N.E. White's Blog, page 12

Ghost Stories – Possession – Part 2

Read the first part of Ghost Stories – Possession here.

Part 2

After instructing the forensic team to treat the crime scene as a suspected murder case, we pile into Reyes’ sedan. She drives while McLean rides shotgun, his laptop perched on his knees. I’m in the back seat like an unwanted stepchild.

“All she’s got is a misdemeanor,” McLean says, peering at the screen. “Not sure for what. It’s old. Probably shoplifting.”

Reyes makes a small noise to confirm she’s listening. Traffic on Grand is light on a Sunday morning and she speeds through a left on Harrison. She doesn’t make a straight shot to the freeway, though, to Merryweather’s address. Instead, she veers left on Lakeside Drive, scanning the walkway Merryweather and her kid might have taken the day before. The lakeside path was clear and open. Not what you would call a dangerous route. I silently curse myself for not getting the address of the flower shop Merryweather had been aiming for.

“You did all right,” Reyes says.

I look up into the rearview mirror to see Reyes scrutinizing me.

“I didn’t get much out of it, I mean, her.”

McLean is silent, but I know if Reyes weren’t in the car, he would detail exactly how I screwed up.

“The important thing is that we put her to rest,” Reyes says. “If we find the murderer, that’s a bonus.”

“I thought we were detectives,” I say.

My orientation on Friday afternoon hadn’t explained much. Reyes and McLean had basically just conducted a mini-interview. I hadn’t bothered to ask them any questions about my new job. Nor had I expected to be called in on a Sunday morning. I roll my tongue over my slimy teeth.

“We are,” McLean answers. I catch a hint of his ego. “But the shevue will likely take over this investigation now that we got rid of the ghost.”

I didn’t want to ask, but I had no idea what he was talking about.

“Shevue?”

“S-V-U,” McLean explains. “Special Victims Unit.”

“I know what S-V-U stands for,” I say. “No one calls it shevue.”

McLean turns in his seat to stare me wrong, but Reyes confirms it.

“You don’t call it shevue?” he asks Reyes.

“No,” she says, laughter in her voice. It sounds like a welcoming rain on a hot, summer day. “You just made that up,” she added.

“No, I didn’t,” he says. “That’s what everyone calls it.”

No,” Reyes corrects. “That’s what you call it. Took me a while to figure out what you meant when you first said it.”

“Why didn’t you ever correct me?” he says. There’s surprise and disappointment on his face.

Reyes shrugged. “It’s your thing,” she finally says.

“You two are both wrong,” I interrupt the love-birds. “It’s Special Victims Division. So, where are we going?”

Reyes pulls us onto Madison heading for the freeway. As we get closer to the harbor channel, traffic gets heavy.

“Well, they haven’t taken the case from us yet,” Reyes says, giving me a wink via the rearview mirror. “We’ll visit her place. Maybe her son got away when she was hit. He could be at home, hiding from whoever did it.”

“Are we sure it was a murder?” I ask. “It looked like she hung herself.”

“The spirits of the dead only hang around for one reason,” McLean says. “An unjustified death.”

“That’s a good question,” Reyes says, ignoring McLean. “Ghosts haunt the place where they died only if they felt their death was unjustified. Conceivably, there are situations where a murder did not precede a haunting.”

“Okay,” I say. “But you think this is a murder.”

“It’s very likely,” Reyes said. “It matches the standard m.o. A perp wants to murder someone so they knock out the person first, then kill them. The victim doesn’t know they’ve been murdered, so no haunting. The mistake this perp made was to hang Merryweather. She didn’t die fast enough and must have woken before she passed.”

McLean sucked in his breath. “Could you imagine waking up like that?”

We all grow silent.

I think of my father, and yes, I can imagine it.

When we get to her place, we park on the opposite side of Harrison Square and walk across the small Chinese Garden Park. A small homeless encampment is unsuccessfully hiding between the child center and the freeway.

A discarded bed lays in the fenced, empty lot next to Merryweather’s place and a graffiti artist had painted a huge panda on one of the adjacent buildings. It’s looking out with a gleam in one eye, the other hidden beneath a traditional Chinese farmer’s straw hat. One black, clawed paw reaches out, a spear in the other. Kung-fu panda, but badass.

Too bad kung-fu panda wasn’t around to save Merryweather.

Merryweather’s place is a small, white colonial tucked between the corner building labeled Ham Wah Sum Tong and another residence. I can’t tell what the store used to sell. It looks closed and the sign means nothing to me. My former beat was near Highland Park, Funktown. My Latina heritage and all. My Spanish isn’t half bad, but I knew nothing of Cantonese.

