Strange Ghosts
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Equal parts riveting and stirring, Carter takes a staple of campfires and rainy nights – the ghost story – into surprising new territory in this collection. No gore or gratuitous splatter here – these tales are meant to raise the hairs on the back of the neck and leave the reader feeling quietly discomfited hours after reading.
On a dark night in the Virginia woods, a boy encounters a former slave protecting the Confederate sword of Robert E. Lee in the spellbinding "The Sword of Surrender." In "All My Invisible Friends," a grieving child psychologist who's lost his way finds meaning again with an assist from an invisible friend. An old amusement park called "The Enchanted Grove" helps the parents of children who died tragically find closure – but maybe not for everyone. In "The Easel," a man on an evening walk buys an old drawing easel at a garage sale and soon discovers it has a secret power. And finally, a recently divorced reporter randomly picks a town to start over with his life and happens upon a "Stone Creek Station" in the woods where no train has a right to be.
Moody. Atmospheric. Provocative. These five tales have all the makings of good ghost stories with a touch of strange thrown in for good measure.
"Carter's writing is on target." - Publishers Weekly
SCOTT WILLIAM CARTER's first novel, The Last Great Getaway of the Water Balloon Boys, was hailed by Publishers Weekly as a "touching and impressive debut" and won the prestigious 2011 Oregon Book Award for Young Adult Literature. His fantasy from Simon and Schuster, Wooden Bones, is due out in the summer of 2012. His short stories have appeared in Asimov's, Analog, Ellery Queen, Realms of Fantasy, Weird Tales and other popular magazines and anthologies. Visit his website at swcarter.com.
Scott William Carter
Scott William Carter is the author of Wooden Bones and The Last Great Getaway of the Water Balloon Boys, which was hailed by Publishers Weekly as a “touching and impressive debut.” His short stories have appeared in dozens of popular magazines and anthologies, including Analog, Ellery Queen, Realms of Fantasy, and Weird Tales. He lives in Oregon with his wife and two children. Visit him at ScottWilliamCarter.com.
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Strange Ghosts - Scott William Carter
Strange Ghosts
Scott William Carter
STRANGE GHOSTS by Scott William Carter
Smashwords Edition. Electronic edition published by Flying Raven Press, June 2011.
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction, in whole or in part in any form. This short story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
For more about Flying Raven Press, please visit our web site at http://www.flyingravenpress.com.
Also by Scott William Carter
Novels:
The Last Great Getaway of the Water Balloon Boys
President Jock, Vice President Geek
Drawing a Dark Way
Wooden Bones (forthcoming)
Short Story Collections:
The Dinosaur Diaries
A Web of Black Widows
Tales of Twisted Time
The Unity Worlds at War
Strange Ghosts
Table of Contents
The Sword of Surrender
All My Invisible Friends
The Enchanted Grove
The Easel
Stone Creek Station
The Sword of Surrender
The full moon glowed a fuzzy yellow, as if I was gazing at it from underwater. Once inside the woods, I only caught sight of it through the gaps in the sycamore trees, but I was still glad for its light. Crickets chirped their steady chorus. Twigs and leaves crackled underneath my tennis shoes – shoes that were too tight because I'd outgrown them but Mama couldn't afford to buy me new ones.
My heart soon pounded a fierce drum in my ears. The shadows deepened, the branches of the trees above me tightening like clasping fingers. And then, all at once, the crickets went silent. It grew cold, too, a sudden drop that summoned the goose bumps on my arms.
I looked around and none of the trees looked like trees — just twisted shapes in the near-darkness. This was crazy, I told myself, and decided to go back.
But when I turned around, there she was.
* * * * *
This was back in Opal, a little town just outside of Richmond where I lived from the day I was born until the day I left home. There were a lot of poor towns in Virginia back then but Opal was one of the poorest. All the factories had been moved to Mexico and China. Most of these poor folk were black, like us, and when you saw them sitting on the porches of their little bungalows, they all had the look of wayward passengers who'd gotten off at the wrong train station and hadn't quite figured it out yet.
It was a different time, for sure. This was just after the towers in New York fell and just before the great floods in Los Angeles. This was when a lot of folks still had land line phones and vacuum tube televisions. This was when some people thought racism was dying, even though a young black boy like myself was never permitted to forget the color of his skin.
It was hot and humid that day, the air sticking to me like another layer of clothes. I'd spent the day with Johnny LeRoy, my best friend, and between the hunting for frogs and pouring over the latest Spider-Man, I'd lost track of time. When I saw the fuzzy pinkness in the sky through Johnny's paned glass window, I knew I had to hustle home or there would be a whipping.
No way I'd make it the long way, so I debated about doing what Mama said I should never do — take the shortcut through Lee's Woods. It was a mile-long stretch of black walnut, pin oaks, and Virginia pine, the ground choked with underbrush. It was rumored that General Robert E. Lee had spent the night there on his way home from the surrender at Appomattox, which was where it got its name. But it was famous for another reason: It was widely believed to be haunted by a ghost known as the Lady of the Woods.
I was never much of a superstitious sort, but even Professor Hinckley, the philosophy professor from the University of Virginia who summered in Opal, wouldn't set foot in those woods. They said he'd done it once as a boy, and when people asked him what happened, his face would turn red like an apple and he'd sputter a little before changing the subject to Plato. All the stories were like that, with just bits emerging — eyes of worms, a wedding dress stained with blood, a mournful voice that made you feel cold. Some folks said she was a scorned bride who'd fled into the woods in her sorrow, then got lost and died.
Maybe because I was young, or maybe because I was more worried about getting grounded when the county fair was the following weekend, I told myself the rumors were nonsense.
* * * * *
I let out a scream that would have made my friends tease me endlessly if they'd heard it.
She was a small woman, much shorter than me, but her grotesque appearance made her seem much larger — her wedding dress more gray than white, frayed so that what was left was hardly more than a moldy fish net, loose branches and leaves tied up in the lace around her arms and her neck. Her skin wasn't so much black as a deep purple, like a shriveled raisin, her nose and mouth and eyes all disappearing in the loose folds of mottled flesh.
You da one?
she said.
She spoke with a rasping rattle, as if moths were fluttering in her throat. The smell hit me next, a sickly sweet stench, like the scent of the rotting apples that littered the orchard not far from our house. I thought she had long hair, but it wasn't hair. Withered and blackened vines cascaded down her back, reaching nearly to the ground. Her fingers were skeletal, the skin binding the bones together no thicker than flaking paint. She was barefoot, too, but they weren't feet down there so much as moss-covered, bulbous stumps.
I wanted to run, but my legs wouldn't move.
Eh?
she said. Deaf, are ya?
N-no,
I managed. I'm . . . I'm . . .
With surprising swiftness, she grabbed my wrist with her bony fingers and yanked up my palm. Her touch was like ice. She leaned down and held my palm right up to her face. Then she looked up at me, so close now that our noses were nearly touching, so close I could see through the darkness and into her eyes. I expected to see worms, but instead there was . . . only deeper darkness.
I been waitin' for ya,
she said. I knew you'd come, Bobby Coleman.
Hearing her speak my name sent a shiver up my spine. I think—I think you've got the wrong—
They killed me,
she said. Them white men. They dressed me up in this dress of one of their wives and got drunk and had their way with me, laughing all of them, laughing and having a grand ol' time.
Her voice turned bitter and sorrowful. They had their way, and then they buried me out here.
She turned away suddenly, peering into the trees as if she expected those men to reappear.
I didn't know what to say. She regarded me again, and when she spoke, her voice had a new urgency.
I been waiting only for you!