Phantom World

By A.R. Braun

Into the sick mind of a hard core horror acclaimed author we go! Here, we will be introduced to unforgiving poltergeists, cute little ghost familiars, newly born ghost-entities learning about the afterlife, a romantic couple stuck in the netherworld, and a few more paranormal experiences you won’t want to miss.

While some of these ectoplasmic beings may come across as innocent at times, their stories unfold in a manner to inform the reader as to why they were not allowed into the heaven, or allowed to have a “peaceful” afterlife.

With such harsh karma affecting their transitions, its no wonder why these phantoms have chosen to haunt rather than ascend. They simply can’t. The tales concocted here are tales of tormented souls out for revenge or they are finding ways to fight off the boredom that comes with eternal damnation.

So keep the lights on, and don’t read these tales alone. Who knows if you’ll be haunted next, or reach the end of the line?

A.R. Braun writes this book from his own personal experiences in dabbling with the occult and esoteric. As horror author of over 14 publications, this collection of ghost stories spans over 9 years of writing experience. And simply put, the ghosts in this anthology are jerks.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A.R. Braun
• Release date: Sep 22, 2021
• ISBN: 9781736144725

Book preview

Phantom World

A Haunt Collection of 8 Short Horrors by A.R. Braun

Copyright © 2021 By Mind on Fire Books

All Rights Reserved. This is a work of fiction. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher or authors, not be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this coordination being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Phantom World is a collection of dark fiction short stories written by A.R. Braun.

Merchant of Horror, Sci-Fi, and Fantasy

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Table of Contents

Preface

Foreward

The Woman Wore Black: An eerie woman in black creeps to the door of a well-to-do man, who’s in for the fright of his life.

The Hat Man: A man beaten-down by life suffers as the two hours of rest he gets every night is ruined by sleep paralysis.

That Chick in Stilettos: A young writer finally chases down his crush, only to find they’ve crossed over to the other realm.

Recreant: A rock ‘n’ roller is haunted by the ghost of the huge jock-hippy that bullied him while alive, and the poor man will never be the same.

Grannie’s Pickle: A man who was controlled by his grandmother can’t shake her violent specter now that she’s dead.

Une Maison Hantee: An American moves to France, where his dreams come true, then gets assaulted from the beyond.

Nil Caveat: A unsuspecting gent moves into the apartment of the devil.

Beyond Death: A sixteen-year-old who thought she was in love with a man now has to get used to being a ghost—and, of course, there’s no way to get used to being a ghost.

Preface

A.R. Braun writes this book from his own personal experiences in dabbling with the occult and esoteric. As horror author of over 14 publications, this collection of ghost stories spans over 9 years of writing experience. And simply put, the ghosts in this anthology are jerks.

This collection explores the bitter feelings of isolation, loss, and denounces religion from various personalities. Here we will be introduced to poltergeists, newly born ghost-entities learning about the afterlife, and spirits that are stuck in the netherworld. While some of these ectoplasmic beings may come across as innocent at times, their stories unfold in a manner to inform the reader as to why they were not allowed into the heaven or allowed to have a peaceful afterlife.

With such harsh karma affecting their transitions, it’s no wonder why these phantoms have chosen to haunt rather than ascend. They simply can’t. The tales concocted here are tales of tormented souls out for revenge or they are finding ways to fight off the boredom that comes with eternal damnation.

Foreward

I keep telling myself, Stop writing short stories; there’s no money in it. But there are more important things than money, and there’s an efficiency to the short form. I can jump right in and scare the shit out of you, without a five-to-seven plot-point outline, without buildup, without too much backstory—basically, sans the bullshit. That, and how the short tales I’ve been writing just lately are the scariest things I’ve ever written, the grim collection I call The Black Six: Dark Web, You Can’t Go Anywhere, Mind Fuck (all three in my third short-story book, Grimoire), Little Ghoul (in the Mad Men anthology), The Hat Man and Recreant.

The latter two had no home until this fourth short-story book. So, hoorah! Or huzzah! Or whatever you say. You now own these last two, plus my long short story, Beyond Death, the only one of my very old tales that’s any good, but I’ll let you be the judge of that, Constant Reader. Add to that some ghost-story reprints. I’ve always said my favorite type of horror is paranormal, because ghosts and demons are real, therefore scarier.