McLean motions for me to take the lead up the front door steps. I give him a sneer. I really don’t feel like making a house call.

“You’re wearing the suit,” he says.

I concede and move ahead of him.

I like my police officer’s uniform. When I put it on, it almost feels like I’m still in the military. When Reyes informed me her unit went plainclothes, I almost protested, but knew I’d have to put the uniform away for special occasions only. When I got the call to come in this morning, I just automatically put it on. I don’t even have anything appropriate for a plainclothes detective. Running pants and a hoodie isn’t going to cut it even if I was only a spook detective.

After I knock, a Caucasian man in his mid-fifties – white-peppered brown hair, dark eyes behind thick glasses, medium height, heavyset – opens the door.

“Oh, dear,” he says. “That was quick.” He turns away and calls for someone inside.

An African-American woman around the same age as the man, an older version of the dead woman we left in the park, eases between the man and the door. She is slim like her daughter, but she’s got to open the door wide to see us. The narrow hallway beyond is dark, but neat, pictures evenly spaced along both walls. I catch a glimpse of a bright, clean kitchen.

“You’ve found them?” she asks.

But she holds her husband like she already knows. Her eyes bounce from me to McLean before settling on Reyes.

“Ma’am, Sir,” I say by way of greeting. “Did you call in?”

“Yes,” the man says. “We were supposed to meet our daughter and grandson for breakfast this morning. They didn’t show up, so we came here. We called you immediately. I told you all this before.”

The harried public always think the police had some sort of hive mind.

I pull out my notepad. “I’m Officer Tesserak,” I say. “And this is Detective Reyes and Detective McLean. Your names please.”

“Richard Kortum,” she answers for the man. “And I’m Helena Kortum. My daughter–”

“Do you mean Lindsay Merryweather?” I ask.

“Yes,” Helena says. “From a previous marriage,” she adds by way of explaining the difference in last names.

“Ma’am,” Reyes says. “Do you mind if we come inside?”

I can see they are afraid of what’s coming. Drive-by shootings in this part of Oakland are as common as a pile of homeless turd, but they are trying to keep up appearances. The man turns and goes into the kitchen, asking over his shoulder if anyone wants tea. The woman simply steps aside and points down the hall.

Everyone takes it differently, and I’m glad I put on my uniform this morning because my stack of cards with grief counselors’ numbers was still in my front shirt pocket.

I go in first, scanning the pictures as I go by. There are a lot with Lindsay, a light-skinned African-American boy, and an Asian man I presume is the boy’s father. The son and father share the same chin and prominent cheek bones. The ones further in the back beyond the parlor look like sunset or sunrise ocean views probably from the marina or a boat.

Once inside Merryweather’s small parlor – tastefully furnished – we stand in front of the large screen TV mounted to the far wall. Mrs. Kortum sits on the couch and leans her head into her palms.

“What did he do to her?” Mrs. Kortum asks.

I glance at Reyes, wondering if she would do the death notification or if I had to. But McLean saves us both from telling the woman her daughter was dead.

His voice is calm and reassuring, just like they taught us. He even gets on one knee and drapes an arm over her shoulder when she wails up into the ceiling. A sound like her daughter’s call for her son. Helena starts to cry into her hands.

I have to hand it to McLean. He’s right by her side the entire time, his words a balm even to my ears.

As many of these as I’ve done, I could never get the right tone. Too much pent up anger my old sergeant used to say.

Mr. Kortum rushes in with a tray of tea, spilling half of it on the rug. I take it from him and he goes to his wife. For a while, she sobs into his shirt.

No one says anything when I settle the tea tray on the coffee table.

“What happened?” Mr. Kortum asks. Tears make his eyes shiny and big, but his voice is clear.

“We found her in the Children’s Park, sir,” Reyes says. “It appears she was murdered.”

“Damn him,” Helena says. Her voice is muffled because she’s talking into her husband’s shirt.

“Ma’am,” Reyes says, “Did someone threaten your daughter?”

Helena sobs some more and shakes her head, but doesn’t say anything.

“Our son-in-law,” Richard says. “Lou Jing. He wanted to take Niki.”

I have my notepad out again. “Is that Niki Merryweather,” I ask.

“My grandson’s name is Nicholas Merryweather Jing, with a dash,” he corrects. “We call him Niki. My son-in-law is Lou Jing.”

“Are they separated?” Reyes asks.

“No,” Helena says. She’s wiping her eyes. “But it was going that way.”

