ghost story Super Short Stories

The forest was still. There was no wind, only the sound of running water from August Creek. Then from behind him a croaking sound, as of a man trying to breathe through lungs that were nearly dust, a horrid sound of a beast trying to speak.

Charles turned toward the sound. Before him on the path toward the bridge, were two glowing eyes. Eyes without feeling. The flames of hell twinkling red in them. He moved and the eyes followed. He stepped forward, past Robber’s Rock and the eyes never blinking, quivered.

He tried to speak, “Ba… Baa… Beggar?” He asked the night.

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There was another of those croaking, wordless replies and every hair stood on end.

“You… You have what is yours.” he pointed toward the tree stump where it seemed the ghoul was sitting, staring at him with its hellish glare, “It… It’s there, at your feet.”

He stepped toward the specter and the eyes went out! Disappeared!

Still there was that horrible croaking sound, sounding less and less like a voice trying to speak and more and more like a hungry predator about to pounce.

“Spirit.” he asked, “will you let me pass?”

The growl continued.

McGee gathered up his courage and started back toward the bridge. Passing the tree stump where he had last seen the specter and walking slowly away. He was nearly to the bridge when the growl suddenly became a roar, he turned and saw the fiery eyes coming toward him.

They were then so close beside me that I could see freckles on their faces.  I too could feel the combined essence of their coldness.

“We have no bells to ring,” the ghost children uttered a third time.

I shut my eyes and clenching my jaw, I placed my hands tightly over each ear.  I heard them still as they continued to shuffle toward me.

“We have no bells to ring,” they said for the final time.

I opened my eyes and they were gone.  It was to me an enigma more than just two bizarre occurrences that I was visited by the spirits of Mister Blankenship and six children.  It was then that I seriously contemplated sending for a coach the next morning to take me back to Richmond, in lieu of the full payment to stay until spring.  I was faced with a true conundrum.  If I left, I would have faced a probable marred reputation and ridicule if I dared to reveal the true reason for my wish to leave.  Even had I left and kept the spiritual visitations to myself I would have possibly ruined my career.

I thought of it all night, for I could not sleep.  I dared not.  By the next morning, I was weary from the lack of proper rest and had changed my mind about leaving.  In the days to come, I found that I could no longer blame on drink the seeing of Blankenship’s ghost. I had not touched the bottle of whiskey since that cold winter’s night when I too saw the ghost children.  Hesitantly, I resumed my duties.  I thought to myself that I was on the verge of madness or that I had already been engulfed by it and was far too mad to realize it.