A Ghostly Presence: A Collection of Three Quirky Ghost Short Stories

By Brandy Woldstad

Ghosts exist. Why else would there be stories about them?

In this collection of light-hearted stories, the ghosts prove their existence in unique ways.

From roaming earth to floating in space, you will enjoy the quirky ghost tales.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brandy Woldstad
• Release date: Nov 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201988395

Book preview

A Ghostly Presence

A Ghostly Presence

A Collection of Three Ghostly Short Stories

Brandy Woldstad

KMF Studios

For my readers.

Thank you.

Introduction

Growing up, whenever odd things happened, such as coffee cups moving, a chandelier swinging for no reason, or a baby’s sock appearing in the washer in my parents’ home when there were no babies in the house, a ghost was blamed.

Since then, I love quirky ghost stories. The kind where ghosts cause mischief or secretly help the people around them.

The stories in this collection capture the quirkiness of ghosts.

In Rest in Peace, a ghost’s forever slumber is disrupted in an unexpected way.

The Hunt for Stanley’s Treasure combines my love of treasure hunting and friendly ghosts.

The Lost Ghost plays with the idea of ghosts following us into a space.

I hope you enjoy these quirky tales.

Warmly,

Brandy Woldstad

Rest in Peace

I used to be afraid of graveyards thanks to the many scary stories I read where terrible things happened there. In this quirky story, a terrible thing happens to Maggie Cornelia Collins, a ghost who wants to rest in eternal peace. This story explores the disruptions that could happen to the dead.

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Rest in Peace

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A scritch, scritch… scritch, scritch sounded above me. I held still. My ears disbelieving what they heard. After all these years of silence with seasonal interruptions of a lawnmower pulsing above me, someone was coming to exhume me, Maggie Cornelia Collins, a housewife? Why?

Trickles of dust landed on my face as whatever or whoever came closer to my comfy confines. A desire to wipe the dust away awakened inside me. Panic stirred. Physical feelings I knew were a trick of my spirit mind but felt real all the same.

My fingers slid along the padded, navy-blue satin interior. Well, not really slid. My fingers couldn’t move. Nothing of my physical body could. But I imagined the cool, smooth, soft texture though my fingers couldn’t feel a thing. The color along with the cream embroidered daisies resting above my now skeletal face, nothing but a memory of the perfect casket I had selected long before my last labored breath.

A satchel of peppermint leaves rested next to the pillow under my head. The smell was long forgotten though it was among my favorites. The satchel most likely no longer held any odor save for decomposing leaves. Thankfully, I had no way to smell, which I think is a blessing for the dead.

My favorite white evening gown, the sleek one that brought out the natural tan of my once lively skin and highlighted my perfect hourglass shape rested against my bones. A wistfulness filled me as I recalled the Venetian Ball I wore the dress to. The Ball had been a fundraiser to help the families of children with leukemia cover the expenses of their upended lives. I waltzed with my husband feeling like a queen, so carefree and happy. It was a memory I clung to over that remaining year as doctors delivered one piece of bad news after another, including the news that optimistically I had six months to live. I survived five months and one week.

A package of baby wipes, a joke placed there by my husband who suggested I needed them in my afterlife, rested at my fingertips. In my first stages of grief about my death, I had wanted desperately to use the wipes, to clean out the bacteria and prevent the natural decay of my body, but obviously couldn’t. As time went by and I accepted my state of rest, the wipes showed my husband’s love for my quirks with cleanliness.

Time had crawled by, one day blurred to the next while I rested in my meticulous casket. The one I had lovingly picked out with heavy consideration of the aesthetics, design, and comfort. Only to realize that once I died, none of the sales pitches about choosing the best casket really mattered. But the considerations still mattered to me because I wanted everything to go precisely as I planned.

More dirt trickled onto my head, reminding me that even as a ghost, nothing goes as planned. Oh, how I hated dirt. While living, I wouldn’t tend my gardens without gloves and an apron. No one entered our house without removing their shoes at the door. I vacuumed and dusted daily. If I had been alive, I’d have brushed the dust from my face in disgust then slurped it up with my favorite Hoover.

As the dirt fell in, I felt a ghostly outrage that it came in at all. My casket, though made of antique wood, should be airtight. I had paid extra for the reinforced sides and moisture proofing. If I could, I’d figure out how to contact the company and get some of my money back because Heaven knows I paid a pretty penny for this getup.

Snow white paws with black claws along with a small beam of sunlight appeared in view. I squinted, more out of reflexive memory, than actual discomfort. More dirt tumbled onto my head.

Excuse me! Do you mind? I’m trying to rest here? I shouted.

A high-pitched dog whine followed by more frantic paw action ensued. Scritchscritchscritchscritch. Curiosity got the better of me. I slipped through the hole wide enough for an index finger to poke through to see what was going on.

You have got to be kidding me.

I floated above a large black and white, fluffy Siberian husky with blue eyes digging with mad glee. The husky didn’t notice my appearance. Dirt flew in all directions as he panted with frantic joy. A few times it looked like he ate the dirt as he dug it.

Hey! I said.