“I see,” Reyes, says. “Can you provide his contact information?”

As Helena and Richard rummage around for their cell phones, McLean wanders over to a side hutch. There are more pictures there. He takes out his own phone and takes a few snaps of the framed photos of who I think is Lou Jing.

“This him?” he asks.

Richard nods. “You can take that if you want.”

“Already have,” McLean says, tapping away on his phone, probably sending it to his email to include in our report later.

The Kortums give Reyes all the info they have on their son-in-law.

“Do you have any idea why she would say her son needed saving?” I ask.

Reyes shoots me a look and McLean drops his phone. He fumbles around for it, cursing like a sailor while he’s doing it. Reyes apologizes for him, going on how he must be developing a syndrome or something.

My throat goes dry when I realize what I’ve done. I shouldn’t have said anything. They might think Lindsay’s spirit had hung around (no pun intended) for a while and talked to us. No one ever trusts spooks.

“Wait!” Helena cuts into their chatter.

“She managed to say something before she died?” her husband finishes for her.

They are looking right at me, not Reyes or McLean.

“Um…well…technically…”

Should I tell them the truth?

I shoot a look over to Reyes who’s got a scowl as deep as the ocean on her face.

“Yes,” I say. I keep it short. Lies always have a better chance if you keep them short.

“But if she was murdered,” Helena says, excitement in her voice, “then she might still be around. Where exactly in the park was she found? I want to talk to her. One last time, please. Let me talk to her.”

“Won’t we need one of those special people?” Richard asks. “Do the police use spook consultants? Is that what they’re called?”

Reyes shoulders sag in defeat. I could see she doesn’t want to lie to these people and no matter what we said, they would go to their daughter’s death site, hoping for one last chance with her.

“Sir,” Reyes says. “We are those special people.”

I swear the TV could have pulled itself off the wall, transformed into an over-sized insect, and sat down for tea. No one would have noticed. The roar of the Nimitz fills the room.

“All three of you?” Helena squeaks.

“We’re State Paranormal Investigators,” McLean explains.

“You’re not city police,” Richard says.

His tone is accusatory and he presses his wife against his side tighter, as if he has to protect her from us.

This is why I didn’t want to be a spook detective. This is how my father treated me after he found out. Actually, he did much worse, but I’m used to the physical abuse. It was the mistrust and disownment that hurt most.

“We’re paid by the state but we work in the same office building and use the same resources as all the other city officers,” Reyes quickly explains. She points to me. “Detective Tesserak was recently recruited from the city’s police ranks.”

I give the confused couple a strained smile, but they’re not buying it. And if they knew the SPI office was buried beneath headquarter’s underground car park, they’d have every right not to.

“Mr. and Mrs. Kortum,” I say. “It doesn’t matter how we got the information. The important thing is that we have reason to believe your grandson may be in danger.”

Helena’s hand flutters over Richard’s knee and she says, “She’s gone then? She’s been put to rest?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say.

Should I tell Helena her daughter’s last words? Or how the light within her spirit shined brightest right before it disappeared from this world forever? It hits me like a rock that I was among the last to hear Lindsay speak.

“She’s right,” Helena says. “Spooks or not–“

“SPI Detectives,” McLean corrects.

“–she’s right. We have to tell them.”

Richard looks at each of us and then keeps his gaze on McLean.

“Lindsay thought Lou was getting into some sort of cult,” Richard says.

Excellent, I think. Cults are easy to track now-a-days. The internet has made everyone into a celebrity and those sorts love an audience. Plus, it was how they recruited.

“Do you have a name?” McLean asks.

I notice Reyes stepping back. She tilts her head in the direction of the door when she notices me noticing. I move away with her, knowing that the couple would feel more comfortable with a white male.

Two women, one Hispanic, the other African-American, and spooks? We couldn’t be trusted. Not like McLean could, even if he was a spook, too. Besides, he was a good talker.

Later in the car, he fills us in.

They didn’t have a name for the cult. And based on what little the couple could provide, McLean didn’t think it was a cult. All they really had was where they thought Lou wanted to take the boy and that Merryweather was absolutely against it.

“Where?” Reyes says.

She sounds angry, but from the backseat all I can see are her dark hands gripping the wheel and the set of her eyes in the rearview mirror. And right now, they’re not talking to me.

“Tescal,” McLean says.

“Were they sure?”

“No,” he answers.

Reyes steps on the gas so hard, I slide back in my seat some. When she flicks the siren switch, I know the kid is fucked.

Part 3 to come soon.

