A. L. Kaplan

Tag: ghost

  • TO DIE AND NOT TO DIE

    “Ever since the day I walked into that specialty shop, a dark fury has twisted in my gut, weaving threads of poison through my body. I’ve been gnawed to a papery shell. Stomach, lungs, liver, kidneys, heart; all have fallen to this festering termite. Now I’m a puzzle with missing pieces.”

    I pause and glare as a nurse checks the machines I’m wired to. Her patronizing smile waves over me, but there’s no eye contact. They’re all like that, waiting for me to die already. It’s been months since I fell ill. My gaze returns to my ghostly guest as soon as she departs.

    “See what I’ve become? A rag doll with no substance. Death rings, but runs when I answer its call like an auto-dialer. I’m tired of waiting, tired of all the well-wishers who hover with painted grins. Their pity is more torment than the evil inside me.

    The ghostly figure tilts its head. “What are you saying, Barry?”

    “I want to live.”

    “You could give in to it.”

    “And become a shade? Never.”

    “There’s a price for what you ask.”

    “There always is. I’ll pay it.”

    Laughter rings out as a glowing hand touches my forehead. Heat rushes through my body. When my eyes clear I’m back in the shop. A young man reaches for a package. I move without hesitation and smack his hand away.

    “That’s concentrated Carolina Reaper juice, you idiot! It’s stronger than a habanera pepper. It’ll destroy you.”

  • FLOWERS

    Tears stained her face as she slipped from the car. A loud snore made her jump and cringe. Last night’s beating marred her face. He never let her stop here, the one place that made her happy. If he woke….She didn’t breathe until she was sure he still slept.

    Bright yellow flowers stretched as far as she could see. They called to her, singing, swaying in the sun; a peaceful contrast to her turbulent life. She pushed through thick stems to take a picture.

    Flower heads pressed against her. Their bright yellow faces bent and swiveled like no plant should. Sweet perfume filled her nostrils. Fear and pain vanished. Sunshine kissed her lips. When she opened her eyes thousands of yellow faces beamed at her as she hovered above the field. She smiled back. What a beautiful place to rest. No pain. No tension. Far from his reach.

    A patrol spotted her car later that day with her husband still passed out in his seat. Searchers followed a wide trail to the center of the field where they found her battered body under a blanket of flowers. Amongst the bruises a peaceful smile graced her face.

    Denials were useless. The officers were as moved by her husband’s tears as he had been to hers. Those same fists that had hit her so brutally shook when they cuffed him. They hauled him away, far from the beauty he denied her. Forever locked in shadows while she soared free.

  • The Ghosts of Northgate

    Sweat dripped down my back despite the freezing temperature outside. I glanced at the frost covered window. Only inside felt like Hell’s furnace. And maybe it was. I stared in terrified fascination as flames danced across the cafeteria of the Northgate Sanitarium. Each human-shaped bonfire acted out a well-rehearsed script in a macabre ballet. One figure beat another with a rubber pipe. Another arched in spasm as electricity coursed through its body. A parody of a doctor drilled into a patient’s scull, clearly without anesthesia. Figures grappled and screamed a chorus that had probably started long before the place was shut down in the early 1950s.

    The doctors here called it experimental treatment of the criminally insane. Most people called what it was: Power hungry sadists loose in a playground, all with the approval of the state prison system. God only knows how many people suffered in this place.

    But that was old news. There had been rumors about disappearances in the past few weeks. When I decided to spent the night in this crumbling old building, I expected to find kids playing tricks or a new street gang pumping its muscles. Either of them would have made great stories, maybe even gotten me an early promotion at the Northgate Observer. If I wrote about this, my career as a journalist would end before it began.

    Notebook forgotten, all I could do was watch the horror unfold and pray I survived the night – with my sanity.

  • MIDNIGHT WOLF

    “Leave him be, Billy.”

    “Dumb wolf cur always stares at us.”

    “It’s just his way.”

    Billy hurls another rock, but I knock it down with my book. Not a sound comes from the fenced in junkyard, but I know from the look on Billy’s face that Midnight is showing off his pearly whites.

    “Fine,” he yells, then disappears around the corner.

    Midnight’s golden eyes meet me when I turn. “Sorry, Midnight. See you tomorrow.”