I don’t recommend you read these alone and in the dark.

You might never recover.

The Woman Wore Black

Why, at this ungodly hour, would anyone dare to disrupt my rest, my only solace? My mind burned with rage as the doorbell continued to sound in the middle of the night while rain pelted the roof. My sleep was lost to the wind that carried itself away into my weary mind.

Wiping sleep from my eyes, I reluctantly rose and put on my slippers. The wind whispered like unrequited requests of dead lovers. Tree branches scratched my windowpanes, specter claws. The house spoke a language all its own, as any homeowner would attest to. Mine talked of anger, even vengeance. Outside the gabled windows, lightning struck and lit up the night.

Ding-dong.

I left the bedroom, held onto the banisters, and started down the stairs.

Please forgive me and allow to introduce myself. I’m Winston Carmichael the Third. Ages ago, I acquired Zenith House, my huge estate on Grandview Drive in Mowquakwa, Illinois, after I forged my success with hard work and dedication. Staying in college paid off, for I’ve worked as a CPA for some time.

Halfway down the stairs, the ordeal of my wife’s death came back to haunt me. A year later, I still can’t deal with the loss of the love of my life. Tia was not only respectful of a man’s wishes and boundaries, but also knew when to keep quiet as well as when to voice her opinion. A gray area remained where the details of her death should have been.

Ding-dong.

All right, for God’s sake, I’m coming!

Rain fell in sheets as if spouting rebuttals against my anger, pounding the roof mercilessly.

I reached the bottom of the landing and thought about my riches and my ten-bedroom house. At a spry thirty-five, neither baldness nor a paunch subverted me. Many women had stepped up to take my late wife’s place, but never would I love another like I love Tia.

The wind shook the house’s very foundation, and I wondered if someone had angered God. The shutters banged against the windows like the undead in those old horror comics, the fiends back from the grave to avenge their murders.

I met Tai at my first job crunching the numbers after I acquired an associate’s degree. Working side by side, we’d clicked, the girl goofy as I. She’d spilled her coffee and tripped over her words.

Whoever it was now pounded on the door.

Jesus Christ! Hold on!

I flicked on the light in the living room. Shadows crept up behind the furniture like silhouettes of the damned. Though I knew the sound to be coyotes, I could’ve sworn the howling in the distance came from the bowels of hell.

Scritch, scritch, scritch.

Why in God’s name would anyone claw at the door? I trembled, not wanting to imagine what ghoul awaited me on the other side. The dark foyer beckoned—a holding room in hell. Though the heater blasted away, I felt a chill upon my soul as I approached the door, each step slower, the oak floorboards creaking a little louder—broken spines of old novels, each with a tale to tell.

Lightning flashed through the windows on both sides of the entry door. Evergreens and willows engaged in battle. I unlatched the locks with shaking fingers. My hand on the icy knob, I hesitated to turn it and yanked my hand away, then peeked through one of the windows to get a look at what crazy creature was disturbing me at this hour.

While torrents of rain indoctrinated her to an abysmal depth, a trembling woman with long black hair continued to ring the doorbell. A matching long black dress adorned her. The young lady was obviously lost. I had to help her. I jumped as a bolt of lightning rattled the gold rotary dial phone on a pedestal next to the coat rack. I’m old-school like that. I reached for the knob, then stopped cold. It turned of its ow volition and my heart leapt within me.

The woman, her skin white as the silk pajamas I wore, fell through the doorframe and into my arms. Spasms shuddered through her. Her flesh, cold and clammy to the touch, glistened in the light.

Good God, are you all right?

Her head lolled.

I hefted her feather-light body and rushed her into the living room, in front of the fireplace, setting her down on the bearskin rug. I struck up the modern hearth, which made the flames erupt, lapping the fireplace walls. The hands on the grandfather clocked had stopped at midnight. I glanced at my Rolex and realized my watch had stopped at the same time. October thirty-first had crept in and laid its icy hand upon my shoulder when I’d least expected it.

The woman finally let me help her to my black leather couch. She’d drained three cups of hot cocoa before I found the strength to inquire of the nature of her trouble, through for some reason unbeknownst to me, I feared to. I’d thrown a couple of woolen blankets over her that my wife had made, untouched by a woman’s skin since she’d lived. Bent over her knees,