I thought this story was a lot short than it is. So instead of posting manageable chunks on Fridays only, I’ll post them every few days from now until Halloween. The complete story will finish on October 31st. If you like it, feel free to share!

Filed under: Fiction Tagged: fiction, Ghost Stories, ghost story, ghosts, Oakland, Urban Fantasy

Ghost Stories – Possession – Part 1

By N. E. White

The sight of the hung ghost makes my stomach turn and I vomit on the Children’s Fairyland playground mulch. Some of it gets on McLean’s shoes.

He steps away and swears under his breath. On his face is a mix of disgust and something like satisfaction.

I’m sure he had his doubts about me. Throwing up on my first day as a State Paranormal Investigator most likely confirmed his suspicions.

You and me both, asshole. I doubt I’ll make it till the end of this pay period. Hell, maybe not even the end of the week. But I am not going say that to my blond, blue-eyed partner.

Despite the coolness of the day, the late October midday sun burns the back of my neck. Righting myself, I wipe the bile from my lips, and take the breath mint McLean offers along with a pair of latex gloves. His lips are tight, his eyes sparkle, as if he’s suppressing a snicker.

“Don’t hold it in,” I say. “It’s just as bad as holding in a fart.”

McLean barks a laugh and Reyes shoots us a mean look. All the other suits do, too.

But not the ghost.

Its former body – African-American woman, mid-twenties, tall and fit – is still as death on the end of a rope tied to the middle of a tree branch. The dead woman’s ghost remains twitching and spinning on the end of a phantasmal cord just like the body had done right before the woman died; eyes popping, and tongue out, swollen to the size of a cucumber.

My stomach lurches again.

Normal police officers and crime unit personnel hover nearby, waiting for the okay to cut the body down. A female photographer is taking pictures, ghostly spittle landing on her head and shoulders. She can’t feel it.

Not like Reyes, McLean and I can.

We’re what folks now-a-days call spooks. It’s a derogatory term but it’s better than our official title: Paranormal Entity Sensor. Or PES for short. Would you rather be called a spook or a PES?

A few years back, a solar storm blew out more than the electrical grid. It breached the divide that kept the living and dead apart. It also blew out whatever blessed ethereal wool was between the ears and over the eyes of those of us who had the misfortune of being able to hear and see ghosts.

Lucky me.

Even if most people still couldn’t see or hear ghosts, they could sure as hell feel the tremors coursing through the trees and surrounding grounds. The shaking had registered as far away as the intersection of Grand and Harrison across the lake and right under the cathedral. The tremblers had forced Sunday morning parishioners to call in a bona fide haunting.

Three years ago, when the solar storm of the epoch, that none of the scientist had expected, opened the divide, ghosts had to wait for a wind storm to get our attention, now they could make their own.

Another officer cordons off the area while I try to tame my gut. I frown at my own puke. My father taught me better than to waste good liquor like that.

“Tesserak,” Reyes calls.

She motions for me to come over and I do my best to keep my eyes trained on Reyes’ face – African-American as well, but skin tone lighter. With a name like Sarita Reyes, I’m guessing she’s Puerto Rican.

McLean is already by Reyes’ side, acting like all the other suits – as if there wasn’t a ghost dancing in front of him.

As I approach, I pull out a small pad from my officer’s black dress shirt.

“What’s she doing over there?” I hear another suit say, their chin pointing my way. Someone else explains I’ve been promoted.

I want to snort and correct my former colleague. Being forced to join the SPI unit is not my idea of a promotion. But I ignore them and concentrate on Reyes. She’s reaching up, holding on to the dead woman’s hand.

“Can it feel that?” I ask.

“She,” Reyes corrects. “Just because she’s dead doesn’t make her an ‘it’.”

I hold back my thoughts and only nod to let her know that, in Reyes’ presence at least, I’ll give the ghost the benefit of the doubt.

“Would you like to listen to her story?” Reyes asks.

No, I think, but this is why I’m here, right? It’s this or get kicked off the force entirely. I’m not sure which is worse.

“Can I ask questions?”

McLean snorts. Under his breath, he says, “Damn, we got a sharp one.”

I scowl at him.

Reyes says, “Yes, you can ask questions, but it’s best to just let them do the talking. When you’re ready, just look into her eyes. She’ll do the rest.”

For an instant, the monster of my nightmares invades my entire being; mind, body, and soul. I can’t breathe, sweat pops onto my forehead, and I almost take a step back. I snatch a glance over my shoulder to make sure that demon really isn’t here and the feeling passes.

Looking up at the dead body, I say what I always say when I approach a victim.

