G is for Ghosts

by Rhonda Parrish

  SELECTED RHONDA PARRISH ANTHOLOGIES

  A IS FOR APOCALYPSE

  B IS FOR BROKEN

  C IS FOR CHIMERA

  D IS FOR DINOSAUR

  E IS FOR EVIL

  F IS FOR FAIRY

  FAE

  CORVIDAE

  SCARECROW

  SIRENS

  EQUUS

  MRS. CLAUS: NOT THE FAIRY TALE THEY SAY

  TESSERACTS TWENTY-ONE: NEVERTHELESS

  FIRE: DEMONS, DRAGONS AND DJINNS

  EARTH: GIANTS, GOLEMS AND GARGOYLES

  GRIMM, GRIT AND GASOLINE

  CLOCKWORK, CURSES AND COAL

  HEAR ME ROAR

  SWASHBUCKLING CATS: NINE LIVES ON THE SEVEN SEAS

  G IS FOR GHOSTS

  Book Seven of the Alphabet Anthologies

  Edited by Rhonda Parrish

  Poise and Pen Publishing

  EDMONTON, ALBERTA

  All copyright for individual stories remains with original authors

  Anthology Copyright © 2021 by Rhonda Parrish

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  www.poiseandpen.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Book Layout based on one © 2014 BookDesignTemplates.com

  Edited by Rhonda Parrish

  Cover design by Jonathan C. Parrish

  Cover and interior art licensed from DepositPhotos.com

  G is for Ghosts / Rhonda Parrish.—1st ed.

  ISBN 978-1-988233-89-5 (Physical)

  ISBN 978-1-988233-90-1 (Electronic)

  CONTENTS

  A—Stephanie A. Cain

  B—Samantha L. Strong

  C—C.S. MacCath

  D—Alexandra Seidel

  E—Sara Cleto and Brittany Warman

  F—Roddy Fosburg

  G—Andrew Bourelle

  H—Beth Cato

  I—Xan van Rooyen

  J—Michael M. Jones

  K—Jeanne Kramer-Smyth

  L—Samantha Kymmell-Harvey

  M—BD Wilson

  N—Lynn Hardaker

  O—L.S. Johnson

  P—Laura VanArendonk Baugh

  Q—Pete Aldin

  R—Sarah Van Goethem

  S—Michael B. Tager

  T—Jonathan C. Parrish

  U—Amanda C. Davis

  V—Lilah Wild

  W—Rachel M. Thompson

  X—M.L.D. Curelas

  Y—Joseph Halden

  Z—Suzanne J. Willis

  Stephanie A. Cain

  It was very late, well past the time for all good young ladies to be at home, and probably all dutiful young men as well. Charlie Holmes entered through the back door, praying Father had already gone to bed. Mother would turn a blind eye, but Father wouldn’t ignore the smell of camphor. Photography, Charlie had been told many times, was an inappropriate hobby for her to have taken up. It didn’t matter how many times she mentioned Matthew Brady or Charles Lutwidge Dodgson or even Julia Margaret Cameron; Father always had a rebuttal for why Charlie should not—could not—become a photographer.

  Floorboards creaked under Charlie’s Oxfords and she winced. It was too much to hope Father hadn’t heard.

  The door to Father’s study jerked open. “James, is that you? Come in here, I want you to—” He broke off then, dark eyebrows lowering. “Charlotte.” Father’s voice was low, like thunder that rumbled on the far edge of the horizon.

  Charlie tried to look innocent, as if she weren’t sneaking in from her borrowed photography dark room. As if she were wearing her own clothes, and not James’ hand-me-downs. “Father. Good evening.”

  It was stupid to hope Father would ignore this. Charlie only hoped she hadn’t gotten her brother in trouble for helping.

  “How many times have I told you photography isn’t a fit hobby for a well-bred young lady?” Charlie’s father surged forward, raising one clenched fist. Henry Holmes was a big man, broad-shouldered with huge hands and a quick temper. Charlie, five feet six inches in stockings (and five feet eleven inches in her brother’s top hat), knew she should quail before him. She should drop to her knees in abject apology. But after the news her brother had given her at dinner, Charlie was done apologizing for who she was.

