the best idea. I sang the chorus to the song and she flicked me on the forehead with her skinny middle finger. I flinched and whined.

  “You know I hate that,” she said. “So what did this dead someone say?”

  I hesitated, examining my shoe instead of making eye contact.

  “Spill it, Panther.”

  “It didn’t exactly tell me to come. It just said help me.”

  “Help you what?”

  I shrugged.

  “She didn't say anything else, did she? She just said help me?”

  I double-shrugged and didn’t point out the fact that she hadn’t noticed I said it instead of she. I figured what she didn’t know wouldn’t get me another forehead flick. Those things hurt.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—are up in Heaven. Let's just get this over with and get the heck outta dodge.”

  “I’m good with that.”

  We straggled back to the front porch, fingers interlocked together, Mel squeezing mine so hard my wedding ring put a dent in her finger. If she was breathing, it was too shallow to notice. It took hours—or so it seemed—to make it to the door, and when we finally did neither of us had the backbone to push through it.

  “Oh for cryin’ out loud,” I said. “This is pathetic. Come on.”

  “Don’t get sassy,” she whispered.

  “Not makin' that mistake again.” I poked the door with my finger, and it swung open like it had anticipated our return.

  We planted our feet on the scuffed up wood entryway and waited for another big boom, door to slam, or unnerving screech, but the house was as still as a statue.

  “Maybe before was a fluke,” she said.

  Ghosts didn’t come with flukes. “And maybe you’re a virgin.”

  “Point made.” She headed back to the slamming doors.

  My chest tightened and all of a sudden I couldn't breathe. I tried not to panic, but I did anyway. I grasped onto my throat. “I…I can’t breathe.”

  Mel grabbed my shoulders. “Take a deep breath. You’re okay. You’re breathing.”

  I closed my eyes and pictured the Pacific ocean filled with gentle waves bumping against a sandy beach—my favorite calming thought—counted to ten, and breathed in and out as deeply as the tightness would allow. Mel was right. I was okay. “I hate it when they do that.”

  Sometimes the dead liked to share their last living emotions with me. They saw it as a way to communicate their experience. I saw it as torture.

  “We should go,” Mel said. “You don’t need this kind of crap.”

  “No, I’m okay. I need to finish this.” I knew if I didn’t, I’d just continue to have the same dream until I came back and did whatever the dead needed me to do.

  “Well then, let’s get ‘er done.”

  We crept to the room full of dead people because that’s what psychic mediums did. The pressing onslaught of emotions hit me like a Mack truck, but I pushed through them and focused on the first spirit to approach, a young man in a Civil War uniform.

  It was a stretch to call him a man because his face, even with the partially grown beard, was that of a teenager. He reminded me of my son Josh, too young to be a man but too old to be a boy.

  He removed his hat and tipped his head in greeting. “Ma’am.”

  His uniform was stained with blood, and his small, patchy beard, though somewhat transparent, was caked full of dried, crusty blood, too. As my eyes trailed across his energy, they filled with tears. I didn't know what to say. I'd never seen a spirit that ragged. “I…uh…” I wasn't at a loss for words often, but he hit me hard, and I couldn't help but see Josh.

  I must have surprised him because his mouth morphed from a small smile into a frown.

  “I’m so sorry.” I would have given my left leg to be able to hug the man-child. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ve just…I’ve never seen someone in your condition.”

  Mel coughed. She hated not knowing what was happening, but I ignored her, intent on helping the spirit.

  “I’m here to help you, but you’ve been here a long time, and I’m not sure what I can do.” I’d seen soldiers before, and ones from long ago but none so young.

  “Am I dead?”

  Oh boy. Didn’t see that coming. I nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  His chin dropped, and my heart sank right along with it.

  “What’s the last thing you remember?” I asked.

  He was silent for a moment, his eyes assessing the room. “I remember coming into this room with Henry and George, but then nothing.”

