Open Call: Ghost Stories!

[Reverant]

As a cheapskate, I'm perpetually behind the times. While everyone else is off reading the newfangled Game of Martins Dance with Thrones book, I'm poking through my bookshelf full of involuntarily inherited books to find something to read. I came across my family's old copy of The Oxford Book of English Ghost Tales last week, though, and now I can't put it down. The tales are moody, spooky, and undeniably British in tone and atmosphere. Many of them are also quite old; the first piece, The Tapestried Chamber, dates back to 1821.

This has put me in the mood to take a shot at writing my own short ghost story (certainly no more than a thousand words or so). I expect it'll take about a week to hammer out in my spare time. I also figured that while it's best to experience a haunting alone, recounting one is not, so I'm inviting anyone who wants to either share a good story they know or write a new one with me to join in the fun.

Rules: Ghost story. There's a certain implication there
Length: 1 word minimum, jillion word maximum

I'll post whatever I come up with at the end here in this thread.

[Dorkandproudofit]

Well, I'm not good at writing short stories, so here's one I heard a long time ago:

A young man is walking home from work one day when he sees a photograph on the sidewalk. Picking it up, he sees that it depicts a beautiful young woman holding up the peace sign. He is immediately smitten with the woman in the picture, and becomes determined to find out who she is.

He asks everyone he knows about the woman in the picture, goes to bars, parties, etc., but no one seems to know who she is. The next day, as he is walking across the street at a crosswalk, a truck runs him down, killing him. Horrified, the driver gets out and goes to the body, then notices a photograph next to the corpse.

It shows a young woman holding up three fingers.

[Ink Asylum]

Length: 1 word minimum

BOO!



(too short)

[VerseD]

Once I was in Bangkok, sitting on the fifth floor balcony of a hotel near Kau San with an English couple, listening to the wet chaos of the Songkran water festival below compete with a set of iPod speakers. Everyone had water guns or buckets of cold water or a hose to spray passers-by; you could not go a block outside without getting soaked, and every trip to the store became a maneuver. I didn’t want to go anywhere, and my hamstrings hurt from running around all day in a tactical crouch, as I shot Thai ladyboys and swaggering British sex tourists between the eyes with a cheap plastic super soaker.

Well, our two Englanders were Lee and Kelley, childhood friends from the small Isle of Jersey in the English Channel, a peaceful idyll eternally warmed by the Gulf Stream; yet the family of Lee’s father originated in Bengal, in today’s Bangladesh. They were once in the line of succession for the Bengali throne, at some distant branch of the bloodline, before Independence and the Partition banished them from those domains. One of Lee’s cousins nevertheless fashioned himself Shahzad or Prince. Lee could claim the same title, but he chose not to.

Growing up in England, Lee never once believed the stories his father told of the miracles his great-grandfather performed. As the fakir or shaman of their Bengali village, this ancestor would pace around the town at night, pounding his staff on the hard ground to scare away the wild animals and poltergeists—tap, tap, tap. He also knew magic. One year, when the rains did not come, the fakir had all the village children go out and play in a certain stream. The very next day it poured. But Lee did not believe it, until one night something happened that shook young Lee’s confidence in the rational, mortal world.

When he was thirteen, he woke in the night to a sound in the kitchen of footsteps and tapping: two steps, a tap, two steps, a tap. Anticipating an intruder, he got a pool cue from his closet and went out, wielding the stick as he searched his dark house, room by room. “I know you’re there,” he called into the deep, dangerous black, “and you had better come out.” But there was nothing, and he went back to bed.

Lee woke again to a strange sensation. It was as if someone was holding his ears shut with gnarled fingers and driving thumbs into his eyes. A grinding screech pierced his eardrums. Lee tried to move, to scream, but could do nothing except lie there totally paralyzed, suffocating, feeling as if some weight were straddling his chest. And then all the force and noise was gone, and the boy bolted out of his sheets into an empty room, grasping at his pounding heart in confusion and terror.