  “I had dinner in town with James tonight,” Charlie said, ignoring her father’s words.

  Henry’s glower deepened. “I suppose he took it upon himself to share the happy news of your engagement.”

  Charlie had tried, over and over again, to choose her own course in life but she had always known, deep down, that Father was intent on selling her to his business partner’s nephew. “I will not marry Wallace Casey.”

  “You’ll do as you’re told, girl,” he snapped. “You’ve been given plenty of time—much more time than you deserved—to grow up.”

  “No.” Charlie swallowed, lifting her chin. Had anyone ever told Father no before?

  He acted so quickly she had no time to evade him. One huge fist lashed out, catching her on the jaw and knocking her into the wall of the narrow passage.

  “Unnatural, ungrateful hussy!” he hissed. “You’ll marry whomever I choose—I’m your father!”

  Charlie couldn’t summon the breath for a reply; she could do nothing but stare, open-mouthed, tears in her eyes, at her father’s rage-twisted face. Blinking stinging eyes, she straightened a little, finally sucking in a breath. For just a moment, Charlie wished for the feel of her mother’s arms wrapped protectively around her. Then she shook her head and cupped a hand against her stinging jaw. She could imagine how Mother would react: If you didn’t insist on pursuing your peculiar hobbies, this never would have happened.

  “I want to live my own life,” Charlie quavered, forcing herself to meet Father’s eyes.

  To Charlie’s shock, her lunged at her again. This time, his fingers curled around her throat. “I won’t have the neighbors saying we raised a disobedient daughter.” A spike of ice shot through Charlie. “You are my property, and I will dispose of you as I wish.”

  “I’m not property, I’m a person!” Charlie choked. Her ragged, bitten fingernails scrabbled at his hands. She knew, deep in her soul, that even if she had felt right in women’s clothes, she would have chafed at the restrictions and expectations placed on women. “Father, please—”

  It was the last protest she managed. Charlie’s words broke off as she ran out of breath. Blackness swam across her vision and she swayed. Then the blows started. When her father was finished with her, Charlie was curled on the floor, arms wrapped around her head.

  Father leaned over her, his breathing so harsh she couldn’t hear her own. He swore. Then she heard him storm away and close the study door, but she couldn’t move. She tasted blood mixed with dust from the floor.

  I am my own, she told herself hopelessly. Her whole body trembled. She had never wanted a husband or children. She wanted to pursue a trade, to go to college.

  Every time she’d considered the future, though, she had circled right back to Father’s contempt—his disgust, even—for who Charlie was. Charlie’s siblings might understand, but most of the people in their small village of Zionsville didn’t. Time and again, Reverend Browning had urged Charlie to accept the role of a young, well-bred, Christian lady. Time and again, Charlie had wondered if she ought to
do just that… and then gone back to her photography studio.

  Shaking, Charlie crept along the hall, sniffling just a bit as she let herself into her own room. It shouldn’t feel like the end of the world. But it did.

  She was tired, so tired. She wanted to collapse into bed, but she knew suddenly that there could be no life for her here. It was time to go. Past time to go.

  Go where? whispered a hopeless little voice in her head.

  St. Louis, Charlie thought. Or perhaps San Francisco. Somewhere far from here, where she could reinvent herself.

  She had a little bit of money saved up from years of tutoring school children. She could pawn a few things—though not her camera, never that—and her hair was long enough that it might fetch a good price.

  Her eyelids drooping, she forced herself upright despite an ache in her ribs. She rubbed her throat and draped a scarf around it to hide any marks her father might have left. And then she picked up her valise, which felt heavy as an anvil, and crept out of the house.

  Charlie’s stomach growled as she walked away from the pawn broker on East Market Street. The mahogany and silver clock her grandfather had bequeathed to her had fetched so little, she’d been unwilling to part with the matching silver pocket watch. She certainly had the one hundred and thirty dollars it would cost for a Pullman berth from Indianapolis to San Francisco, but it wouldn’t leave her much to find lodgings or food once she arrived.