    Silence greets me, as it has every day for the past five years. I smile anyway, then hurry to catch up with Billy.

    A hand slaps over my mouth and I’m dragged into a dark alley. I crash into a wall. My head spins. Three masked figures loom over me. Hands dig into my pockets, yank off my sneakers. A fist slams into my gut. My heart pounds as a knife flicks into view, arm ready to strike. Billy’s body lies nearby. I clamped my eyes shut, and wait for death.

    Screams fill my ears, but they aren’t mine. When I finally open my eyes, my attackers lie in a pool of dark liquid. A pair of glowing gold eyes stare at me from across the alley. Then they vanish.

    ***

    The police never found Midnight and the junk man claimed he never had a dog. I don’t walk that way anymore, but sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, I see Midnight in the shadows, watching out for me.

  • Rainy Day

    Rainy DayWet and dreary, that was Benny’s existence even before the car struck his umbrella stand last December. One flash of pain, then he was back standing in oblivion, invisible. People rushed by. Cold rain on his back made him shiver, a memory of his last living days.

    How could anyone be more miserable? Just then he spied a rain drenched puppy shuffle across the sidewalk. Tangled strands of yellow fur lay plastered across its ribcage. Eyes, void of hope, gazed down. He held an umbrella over the dog, following as it wandered into the street, but rain continued to flow through the ghost umbrella. If only he could do more.

    Benny saw the car barrel down the road. Wheels slid across the slick pavement just like last year, only this time the pup lay in its deadly path. He didn’t think about how an insubstantial body could help as he tossed the dog to safety. He just did it.

    “The choice is yours, Benny.”

    Choice? Benny blinked with understanding. He could continue his empty existence or live one short, cold, hungry life. Loneliness was worse. His arms wrapped around the dog and he felt their spirits meld. Cold seeped into his body. Hunger drove sharp pangs in his gut. Yet he felt strangely warm for the first time.

    “How would like to come home with me, little fellow?” A young man wrapped a scarf around his new body and held him close. “I think I’ll call you…Benny.”

  • Fate 101

    He looked at the image on the photo, a young woman walking down a quiet city street carrying a heavy backpack. An address and time was scribbled in black sharpie across the bottom. The road was one he had traveled a hundred times. They had probably crossed paths often and not even noticed. It was an easy task in a city this large. Time was critical with his job, so he tucked the photo into a pocket and peddled down the street. Missing her could cost him future work.

    Neither the coffee nor the cool air could shake her fatigue. If only she could sleep without bad dreams. Worried about being late, she didn’t look before darting into the road. There was only a flicker of warning, a hostile wind that made her look up in time to see him barreling toward her. Their eyes met for just an instant, and the chill she saw in them made her heart stop. It felt like a DVD in slow motion – dark icy eyes – a glint of sun off the blade that appeared in his hand – and all the time her feet glued to the asphalt. Then, at the last second, the bicycle jerked, tossing him under a passing truck. She blinked as tears streamed down her face, trying to slow her racing heart. For just a moment, right before he fell, she saw the ghostly image of a foot, kicking the wheel of the bike.

  • Last Call

    Mike stared at the image of Jackie, his friend’s granddaughter, standing down the hall of the burning building. Only the glass on his mask kept him from rubbing his eyes. The figure, unaffected by the thick smoke, waved him deeper into the inferno. Mike tapped the regulator on his tank. Was it defective, a bad mix? Thirty years with the department and he had never hallucinated. Mike ignored the commander’s order to evacuate. He couldn’t leave Jackie. Besides, his escape route was already blocked. Four great strides and a leap took him past the collapsed floor — into a cool untouched pocket. Mike’s jaw dropped. The wall of flames stopped three feet from the door. Jackie was gone.

    Fire roared at his back, snapping him into action. Mike kicked in the locked door. Experience sent him under the bed where he found a terrified eight-year-old boy wrapped in a wet towel. Now all they had to do was get out of the building. Mike’s heart pounded as flames crept closer. No windows, no way out. Jackie reappeared next to the bed pointing at a sliver of hope. He raced down the hidden stairs clutching the boy. The old servant’s access led them out as the building crumbled. Events churned through Mike’s head as he tried to catch his breath. There was no way he or the boy would have made it out of that building without Jackie’s help. It was time he gave his old friend a call.