He ran upstairs to his sister’s room and pushed open the door. Now near the floor glowed a fiber-optic nightlight, and at the same instant that Lee crashed through the portal, for no apparent reason, this light exploded from its dim diffusion to a blinding white that strobed across the room, before it burned out to nothing, imprinting a lightning echo on his vision. The wide-eyed boy curled up in his sister’s bed and stilled his beating heart and slowly fell back to sleep.

“The next day I told my dad what happened,” Lee explained, “and he said, ‘What did you do wrong?’ I told him, ‘Nothing, I didn’t do anything wrong!’ but he just asked me again, ‘What did you do?’ I only realized it a few years later. My great-grandfather was protecting our house, and I ran out with a pool cue and threatened him. I disrespected him. It changed me,” he continued. “I used to be a little shit, a bastard, a real cunt to everyone, for no reason. I was always bad. After that, though, I started being a little better. I kept feeling like someone was watching me, like someone was disapproving. I kept having dreams like I was suffocating, but as I got better, they came less and less, and then not at all. Now I am very different than I was before. I was a little shit! Now I know I am where I should be, where my great-grandfather wants me to be.”

I listened with empathy and fascination and believed every word. It’s not in my nature to doubt what someone else says, no matter how far-fetched, because there are many types of truth and something to be learned from each. Lee said, “Thank you for believing me. Most people hear this story and they say, ‘Bullocks, that can’t be real,’ and I say, ‘Sit my dad down, he’ll tell you the same thing.’ It was real. I feel changed because of it.” If it was not real, I thought, he had surely made it so.

[MagGnome]

Well, I'm not good at writing short stories, so here's one I heard a long time ago:
*snip*

It took me a moment at the end there, but that is creepy. -_-

[Dorkandproudofit]

It took me a moment at the end there, but that is creepy. -_-

I got an even scarier one... And it only has two words in it.




























































PRESIDENT. BACHMANN.

[diablopath]

Well played, Dork.

[evilgoodwin]

I got an even scarier one... And it only has two words in it.




























































PRESIDENT. BACHMANN.

http://flexapic.com/g.ashx?id=7288

[Purple Santa]

I had to track down Karak's true Halloween stories for the ghost story I told in there.


This happens to be a Bed and Breakfast story. The kind Karak loves . The B&B was in Pennsylvania in the Reading Pa area. I often when at B&Bs in that area, I would read about ghost stories. Pennsylvania is claimed to be one of the most haunted stated with ghosts in particular Berks county in Pa. I wasn't much of a believer but reading the stories were always fun. They were local so when we would pass some of the places ghosts were at I would like to check in.

Well at this particular B&B that my then wife and I stayed at quite a bit, I had recognized the place that was haunted was the B&B we were staying at. I asked the owners about it but they were very skittish. Neither of the owners struck me as someone who would believe in this stuff. Both had business backgrounds, pretty no nonsense however they made great hosts. So it was surprising neither would talk about it. I brought it up at breakfast and it was possible they didn't want to scare the other guests who were staying there.

Later that day, one of the owners explained to me what he knew. The story went there is often a girl in a white dress who would walk through the field which can be seen from the very large sitting window at the B&B. The part I was always in had a den. So there was this large window with a nice view which especially at night was great to see the stars and such. The owner told me he had only seen "her" once not knowing about the ghost before hand. He asked around and then was told the story. It seemed there was a family in the house that once lived on the property. One of those properties that were so large a few generation of families lived on the property. Well there was a fire one night and the house burned to the ground. The only one who didn't escape was the little girl. No details were known why the girl didn't escape but it was always talked about her trying to find a doll before she would leave the house. So the story goes, if you see her, it's the little girl still looking for that doll. The owner was not real comfortable telling me and he appreciated it if I didn't tell anyone when I stayed at the B&B. I had no problem with that since I thought it was a great story but I don't want to ruin someone's business.