  She should have stayed at the Grand Hotel instead of the English’s. At least the Grand Hotel had an American Plan offering for breakfast. Perhaps she should have pawned her camera, too…but in the end, she’d been unable to part with it. She glanced, tempted, at the bustling City Market, thinking of the fresh baked goods that would be on offer. She blinked at a sign that read “Tomlinson Taproom.” The grand concert venue Tomlinson Hall was next door to the market, but she hadn’t heard of a taproom. She rubbed her eyes and looked for the taproom sign again, but it was gone.

  She hadn’t tried to sell her hair yet. It was neatly bound and wrapped in her bag, and she kept adjusting her brother’s top hat, which slipped a bit now that she had no hair to hold it in place. She was done being a respectable young lady, and she was done being Charlotte; from now on she was Charlie, and she would live as she wished, and people could think what they would.

  Fortunately facial hair was going out of style again. Father had kept his mutton-chops, but James shaved every day. No one would think it odd that Charlie had no beard. Her stride had always been too quick, perhaps in protest of the long skirts she’d been forced to wear. Grinning, Charlie allowed her stride to lengthen.

  As Charlie reached up and adjusted her hat yet again, someone crashed into her.

  “Maura!” a woman exclaimed.

  “God, I’m so sorry,” said another female voice, husky, with an English accent. But Charlie’s hat had slipped over her eyes, so she had no idea who was speaking to her. “I tripped over the sidewalk. I’d trip over my own feet if I had nothing else to trip over. I’m terribly sorry.” As Charlie pushed her hat back again, she was struck by the handsome strength of the woman standing, red-faced, before her.

  “It’s no trouble,” she assured the woman. “I was inattentive.” She let her gaze travel to the other woman, who was standing a pace or two behind the one who had crashed into her. That woman was dressed in trousers and a jacket, but not nearly as formal as Charlie’s. When her eyes met Charlie’s, she paled.

  “Are you all right?” Charlie inquired.

  The woman coughed. “Oh, yes, fine, thanks.”

  Charlie had asked mostly to be polite. Her attention was still mostly focused on the other woman, taking in her silver-streaked black hair and blue eyes. This must be Maura. Charlie caught Maura’s hand in both of hers and bowed over it, not quite daring to brush the skin with her lips. “I apologize most heartily for running into you,” she told the woman.

  If it was possible, the woman went even more scarlet. Charlie couldn’t place her age. She seemed older than Charlie, but her awkward demeanor made her seem young.

  “No, it—” The woman cut herself off and huffed. “Let me buy you coffee to make up for it. My name is Maura. Maura Schroeder.”

  Charlie smiled at her in surprise. The offer was unexpected, but it neatly solved the problem of breakfast. “That isn’t necessary, but I appreciate the offer. I am Charlie Holmes.” Her stomach chose that moment to growl loudly, and her smile slipped into a grin.

  Maura grinned back, charming her further. “Please. There’s a coffee shop in the lobby of my building, just here.” She gestured. Charlie looked, and for a moment her vision flickered. The street had no wagons or carriages, though it had been full a moment ago. The building in front of her was not stone or wood or even brick, but mostly glass. She sucked in a breath, and then the familiar world returned.

  “Are you all right?” Maura’s grin had faded a little. It made Charlie feel guilty.

  “I’m fine, thank you. Very well, I accept. Thank you.”

  “Nothing too fancy, I’m afraid,” Maura said. “But I’d like very much for you to join me.”

  The other woman moved into Charlie’s view. She wore trousers and a sweater that looked very soft. Charlie blinked, trying to picture the woman in a dress shaped by the corset and bustle her mother favored. Then she met the woman’s brown eyes, which were narrowed as she studied Charlie.

  “Maura, I think we should talk first.” Her voice was sharp.