“Ma’am, please state your name and home address.”

The wind stirs the tree branches above us. Birds call, the drone of traffic hums nearby, and I hear the distant horn of the massive ships going through the harbor channel, but the ghost doesn’t answer.

“Are you really that afraid of a ghost?” McLean asks. Then explains: “You have to look at her.”

I could punch him, but even though I’m a big girl, he’s got a good two inches on me and he’s thick in the chest. I would have a hard time putting him down.

Snatching a glimpse up at the ghost, my gaze meets her ethereal stare. Before I can flinch away, I hear her sigh, like an ocean wave after a storm, tired and relieved.

Lindsay Merryweather, the ghost says. Corner of 7th and Harrison.

“Under the Nimitz? Next to the Chinese Garden Park?” I ask then clear my throat, conscious that the rest of the suits just see a crazy woman talking to a corpse. A day ago, I would have been where they are, leaning against their patrol cars, snickering behind McLean’s and Reyes’ backs.

The ghost nods its transparent head in slow motion, as if it’s just realizing that it’s not really bound to that rope anymore. It finally stops jittering.

“Ma’am,” I continue, “do you know who did this to you?”

It’s not looking at me anymore, but what it used to be. The ghost floats to one side of the body, its hands reaching out to the beautiful woman it could never be again.

I snap my fingers in irritation and everyone looks my way, even the ghost.

My feet shift beneath me, but I keep my back military-straight. Raising an eyebrow, I meet the ghost’s white-orb stare.

Where’s my boy? the ghost says.

“Boy?” I ask.

Pointing my chin at Reyes, I mouth the word again, as if Reyes didn’t just hear me or the ghost. I inwardly groan at my stupidity while McLean gives me a sneer. He’s not going to help.

Niki, the ghost says, spinning around searching for something, someone. Where are you Niki?

Its voice goes up to an octave that pierces.

“Please,” I say, “Just tell us who did this to you.”

I don’t know, the ghost says. Where’s my son?

A storm is brewing in the mists of that spirit, and I don’t want to know what it might be capable of.

I keep my voice calm when I say, “What’s the last thing you remember, ma’am?”

My soooooooooonnnn!

Her moan shudders through the trees around us, whipping up a personal whirlwind. The suits fall back and I land flat on the ground, hands over my ears. I glance around to see Reyes and McLean upright and exchanging a knowing look.

Damn it. I was failing again. While I didn’t give a fuck what McLean thinks, Reyes is different. I don’t want to let her down.

I stand back up, brushing the grass stains off my blue-black pants. Reyes hands me my notepad with an encouraging smile. It wasn’t patronizing. Just confident. In me or herself, I’m not sure, but I want it to be in me.

“Lindsay!” I shout over the ghost’s moan.

It snaps its mouth shut and looks down at me.

“Tell me your story,” I say.

And she does.

Yesterday, Saturday, the 5th of August, Lindsay and Niki, her son, went to the Oakland Museum. It’s close enough to their home, so they decided to walk. Afterwards, they went to nearby Lake Merritt to feed the ducks. It was getting late, but still plenty of day light, so on the way home, instead of backtracking, they cut through downtown Oakland. The ghost said she had wanted to stop at a flower shop.

“What flowers did she buy, ma’am?”

Who? the ghosts asks.

“Lind–, I mean, you, ma’am. What flowers did you buy?”

I didn’t.

“So, you and your son didn’t make it to the flower shop?”

The ghost looks down at her hands, through her hands at me and I think that’s when Lindsay’s death became real to it.

I didn’t know ghosts could cry.

At least, it wasn’t a brawler. The spectral tears silently coursed down its face and splashed on the grass before our feet. Reyes fidgeted as if she wanted to interrupt, but I felt I was on a roll and put up a hand to stop her.

This wasn’t so bad. Ghosts were just like people, right? Just had to let them tell their story and then they would be on their way. Of course, the living just went on home afterwards. Ghosts, on the other hand, went, well, they just went. To hell, for all I cared, but no one really knows.

I was hit on the head, the ghost says, rubbing the back of her transparent neck.

“Did you see your assailant, ma’am?”

It shakes its head, phantom snot spattering feet away from it.

My son, you must find him.

“Ma’am, I’ll do everything in my power to find your son, but do you–”

I stop because the ghost is disintegrating. The unraveling starts around its feet. Whatever it was made of gives off an actinic light and dissipates in the wind as fast as it starts to burn, swirling up the ghost’s calves and then thighs. Before it goes completely, it says in a whisper:

Find him. Save Niki.