I often have insomnia so me being up in the middle of the night is not unusual. Staying at this B&B I would often use looking out the large window out into the field to see if the stars could relax me enough to sleep. It was two nights after I had the conversation with the owner. I was as usual at the window, sitting in a comfy chair reading a book. As I am reading something catches my eye. I just think it's some nocturnal animal so I look up and there is the girl in the white dress walking. I wasn't sure at first what I was looking at. She wasn't very defined, almost fuzzy image but now I couldn't not look. She slowly just walked across the field heading toward some destination it seemed. As I am watching, my mouth is open wide, my brain is trying to rationalize what the fuck i'm seeing walk across this field but nothing. I was to shocked to even let out a sound. I lost sight of her when I moved to see her move beyond the window. Nothing. It's as if she never was there. I immediately went to bed and didn't tell anyone that story. I never told anyone until the B&B owners were selling the place two years later. I let them know I had seen the girl and were surprised I kept coming back even knowing whatever it is I saw I did see. I told them I never went near that window again at night. I found other places to read if I was up in the middle of the night. Considering the amount of time I spent in the area in various B&Bs that was my only encounter.

[Reverant]

Thanks for the contributions, guys :)

I'm a bit proud of this one. This is the first time I've ever actually written a short story, and I did it with my own self-imposed deadline to boot! It clocks in at over 6,000 words, a bit too long for a comfortable CoG post, so I made up a blog and posted it there. I completely understand if it's too long to sit down and read ;)

http://www.fictionpress.com/s/2935434/1/The_bLady_b_in_bBlue_b

This is the story of a professor in North Carolina that stumbles across the eponymous ghost while conducting research in a library. I tried to mimic the form and style of the old English stories that influenced me to try writing this, but I found it far more amusing to consider the story with a southern accent. I wish I could put that in there somewhere. "Read with southern accent."

[Joshkdmw]

This actually seems like a neat idea. I think I'll try my hand at a nice short ghost story myself. I've been meaning to write more.

[Reverant]

This actually seems like a neat idea. I think I'll try my hand at a nice short ghost story myself. I've been meaning to write more.

It was a pretty fun experience. I enjoy putting myself in the mindset of the narrator of an impossible event, because the most natural thing to do is just be ridiculous.

I also freaked myself the hell out during the process. I took a break from writing this story to grab a shower. While I was in there, I was pondering my tormented ghost, and suddenly I heard a crashing sound in the other room. I nearly had a heart attack in fright.

[MagGnome]

Don't keep me in suspense! Was the crashing sound a ghost, a banshee, or a cat?

[Reverant]

Don't keep me in suspense! Was the crashing sound a ghost, a banshee, or a cat?

Sort of all three. It was my wife banging about in the kitchen.

[Joshkdmw]

Here is what I ended up writing. I don't know if it's especially scary, but it was a ghost story I wanted to tell.

The punctuation and such might be a bit off - this is draft one. Not a long read, I'd be interested to hear what you think.
======================
The night was too damn hot and the beer was like warm piss in the mouth. It was the kind of heat that creates a sort of universal apathy towards anything that requires Physical movement. Just lifting the bottle to your mouth was an affront to a person's heat-fuelled slovenliness, but after five bottles are behind you, you sort of stop Caring.

"It's not just anger, and sadness, you know. They're just the easiest to notice."

I blink slowly, trying to recall what the old man said just before that sentence. No dice. Better just pay attention to the rest.

"The happy ones, the ones that liked it here, they don't act so much. They just observe. And the ones in love only stick around the ones they're attached to, and then go with 'em once they cash it."

I blink a couple of times more. I get forgetful sometimes. "You mean ghosts?"

"Ghosts, spirits, whatever you wanna call them. That's why you're here, right? Askin' 'bout what happened to me."

That's what it was. This guy. Claims to know a lot about ghosts. He had some sort of run-in a couple weeks ago, the rumours say. He didn't wanna talk about it. A few beers And some whiskey will cover a decent amount of cowardice.

"See, if you have someone, some sort of focus, it makes it easier. You know. To stick around."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know."

"Oh. Right. Must have said that already. Anyways, that focus, that... That energy you put into thinking about someone, that ties you to them. I mean, I think. And it's not just a particular person, it can be what they represent. Like, their job, or position... Their family."

"Like their bloodline? Is that what happened with you?"

He pales a bit, but gives a tiny, grim nod. The familiar old man starts to talk again.

"My. Great grandfather... He wasn't a very nice man."

