Poised Pen Productions
Week 2: Halloween-ish Flash Fiction and a Give@away for You!
We hope you enjoy our stories for week 2 of our give@way for readers.
After you read this week’s spooky stories make sure to scroll to the bottom to enter.
Until next week…stay spooky my friends!
-Tessa & Team PoisedPenPro
The Hunt by Jolie St. Amant
Chateau Rouge Hotel
Alcide sipped a whiskey neat as he watched the brainless creature attack an unfortunate human, tearing out his innards like a kid opening a Christmas present.
“Zombies,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes. How they had bastardized the term over the centuries. Oh there were zombies, the word actually derived from the Haitian word zonbi. A reanimated human corpse.
He pressed a button on the remote, changing the channel. He had seen enough. Brainless? Alcide spoke four languages fluently, including the old language. Latin.
Flesh-eating? Now that part was true. To survive Alcide had to eat flesh. From humans? The thought turned his stomach. Some of his kind did, but he did not. Modern humans put too many chemicals in their bodies these days. Nicotine, prescription drugs, processed foods, the very thought of it turned his stomach.
If he was hard pressed and had to find a human, he preferred a vegetarian. Most times he enjoyed a good rare steak or sushi. All farm fresh. And organic, of course.
Alcide often strolled the dark streets of the Quarter, watching the underbelly of the town scamper home from late nights of debauchery. However, two weeks ago, he had found a tasty looking morsel. He’d spent several evenings stalking his prey, making sure his potential meal would be everything he was waiting So he waited. And watched. For the stalking and anticipation was half the fun.
He looked down at his watch. It was time.
He finished his drink and stood, stretching his 6’4 frame. Time to go out and do what he did best. Hunt.
I got home tired after a long day’s work and ready for a relaxing night alone. I reached for the light switch, but another hand was already there. I turned my head slowly to the side.
It was him.
I had seen him at night watching me from the murky shadows of the French Quarter as I walked home from my job as a bartender on Bourbon Street. I had noticed him at first because his long black coat was so out of place for such a humid night. It was old-fashioned and elegant, and something you would see at the fancy restaurants or in dining rooms in the Garden District mansions. I wondered if he was an actor, or a tour guide for one of the many ghost tours that trekked through the Quarter every night. Any of these were possible, it was New Orleans after all.
When he got close enough for me to see his eyes, I was mesmerized. They were a deep, amber color that seemed to almost glow in the dark. And they were focused on me, boring into me with an intensity that made me feel both exhilarated and uncomfortable at the same time.
I had tried to shake him a few times, but he always seemed to be there, a few steps behind me, watching. It was like he was stalking me.
Two nights ago, he had finally caught up to me. I turned to face him, and he stepped out of the shadows into the dim light of the street lamp. He was tall, at least a head taller than me, with broad shoulders and a slim waist. He was wearing the same black coat, and I could see a white shirt and black pants underneath. He looked like he had stepped out of another time.
“Olivia” he said in a voice that was both smooth and rough at the same time. It was a voice that sent a shiver down my spine. His accent was soft and hinted at time spent in Europe. How he knew my name, I had no clue.
“Who are you?” I asked, not really expecting an answer.
But he gave me one. “My name is Alcide.” He reached out and brushed a stray hair from my face, his fingers lingering on my cheek for a moment longer than necessary. “And I’m here for you, ma cher.” He had disappeared after that, leaving nothing but the cold feel of his hand on my face.
Now, in my apartment, his hand moved from mine. He covered his lips with one finger, motioning for me to be silent.
The hunt was over.
Ghostly Contact by CJ Bennet
Years ago, I had a best friend who kept telling me that he had a ghost in his carriage house efficiency apartment. The apartment was connected to a screened-in porch that was as big as the apartment itself.
Even though I had experience with that, I chose to tease him about it because I knew he had a great sense of humor. My friend told me that he believed the ghost was a former slave named Fred. He told me he had seen the ghost while shaving. “I almost cut my own throat when I saw him behind me in the mirror.” He had talked to the ghost when he woke up one night to find it standing on his chest. He told the ghost he couldn’t breathe, so would the ghost please get off his chest. He felt the boots when the ghost moved to step off the bed. He said he could actually see the boots and saw the mattress move as it stepped off his chest and got down on the floor. I still told him I didn’t believe him. That was until I had my own experience with the ghost.
My friend was going to a three-week conference in California and had asked me to get his mail and water his plants while he was gone. I was happy to help, until the second week in. I’d gotten the mail and went inside to water his plants. I’d left his mahogany front door open and turned on his radio while I was working. Suddenly… The radio cut off, which was not unusual in the seventies. I turned around in time to see the 200-pound door close all by itself. That was when I realized what was happening. I was terrified, but I knew it was my friend’s ghost, and I needed to talk with it.
I said, “Okay. I know you’re here. I am very sorry that I told Ted I didn’t believe you were here. Ted believes you were a slave. If so, I am very sorry you had such a hard life. I swear that from now on I will never say you don’t exist, if you let me out of here.”
The radio came back on, and the door opened back up. I grabbed my purse, the mail and my keys, then left that place like a bat out of hell.
When I picked up my friend at the airport 10 days later, he asked me how things had gone. I told him I had all of his mail, but his plants might be dead. When he asked me why, I told him what happened. He laughed for the next fifteen minutes.
After that, we had quite a few things happen when I was there, but we knew who it was, and it never bothered us. The ghost would frequently knock on the windows, or pound on the front door, which wasn’t possible because the carriage house was on the second floor above the garage, and the screen door to the porch was always locked, so no one could have come up the stairs, and through the screen door without us hearing them
I learned to never question the presence of a ghost or entity. If you feel or see something out of the ordinary, take it seriously. That belief has served me well over the years.
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