To be continued…

Check back soon for Part 2 of Ghost Stories.

Filed under: Friday Fiction Tagged: fiction, ghosts, Oakland, Urban Fantasy

Ghost Stories – Episode 1 – Possession – Part 1

 

By N. E. White

The sight of the hung ghost makes my stomach turn and I vomit on the Children’s Fairyland playground mulch. Some of it gets on McLean’s shoes.

He steps away and swears under his breath. On his face is a mix of disgust and something like satisfaction.

I’m sure he had his doubts about me. Throwing up on my first day as a State Paranormal Investigator most likely confirmed his suspicions.

You and me both, asshole. I doubt I’ll make it till the end of this pay period. Hell, maybe not even the end of the week. But I am not going say that to my blond, blue-eyed partner.

Despite the coolness of the day, the late October midday sun burns the back of my neck. Righting myself, I wipe the bile from my lips, and take the breath mint McLean offers along with a pair of latex gloves. His lips are tight, his eyes sparkle, as if he’s suppressing a snicker.

“Don’t hold it in,” I say. “It’s just as bad as holding in a fart.”

McLean barks a laugh and Reyes shoots us a mean look. All the other suits do, too.

But not the ghost.

Its former body – African-American woman, mid-twenties, tall and fit – is still as death on the end of a rope tied to the middle of a tree branch. The dead woman’s ghost remains twitching and spinning on the end of a phantasmal cord just like the body had done right before the woman died; eyes popping, and tongue out, swollen to the size of a cucumber.

My stomach lurches again.

Normal police officers and crime unit personnel hover nearby, waiting for the okay to cut the body down. A female photographer is taking pictures, ghostly spittle landing on her head and shoulders. She can’t feel it.

Not like Reyes, McLean and I can.

We’re what folks now-a-days call spooks. It’s a derogatory term but it’s better than our official title: Paranormal Entity Sensor. Or PES for short. Would you rather be called a spook or a PES?

A few years back, a solar storm blew out more than the electrical grid. It breached the divide that kept the living and dead apart. It also blew out whatever blessed ethereal wool was between the ears and over the eyes of those of us who had the misfortune of being able to hear and see ghosts.

Lucky me.

Even if most people still couldn’t see or hear ghosts, they could sure as hell feel the tremors coursing through the trees and surrounding grounds. The shaking had registered as far away as the intersection of Grand and Harrison across the lake and right under the cathedral. The tremblers had forced Sunday morning parishioners to call in a bona fide haunting.

Three years ago, when the solar storm of the epoch, that none of the scientist had expected, opened the divide, ghosts had to wait for a wind storm to get our attention, now they could make their own.

Another officer cordons off the area while I try to tame my gut. I frown at my own puke. My father taught me better than to waste good liquor like that.

“Tesserak,” Reyes calls.

She motions for me to come over and I do my best to keep my eyes trained on Reyes’ face – African-American as well, but skin tone lighter. With a name like Sarita Reyes, I’m guessing she’s Puerto Rican.

McLean is already by Reyes’ side, acting like all the other suits – as if there wasn’t a ghost dancing in front of him.

As I approach, I pull out a small pad from my officer’s black dress shirt.

“What’s she doing over there?” I hear another suit say, their chin pointing my way. Someone else explains I’ve been promoted.

I want to snort and correct my former colleague. Being forced to join the SPI unit is not my idea of a promotion. But I ignore them and concentrate on Reyes. She’s reaching up, holding on to the dead woman’s hand.

“Can it feel that?” I ask.

“She,” Reyes corrects. “Just because she’s dead doesn’t make her an ‘it’.”

I hold back my thoughts and only nod to let her know that, in Reyes’ presence at least, I’ll give the ghost the benefit of the doubt.

“Would you like to listen to her story?” Reyes asks.

No, I think, but this is why I’m here, right? It’s this or get kicked off the force entirely. I’m not sure which is worse.

“Can I ask questions?”

McLean snorts. Under his breath, he says, “Damn, we got a sharp one.”

I scowl at him.

Reyes says, “Yes, you can ask questions, but it’s best to just let them do the talking. When you’re ready, just look into her eyes. She’ll do the rest.”

For an instant, the monster of my nightmares invades my entire being; mind, body, and soul. I can’t breathe, sweat pops onto my forehead, and I almost take a step back. I snatch a glance over my shoulder to make sure that demon really isn’t here and the feeling passes.

Looking up at the dead body, I say what I always say when I approach a victim.

“Ma’am, please state your name and home address.”