"I heard that, somewhere. Slave owner, right?" I ask, putting a cigarette in my mouth. I don't smoke - not any more - but I like the feel of having one in my mouth. It's the next best thing.

"Yeah, to start. He... He did things. To those people - the slaves. Things that... I mean, slavery is one thing, but there are limits. If you did those things to a dog nowadays, the cops would Probably beat you to within an inch of your life."

I don't say anything, I just sort of nod knowingly.

"I've been trying for twenty years..." he says, looking desperately toward the sky, like the remedy for his guilt is written on the ceiling. "... To try and make things right. To good things, you know? Just... Just to do good. To try and make things even. But... They just keep on coming. It keeps happening."

"Doubt it matters much what you do, old timer. Anyone involved in a beef that old is behind caring what you do, you know? Some things, you can't change. It is what it is." Piss-poor words of comfort, and i'm probably the last one who should be giving them, but what can I say? I felt bad for the guy. It didn't help his situation any,
But there it is.

There's a few beats of silence, and then I stand up, and put in my leather jacket. I put my hand on the old man's shoulder, just as light as you can imagine. "Cheer up, Old-timer. You might get lucky and figure it out. Long as you're breathing, you got hope, right?"

I walk out the bar. Nobody watches me as I go. Nobody but the old man. As I walk through the door, his eyes gape in sudden surprise. He scrambles to follow me, but i'm Already across the street by the time he gets through the front door.

"Why?" He asks me. " Why can't you leave me alone, and just let me liv--" and he's cut off when the truck's front grill takes him on his left side. It's a good hit, truck's probably Doing fifty miles. The old man skids for a good twenty feet. He doesn't get up. And I don't think he's gonna.

I start walking. I don't feel any need to stick around for the cops. And they never listen to me, anyways. I see a little light, suddenly hovering over my right shoulder.

"Sorry, old-timer." I say, wistfully flicking a zippo that hasn't had any fuel in it for almost seventy years. "Like I said, everyone involved is way past caring about what you do.
Some things you can't change. For what it's worth, you and me are square now."

The light floats peacefully upwards, towards whatever.

"But I still owe your family some. I still owe your son."

I have an appointment, but i'm in no hurry. It's gonna be a while before i'm supposed to show. So I keep walking, off into the night, the sirens behind me filling the night with sound and fury. The rain's falling just as heavy as it does, but i'm not wet. Just cold as cold can be.

[Reverant]

Nicely done. Even though it's short, it's deep enough for a good twist. When I read the line "I walk out the bar. Nobody watches me as I go. Nobody but the old man." I thought OH SNAP! Has a good Sixth Sense meets film noir vibe.

[Joshkdmw]

Nicely done. Even though it's short, it's deep enough for a good twist. When I read the line "I walk out the bar. Nobody watches me as I go. Nobody but the old man." I thought OH SNAP! Has a good Sixth Sense meets film noir vibe.

Thank you, that's what I was going for! I tried to keep the phrasing until that point ambiguous enough so you wouldn't 'get it' right away, but it would hold up to a re-reading. I think I caught all the proper phrases.

[MagGnome]

Very nice work, both of you! Sent chills down my spine. :)

[Ink Asylum]

Nice story, Josh. It's Twilight Zone-esque.

[TheKeck]

Mean ghost! Bad!

I also enjoyed the story, Josh. Maybe I'll get around to reading yours sometime Reverant.:o

[aVaKus]

Reverant's was great! It gave me cold chills.

Josh's was really good too.

I'd like to take a crack at one but I am a sucky writer. :(

[Joshkdmw]

So is dean Koontz, but by the time everyone realized that, he was too popular to do anything else.

It take practice, like any other skill. Just work at it. Set goals. Like finishing one short story.

[Reverant]

It take practice, like any other skill. Just work at it. Set goals. Like finishing one short story.

Yeah, the goal part is a good one. I said to myself, "You've got one week. Whatever you got at the end, that's it." It was pretty fun.

I recommend just giving it a shot for yourself. There's a user (can't remember who!) whose sig is something like "Think of all the people who don't like reading you, then realize you're not writing for them." That's sage advice right there.