  I scanned the room. “Is there a Henry or George here?”

  “I’m Hank,” one spirit said.

  “I've got a brother named George,” another said. “I can't find him, though.”

  My head pounded harder. “I need an actual Henry or a George. Anyone?”

  None of the spirits spoke again.

  “They’re not here. I think they’ve moved on.”

  He gave me the once over. “Your clothing is different.”

  I glanced down at my nearly bare legs and open-toed sandals. “It’s 2016. We dress a lot different than women in your era.”

  “What is 2016?”

  “The year. It’s two thousand and sixteen.”

  His eyes popped. “It’s 2016, not 1861?”

  I nodded and laughed. I couldn’t help myself. “Do I look like a woman from 1861? Like I said, you’ve been gone awhile.”

  “No ma’am, you certainly do not. With all due respect, a lady doesn’t show herself like that. Except of course when she’s paid to.”

  I was pretty sure the dead guy had just called me a hooker, respectfully at least.

  “Like I said, women, today dress a lot different than the women you knew.” I unconsciously crossed my feet, and when I realized it, I uncrossed them and threw my shoulders back. I didn't want to feel funny for dressing like a Civil War era hooker. “I’m sorry I can’t help you find your friends, but I have a feeling they’ve gone to the other side. I think it’s time for you to do that too.”

  His eyes drilled through me as if I wasn't even there. “I’ve been here a long time? It doesn’t seem that way.”

  “I’m told time is different when you’re dead. So, do you see a light or anything?” I pointed to the ceiling. “Up there?”

  He glanced at the ceiling and then back at me. “Was it worth it?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “My death. Was it worth it?”

  Helping Josh study for his American History class had done me some good. I recognized his uniform as a Confederate one, and with the way, things were politically then, and as of late, I knew I had to tread carefully. It didn’t feel right to tell him they’d lost, especially because the historical reasons for the war were often debated and I wasn’t sure what he believed, but I couldn’t exactly explain that the loss was really a win either. “No soldier ever dies in vain. You did what you felt was right and that’s what matters.”

  That gave him some satisfaction because his frown softened and his eyes brightened. “I didn’t know what was right, but I did what I was told. I tried.”

  “That’s all you could do
,” I said. “And now it’s time for you to move on. To be with the people who love you. I’m sure Henry and George will be there too. It’s okay for you to go now.”

  His energy shifted from a thick, heavy feeling of despair to a soft, lighter version, and I watched as the dried blood on his face and uniform dissipated. His posture straightened, and then his energy dimmed and I knew he was preparing to leave.

  “Thank you,” he said, and then he shimmered away.

  I eyed the rest of the room but no one came forward, they just watched me expectantly. “Who’s next?”

  One man in a pair of blue jean overalls came forward and asked if I knew where Sally Jo was.

  I asked if she was in the room, but no one responded. “I don’t think she’s here.”

  “She went off to feed da cows durin’ da storm, an I ain’t seen her since,” he said. His eyes wandered around the room and when it was obvious she wasn’t there, his shoulders sank.

  “What’s your name?”

  “George Pruitt.”

  “Mr. Pruitt, I’m so sorry to tell you this, but I think your Sally Jo has passed, and I think she’s moved on. I think it’s time for you to move on, too.”

  He’d had his hands in his pockets but pulled them out. “Oh, I done know’d that I is gone.” He laughed. “I know’d she is too. I’s just wanna know where she is is all, so’s I can be wit her.”

  “Do you see a light, Mr. Pruitt?” I pointed to the ceiling, hoping he’d know I meant the sky.

  He glanced up. “I do, ma’am.”

  “If you concentrate on that light, I’m pretty sure you’ll find your Sally Jo.”

  “My Sally Jo, she make a mean bowl a beans an rice, that fo’ sur’. I sure could go for a bowl a that.”

  “I bet you can have all the beans and rice you want in the light, Mr. Pruitt.”

  Mel giggled beside me.