Flash Fiction - Cassadaga Nights
Jun. 10th, 2012 10:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jana_denardoThis was written for Paranormal Freebie's Beyond the Veil blog hop. The challenge was to write a ghost story in 500 words or less. Here's mine. I hope you enjoy it.
Cassadaga Nights
Another three in the morning bathroom wakeup; diabetes truly sucked. It seemed worse where I currently lived because of the heat and humidity. I had to fight to go back to sleep. I loved living in old houses, so much history, so many ghosts. This century-old house had both, but it also had crap windows and no air conditioning, a real selling point in central Florida. I wet my hair down in a vain attempt to cool off. I would point the fan at my head when I crawled back into bed.
I stopped in the middle of cutting across the living room on my way back to my bed. A ghost hung in the middle of the room; a new one as opposed to the neurotic one that flitted around in the library or the one who shared my bedroom, occasionally leaving the scent of powder and old woman in my clothing. Cassadaga, the one town in the world I could say, ‘I see ghosts,’ and no one looked at me funny. The psychic capitol of the world might be fascinated by the apparition before me.
More solid than usual, she glided along with me. Blood matted her hair to her head, running rivulets down her arms to mizzle onto the wooden flooring. Seeing I wasn’t going to escape her and get back to my bed, I stopped to study her. Ghostly eyes rarely implored in my experience, but hers did. She reached for me, the air around me going cold. That was reason enough to linger and chat if she were capable. Her mouth moved, but I couldn’t hear her. It reminded me of Elegy, the episode of The X-Files, the one with the ghosts in the bowling alley. She had that same look, the same fish-mouthed, soundless speech.
I knew in the way I had, one that I rarely questioned, that she’d passed in car accident. I could see it happening behind her almost as clearly as I saw her. Why was she here? Yes, I-4 was just a mile or two away, but that really didn’t explain why she was in my living room, looking at me as if I could somehow reach out and save her. My stomach flipped. I didn’t have to hear her. I could feel her need. It washed over me. Help. Me. Please.
I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you. You have to move on.”
The coldness tugged away from me, her eyes downcast. Her dismay left me noodle-kneed. I watched her float out the front door to hover next to the redbud tree. For a moment I considered waking up my housemate so she could see the ghost, but that would mean four yappy dogs. It was too early in the morning for that crap. I watched her until she faded away.
My bedroom was stifling. I wondered if she would turn into a repeater, floating nightly through my living room, searching for help that would never come. I shut my eyes, haunted.
Cassadaga Nights
Another three in the morning bathroom wakeup; diabetes truly sucked. It seemed worse where I currently lived because of the heat and humidity. I had to fight to go back to sleep. I loved living in old houses, so much history, so many ghosts. This century-old house had both, but it also had crap windows and no air conditioning, a real selling point in central Florida. I wet my hair down in a vain attempt to cool off. I would point the fan at my head when I crawled back into bed.
I stopped in the middle of cutting across the living room on my way back to my bed. A ghost hung in the middle of the room; a new one as opposed to the neurotic one that flitted around in the library or the one who shared my bedroom, occasionally leaving the scent of powder and old woman in my clothing. Cassadaga, the one town in the world I could say, ‘I see ghosts,’ and no one looked at me funny. The psychic capitol of the world might be fascinated by the apparition before me.
More solid than usual, she glided along with me. Blood matted her hair to her head, running rivulets down her arms to mizzle onto the wooden flooring. Seeing I wasn’t going to escape her and get back to my bed, I stopped to study her. Ghostly eyes rarely implored in my experience, but hers did. She reached for me, the air around me going cold. That was reason enough to linger and chat if she were capable. Her mouth moved, but I couldn’t hear her. It reminded me of Elegy, the episode of The X-Files, the one with the ghosts in the bowling alley. She had that same look, the same fish-mouthed, soundless speech.
I knew in the way I had, one that I rarely questioned, that she’d passed in car accident. I could see it happening behind her almost as clearly as I saw her. Why was she here? Yes, I-4 was just a mile or two away, but that really didn’t explain why she was in my living room, looking at me as if I could somehow reach out and save her. My stomach flipped. I didn’t have to hear her. I could feel her need. It washed over me. Help. Me. Please.
I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you. You have to move on.”
The coldness tugged away from me, her eyes downcast. Her dismay left me noodle-kneed. I watched her float out the front door to hover next to the redbud tree. For a moment I considered waking up my housemate so she could see the ghost, but that would mean four yappy dogs. It was too early in the morning for that crap. I watched her until she faded away.
My bedroom was stifling. I wondered if she would turn into a repeater, floating nightly through my living room, searching for help that would never come. I shut my eyes, haunted.
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