This thread's more about having fun, so have fun writing a story. Seriously, you don't even need to post it. We've all cringed when showing other people our work. In fact, I didn't let anyone staying at my house read my story, even my wife! I could only work through the veil of anonymity on the internet.

[aVaKus]

Thanks for the advice guys. :)

Maybe I will take a shot at it. Whether I post it or not remains to be seen tho. :p

[MagGnome]

Reverant, your story was great! It really freaked me out.

avakus - I can't wait to read what you come up with! :)

[Joshkdmw]

Yeah, the veil of anonymity really helps. That way, if you turn out a clunker (and we all have, and will continue to), you don't have to look that person in the eye.

I've heard it said that you should write the stories that YOU want to hear. Then they're at least honest. And the audience will hopefully come to you.

Never had a novel published, so I dunno. But it sounds like good advice to me.

[aVaKus]

Well I finally got around to starting my story. I'm probably about a 3rd of the way through, but it's a very slow process. :( I'll post it here once I'm finished.

[Joshkdmw]

You keep at it, and we'll read it.

[OUX]

Huh, never tried a ghost story. I might sit down and see what I can spit out.

[Dorkandproudofit]

I know it's a little late for scary stories, but having read a lot of Lovecraft lately I thought I might try a hand at a similar style of story. Keep in mind though, I suck at writing tense or scary stuff, or at least I did when I last attempted it a couple of years ago, and this story is more or less being written as I type (that's just my style--sit down, improv and let the story flow naturally).

--------------------
THE EMPTINESS FROM BELOW
--------------------

I tell you, I know nothing more than what I have said, and what little I do know is fading quickly. Nor is my gradual memory loss due to some madness that has gripped me--indeed, madness would be a welcome relief from truth! No, detective, I am perfectly sane. And therein lies the source of this fear that grips me. If only my memory would disappear faster, then perhaps I might not bear this burden of facts that tears at me so! Very well, then. I will repeat what I have told you, if only to hasten my return to the relative safety of my cell.

There were five--no, four of us in the study group. Warren Jameson, from the archaeology department; Thomas--no, Timothy?--Gardener of the Arkham Historical Society; Rutherford--wait, Randolph! Yes, Randolph Carter, an old friend of mine had joined our group in studying the historical records of the area. Carter, as far as I can remember, had not been with any official group or area of study that correlated with ours (though, as I have stated, my memory is no longer what it was), but had expressed a great deal of interest--or perhaps anxiety, or fear--at what we found in our combined notes.

While perusing through old records of pre-colonial Indian tribes along the Miskatonic, we discovered something strange; apparently, the natives, who normally shunned Arkham, had dug what appeared to be tunnels throughout the area, the entrances topped off with great stone slabs, as if for a burial chamber. All of us but Carter were convinced that these tunnels were perhaps a tomb, or tomb complex, devoted to a chieftain (he appeared to have his own notions of what they were, but if he did, he never revealed them to me) of some sort. The sheer potential for achaeological discovery excited us so, that we had (ironically) forgotten to notify the University board of our discovery, or of our intent to investigate!

The easiest entrance to the tunnels, we thought, was underneath the old Pickman residence--you know, the queer old house belonging to that painter who disappeared back when? Well, in his cellar, where he once kept his obscene creations as he painted them, was where the entrance was. We had settled on it because, for some reason, Pickman had removed the slabs. Normally, this would alarm any archaeological team, for such things tend to indicate that a site has been all but cleaned of any valuable artifacts, but Pickman never showed any signs of having actually gone down there, nor of bringing anything back.

As we approached the entrance, with its meticulously carved stone staircase that plunged deeper than blackness, we felt a strange chill. No, not the chill of fear, nor the chill of cold air--it was more akin to a sheer absence of life or heat than a presence of something cold. In retrospect, we should have left with Carter, who at that point had fled up the stairs and to the street. Such a nervous man had no business in this field, we thought.

Walking down those steps, it seemed as if we plunged into the bowels of the Earth itself! The further we descended, the less certain were we that mere natives could have built or dug these tunnels. And with every step, the air became colder. The walls were coated in something we could not see, for the blackness of the stairwell; I casually placed my hands on the walls as we descended, feeling something slick covering them. If only I had known then!

