Nothing gets the blood flowing quite like seeing a ghost... #MysterySuspense #Thriller

Buried Secrets

by Brandi Salazar


Coming to a stop below the attic door, James reached up and tugged on the long cord that released the stairs, and pulled them down. On shaky legs, his breaths coming in short, labored bursts, he scaled the stairs slowly until he could just peak his head over the floorboards. From this vantage point, James had a direct line of sight between the many boxes leading a straight path to the dormer window where silver moonlight poured in washing the room in its unearthly glow. And there, sitting in front of the window, sat the filmy apparition of a young girl. She had her back turned toward him, but when James gasped his shock, she slowly turned her head, and when her eyes fell on him, she grinned.
Fear crippled him and James lost his footing. He grabbed for the floorboards, but it was too late. He fell, tumbling backward down the staircase and landing with a thud on the floor below. Panicking, James didn’t need time to recover. He leapt to his feet, and with desperation born of fear, he hauled the steps up, tucking them back into the ceiling and locking them in place. Then he turned and raced back to his room, slamming the door and locking himself inside until morning.

He's going to wish he'd listened to her... #Paranormal #YA

'A Matter of Perception' - a collection of perception challenging urban fantasy and magical realism short stories.

by Tahlia Newland

 Ellen scanned the rocks and gasped. Ragged ethereal bodies floated towards her, staring with the sightless eyes of long dead sailors.
“Ghosts!” she rasped, grabbing Con’s arm. “Con, there’s ghosts. We have to get out of here.”
He looked around, unmoved. “Jesus, Ellen,” he said disdainfully when his gaze returned to her. “You’re imagining things.”
“Con, will you just listen to me for once. Just because you can’t see them, doesn’t mean they aren’t here. We honestly have to get out of here!”
“You never said you had a girl,” a voice croaked from the shadows.
Ellen and Con spun around. An old woman stepped into the growing light. Her pale eyes glittered keenly and her skin had a strange greyish sheen.
Ellen shot a glance at Con. He frowned.
“It’s the woman that told me about this place,” he whispered. “I didn’t know it was a rendezvous.”
“Get ready, now.” The old woman stared at Con with chilling intensity, then turned towards the now glowing horizon. “The sun heralds the winter equinox.”
Con looked at Ellen and shrugged. “It’s what we came for.”
The woman chuckled quietly and Ellen had a strong urge to grab Con and run away, but the ghosts stopped moving and gold suddenly streaked the horizon. A giant fiery orb rose into the sky, splashing light across the land. It gilded the rocks, bringing their jagged forms into stark relief. It kissed their faces with the promise of warmth and illuminated something rising to the surface of the ocean. Ellen peered into the brine. Beautiful white-faced women stared back at her, their long hair flowing on the waves behind them.
An eerie, enchanting song danced on the rising breeze. Con took a step forward. Ellen grabbed his arm.
“No,” she hissed.
.

From "Haunted Ground: Ghost Photos from the Gettysburg Battlefield" by Hollister Ann Grant

In the late 1990s, when Jack and I were living in Washington, D.C., we’d escape the city on weekends. We’d get up before dawn, jump in our little green Hyundai, grab some coffee and donuts at the Safeway, and drive 90 miles north to Gettysburg. Jack was an avid Civil War buff and always had five or six books going about the battle. We’d spend hours retracing troop movements and photographing the boulder-strewn hills.

One Saturday Jack told me he’d read about a haunted field behind Devil’s Den. The Den is a spectacular group of boulders on the southern side of the battlefield. Brutal fighting took place there on the second day of the three day battle.

“People say a ghost interferes with cameras and video equipment,” Jack said.

The idea of a camera-wrecking ghost made me gleeful.

“Oh, wow, let’s go, then,” I told him.

We were using a film camera at the time. I can’t remember the brand, but the camera was fairly new and took good quality photos. The batteries were new, too. I’d purchased them the day before and remember peeling the package open and fitting them inside the camera.

From "A Haunting Affair" by Ursula Bauer

A shadow detached itself from the gloom on the porch and her heart leapt into her throat.

“Spooky, isn’t it?” The shadow had a man’s voice. A nice one at that. Deep and resonant, the kind of voice that could talk a woman into all kinds of crazy things.

She found her own voice and answered the darkness. “It’s the scene of a brutal, unsolved murder. Spooky is part of the package.”

“Some people say it was suicide.” The shadow stepped closer to an anemic swath of light, revealing a long body, wide shoulders, and a strong profile, but not much more in terms of detail. What was there, however, was promising.

“People say a lot of things about Jennifer Vaughn’s death. Murder at the hands of an obsessive stalker. Death at the hands of her jealous husband. Robbery gone wrong. I’ve even heard the Lakeside Ghost is responsible,” she countered.

“Eric said you’re always on top of your facts. Looks like he was correct. As to the theories, knowing the Vaughns and their history, any one is a good possibility.”

“That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? To help you figure it out once and for all?”

From "Dancing with Spirits" by Carol Arnall

It was cold – a dank clinging cold that seemed to be inside the very marrow of my bones. My feet slipped on the wet muddy ground and I pulled my deerskin cloak closer, but even that brought no comfort. I was so unbelievably cold and wet. Normally, the soft supple skin would enfold me within its warmth and comfort; pictures would form in my mind of the generations of deer that had gone before my time on this earth. Today, the herds were but a distant memory as the weather closed in on me, Grandmamma and my 11-year-old sister, Trieainia. ‘Oh for the warmth of a fire,’ I thought, slipping and sliding on the muddy, sandy ground. I drew nearer to my Grandmamma for warmth and reassurance. The mist continued to swirl around; creating strange shapes, transforming the winter trees into mystical, ghostly forms, making me think of weird creatures waiting to pounce on us. The tree branches, outstretched like big cat claws, loomed towards us and they seemed to be calling and drawing us nearer and nearer through the ghostly mist that hung and hovered, drifting through the tree branches.

From "The Butcher's Boy" by Michael Robb Mathias

The ghostly boy picked up another empty and went through the wind up again, but this time the can went over Oliver’s head and clattered into the kitchen. Oliver whimpered like a terrified child and the ghost boy grabbed at its belly and laughed. The sound that came out held no mirth though. It was a hollow gravelly hiss that was full of spite and anger.

Oliver used a hand to push himself up and tried to climb over the recliner to get away. The ghost snarled at this and reached for another can. There was no dramatic pause to check the first base runner with this wind up. The ghostly arm shot forth and the can flew across the room.

Oliver put a hand up to protect himself, but he wasn’t fast enough. This can wasn’t opened yet and when it him full in the mouth it shattered his lips as if they were grapes and broke some teeth. He threw his arms up into a cartwheel trying to keep his balance, but it wasn’t to be. He and the chair went over and the back of his head hit the floor so hard that it bounced.