The wind stirs the tree branches above us. Birds call, the drone of traffic hums nearby, and I hear the distant horn of the massive ships going through the harbor channel, but the ghost doesn’t answer.

“Are you really that afraid of a ghost?” McLean asks. Then explains: “You have to look at her.”

I could punch him, but even though I’m a big girl, he’s got a good two inches on me and he’s thick in the chest. I would have a hard time putting him down.

Snatching a glimpse up at the ghost, my gaze meets her ethereal stare. Before I can flinch away, I hear her sigh, like an ocean wave after a storm, tired and relieved.

Lindsay Merryweather, the ghost says. Corner of 7th and Harrison.

“Under the Nimitz? Next to the Chinese Garden Park?” I ask then clear my throat, conscious that the rest of the suits just see a crazy woman talking to a corpse. A day ago, I would have been where they are, leaning against their patrol cars, snickering behind McLean’s and Reyes’ backs.

The ghost nods its transparent head in slow motion, as if it’s just realizing that it’s not really bound to that rope anymore. It finally stops jittering.

“Ma’am,” I continue, “do you know who did this to you?”

It’s not looking at me anymore, but what it used to be. The ghost floats to one side of the body, its hands reaching out to the beautiful woman it could never be again.

I snap my fingers in irritation and everyone looks my way, even the ghost.

My feet shift beneath me, but I keep my back military-straight. Raising an eyebrow, I meet the ghost’s white-orb stare.

Where’s my boy? the ghost says.

“Boy?” I ask.

Pointing my chin at Reyes, I mouth the word again, as if Reyes didn’t just hear me or the ghost. I inwardly groan at my stupidity while McLean gives me a sneer. He’s not going to help.

Niki, the ghost says, spinning around searching for something, someone. Where are you Niki?

Its voice goes up to an octave that pierces.

“Please,” I say, “Just tell us who did this to you.”

I don’t know, the ghost says. Where’s my son?

A storm is brewing in the mists of that spirit, and I don’t want to know what it might be capable of.

I keep my voice calm when I say, “What’s the last thing you remember, ma’am?”

My soooooooooonnnn!

Her moan shudders through the trees around us, whipping up a personal whirlwind. The suits fall back and I land flat on the ground, hands over my ears. I glance around to see Reyes and McLean upright and exchanging a knowing look.

Damn it. I was failing again. While I didn’t give a fuck what McLean thinks, Reyes is different. I don’t want to let her down.

I stand back up, brushing the grass stains off my blue-black pants. Reyes hands me my notepad with an encouraging smile. It wasn’t patronizing. Just confident. In me or herself, I’m not sure, but I want it to be in me.

“Lindsay!” I shout over the ghost’s moan.

It snaps its mouth shut and looks down at me.

“Tell me your story,” I say.

And she does.

Yesterday, Saturday, the 5th of August, Lindsay and Niki, her son, went to the Oakland Museum. It’s close enough to their home, so they decided to walk. Afterwards, they went to nearby Lake Merritt to feed the ducks. It was getting late, but still plenty of day light, so on the way home, instead of backtracking, they cut through downtown Oakland. The ghost said she had wanted to stop at a flower shop.

“What flowers did she buy, ma’am?”

Who? the ghosts asks.

“Lind–, I mean, you, ma’am. What flowers did you buy?”

I didn’t.

“So, you and your son didn’t make it to the flower shop?”

The ghost looks down at her hands, through her hands at me and I think that’s when Lindsay’s death became real to it.

I didn’t know ghosts could cry.

At least, it wasn’t a brawler. The spectral tears silently coursed down its face and splashed on the grass before our feet. Reyes fidgeted as if she wanted to interrupt, but I felt I was on a roll and put up a hand to stop her.

This wasn’t so bad. Ghosts were just like people, right? Just had to let them tell their story and then they would be on their way. Of course, the living just went on home afterwards. Ghosts, on the other hand, went, well, they just went. To hell, for all I cared, but no one really knows.

I was hit on the head, the ghost says, rubbing the back of her transparent neck.

“Did you see your assailant, ma’am?”

It shakes its head, phantom snot spattering feet away from it.

My son, you must find him.

“Ma’am, I’ll do everything in my power to find your son, but do you–”

I stop because the ghost is disintegrating. The unraveling starts around its feet. Whatever it was made of gives off an actinic light and dissipates in the wind as fast as it starts to burn, swirling up the ghost’s calves and then thighs. Before it goes completely, it says in a whisper:

Find him. Save Niki.

To be continued…

Check back next Friday for Part 2 of Ghost Stories.