At last, we reached the bottom. What we saw there, I cannot tell--that part of my story, thankfully, has finally faded for good--but what was more important was what we did not, or rather, could not, see.

Whatever was down there, whatever lived, or slept, or waited down there--it must have been waiting, for someone, anyone, to come and release it. Release it! Yes! There was a door--a queer door that seemed to be made of a metal unlike any known to man, a metal that glowed--and we decided to open it. God, what madness gripped us, to open such a strange door in such a horrid place, for mere curiosity! And no sooner had we opened it, than the chill grew unbearable. Indeed, it was as if the opening of that ancient portcullis sapped every ounce of heat from the air and our bodies. Then... oh, dear God in heaven, let me forget!--Jameson, the fool, poked his head through the gate, and then was no longer there. No, I don't mean he fell, or died, or anything of the sort, it was that he was no longer there! In that instant, where our friend was, there was nothing--no tunnel, no light, no door, just... emptiness. Sheer emptiness, not dark, black, or cold; it was, quite simply, nothing! And then it grew. It grew in size and breadth, as if lunging out to consume us as it did Jameson.

Gardener and I fled, running faster than either of us thought humanly possible--what else would we do, with nothing chasing us?--but we succeeded only in becoming horribly lost within those winding tunnels. Then we saw it, or rather, didn't see it, coming up from those black depths. A tendril of nothing wrapped round Gardener's leg. Oh, his screams, damn my memory! I can still hear them! I turned and ran, hearing his screams cut short.

I know not how I escaped those tunnels; I only know that, upon my return to the world of light, I was surrounded by policemen, who had heard screams, pointing their arms at me. I looked down, to see blood on my hands, covering them. The walls were coated in blood!

I tell, you, detective, I know nothing else. You say you have never heard of these men, save for Carter, that no record of their existence could be found. And I tell you, that is the point! That is its purpose! Don't you see? It wasn't some thing that took them, chomping their bones. I know why my memory is fading! Don't you see?! It wasn't something...

It was nothing!

--------------------

So... how did I do?

[MagGnome]

Great story! I thought it was very well done.

[Dorkandproudofit]

Great story! I thought it was very well done.

I tried to match HPL's writing style as much as I could--not sure how well I did at that, though.

[MagGnome]

I haven't read much Lovecraft, so I really can't comment on that aspect of it.

[Reverant]

Dork, I saw that you'd added something to the thread awhile back and I meant to read it, but it completely slipped my mind. Finally saw it!

Your story was definitely worth coming back for. I went on a Lovecraft binge a couple years ago, and I really loved his stuff. I think you absolutely nailed it. HPL instilled terror through insanity- it was about horror so terrible and incomprehesible that it would drive a man mad. You got the language and flow of terrified madness, and the images were really spooky. Great job.

[Dorkandproudofit]

Dork, I saw that you'd added something to the thread awhile back and I meant to read it, but it completely slipped my mind. Finally saw it!

Your story was definitely worth coming back for. I went on a Lovecraft binge a couple years ago, and I really loved his stuff. I think you absolutely nailed it. HPL instilled terror through insanity- it was about horror so terrible and incomprehesible that it would drive a man mad. You got the language and flow of terrified madness, and the images were really spooky. Great job.

Well, to tell the truth, the idea came from a nightmare I had the night before I sat down to write it. I don't exactly remember what it was (ironic, huh?), but I do remember the emotions that came with it. The concept of being erased from history, to cease to exist rather than to die, just seemed much more frightening than your average ghost- or monster-related death. That's when I realized that Lovecraft was perfect, since his "horrors" tended to defy any true description or convention, genre-wise. With that in mind, I literally sat down and typed until it felt "done".

[Reverant]

Writing from a nightmare made me chuckle. I actually had a similar recurring dream when I was a kid- it was always a black mass that appeared and absorbed what it came in contact with. Whatever it touched was simply erased. My dream void was a slowly growing sphere without the tendrils, which are even freakier than a passive blackhole.