  With an apologetic glance, Maura went to speak with her friend. Charlie tried to look incurious as she watched from the corner of her eye. The woman drew her several yards away and began to speak too quietly for Charlie to hear. The woman gestured, then gripped Maura’s shoulder. Maura glanced back at Charlie, and something in her posture changed. But then she shook her head and said something else to her friend.

  Charlie did her best to appear innocuous. After all, they were strangers, and it was possible the other two women took her for a man. She wanted to reassure them that she wasn’t dangerous.

  At length Maura came back to Charlie. “Sorry about that. Chloe can’t join us for coffee, but we had a bit of business to finish up.” The smile she offered was a little shakier, but Charlie couldn’t quite place how the other woman was feeling. Disappointed? Dismayed?

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t inconvenience you,” she began, but Maura interrupted.

  “No, it’s fine. Please. I’d like to get to know you.”

  Charlie studied Maura’s face for a moment, watching the smile grow firmer. After a moment, Charlie touched the brim of her too-big hat and strode to the door, which she opened for Maura. “After you.”

  When they were settled at an intimate table with coffee and a muffin on Maura’s part and Earl Grey and a scone on Charlie’s—it had made Maura give her a wry look and laugh—Charlie found herself at a loss. She’d long dreamed of being free enough to do this, but…how did most gentlemen speak to a woman they had just met? Was she being too forward?

  “So.” Maura leaned forward. “What brings you to Indianapolis, Charlie Holmes? Or do you live here?”

  Charlie raised an eyebrow, but she was pleased. “I probably ought to be asking you that, with that accent,” she countered. “But I am only traveling through en route to San Francisco.”

  Maura shifted in her seat. “I’ve never been to San Francisco. I hear it’s lovely.”

  “Yes.” Charlie sipped her tea. “That is, I’ve heard that, as well.”

  “You don’t live there?”

  “I’m planning to live there.” Charlie realized suddenly that she hadn’t even imagined what story she would tell people. She certainly couldn’t share her true history. “I, ah, I’ve just had a change in my circumstances, and am taking this opportunity to ‘Go West Young Man,’ as the newspaperman said some years ago.” She attempted a charming smile.

  “Go West Young... Man,” Maura said, pausing just slightly. She sat strai
ghter in her chair and gave Charlie an enigmatic and inviting smile. “Tell me more.”

  “It isn’t as easy as searching for specific terms,” Maura said, waving her fork expressively as she spoke. She was leaning across the table, her voice low as they dined in a small restaurant near her apartment. “You have to know about related concepts. You can’t just index, say, ‘Hoosier basketball.’ You have to ‘see also sports,’ ‘see also Indiana University, comma, athletics.’” She sipped her wine. “You have to have basketball rivalries, comma, Illinois.’”

  “It seems to me your work is very important,” Charlie said. She liked the smile that spread across Maura’s face. It was a little reluctant, but it felt genuine.

  Maura worked as an indexer. Charlie had learned this on their second day together, as they wandered through the City Market, talking about philosophy and books they had read. Maura tried to explain the signs advertising the Catacombs Tours, but Charlie didn’t remember hearing anything about a fire in Tomlinson Hall. Eventually Charlie admitted that she had broken ties with her family because they wanted her to marry; she didn’t specify that they wanted her to marry a man, but something in Maura’s expression and demeanor made Charlie think she knew that.

  Maura collected clocks; her sitting room had several fascinating ones, including a cuckoo clock that called every hour. Charlie couldn’t fight a grin every time the clock went off, though she preferred the handsome mantel clock on Maura’s fireplace.

  They spent time walking along the White River and enjoying the early autumn sunshine. Charlie was happy to point out all the varieties of wildflowers still blooming, and they delighted in watching bright orange monarch butterflies soaring overhead.

  Before Charlie knew it, she had been at the English’s for two weeks, and she was beginning to wonder if she should look for a boarding house. She still had enough money for a berth to San Francisco, but now she wasn’t even sure she wished to go there. But even after selling her thick bunch of hair, she was beginning to worry she might have to pawn her camera.