Filed under: Friday Fiction Tagged: fiction, ghosts, Oakland, Urban Fantasy

Finishing

We are all going to die. Some sooner than others.

Earlier this year, or maybe it was last year, I can’t remember, I came across this post by Tim Urban.

If you don’t want to click-through and read the entire thing, here’s the gist of it:

There are, more or less, 52 weeks in a year. Given a life span of 90 years, that means any given human has about 4,680 weeks to live their life (assuming they make it to 90).

Four thousand, six hundred, and eighty.

Seems like a lot, doesn’t it?

When I first read Mr. Urban’s article, where he maps out those weeks in graphical form and highlights famous milestones and then posits – how are YOU spending those weeks, I realized with a gasp and thud in my chest, more than half of my weeks are gone.

Gone.

I’m over 45 years of age. More specifically, I’m about to turn 47, which means, if I’m lucky, I only have 2,236 weeks left.

Two thousand, two hundred, and thirty-six.

Doesn’t seem like so much any more does it?

Let’s consider how long it takes to finish a novel. For some, less than a year or a full year at most. So, let’s say 25 to 52 weeks. That’s nothing! A prolific writer of my age can expect to crank out 40 to 80 books before they keel over.

But it takes me much longer to finish a book. Hell, the last time I actually finished a novel was…what five years ago? So, since that time, 260 weeks have passed. Two hundred and sixty WASTED weeks. Weeks I will not get back.

The novel I did complete took me roughly two years (or 104 weeks). It isn’t a great novel. It is a rather bad novel, which is why it has not seen the light of day, but it is done. It sits in the bottom of my office file cabinet, taking up space.

Anyway, if I was better disciplined, in the 260 weeks since finishing that terrible novel, I could have potentially finished two more (admittedly bad) novels. I mean, I’ve been writing fairly consistently during that time, but I just haven’t actually finished anything.

Though I have started several good stories, with each I have languished at about the half-way point and abandoned the story to try another one. My excuses are:

It’s not good enough.
I don’t have the talent the story needs.
My writing sucks.
My characters are stupid.
I’m stupid.

Each week that goes by, each month, each year, I see my dream of writing a novel slowly recede into the future – a finite future. I only have so many weeks left – and we know a significant amount of those weeks will be spent sleeping, right? So, I cannot keep spinning my wheels. It’s now or…later and there may not be a later. (Over-dramatic? Maybe, but check out this death graphic.)

I can’t second guess myself anymore. So what if my novels are crap and no one will read them? There are a lot of bad* novels out there. And you know what? They are finished! Some author accomplished their goal before their finite weeks ended and they can die happy.

I want to die happy.

To that end, I’m doing NaNoWriMo next month. The goal is to finish the novel I’m working on.

I WILL finish it. Whether it takes 50,000 words or 100,000.

Dare to join me in making the most of the weeks we have left?

If so, hook up with me. I’m ne_white on NaNoWriMo. If you are feeling especially bold, you can join the SFFWorld.com crew – sprinting every day in November – on MyWriteClub (N_E_White). I’ll post my intended schedule here (on this blog) and will Tweet right before I write on Twitter (@n_e_white) so you can join me if you’re around.

Until then, finish your stories.

*Bad is, of course, subjective. There are a lot of novels out there I consider bad that folks love. So, really, who am I to judge?

Filed under: Wednesday Writer Tagged: NaNoWriMo, NaNoWriMo 2016

Two random short stories

With all the accepting and rejecting of anthology submissions I’ve done lately, it got me thinking about my own stories.

Alas, many of them are not very good; all rejected several times by editors. While some I revise and continue to push out into the world in hopes of finding a home for them, most I trunk. But now and then, I figure there’s one or two in the ol’ trash bucket I think should see the light of day.

So, I thought, I’d put them here!

Enjoy.

Salacia

By N. E. White

The night they killed Neptune, I attended a conference of walruses deep in the cold reaches of the southern seas. When Neptune’s death throes pulsed through the ocean depths, pounding us like a tsunami, I knew they would come for me next.

My roar answered Neptune’s cry. Around me, the advancing traitorous creatures were stunned immobile, but no matter how powerful my voice, it would be too late.

I raced to him anyway.

They followed, attacking with their tentacles, needle-sharp teeth, and vicious fins. I fought with my powerful tail and bared my own teeth and claws. Twice the sea dogs nearly had me with their swirling maneuvers and chirping voices.

When I entered the palace, my heart lurched at the torn limbs of my children strewn about Neptune’s feet. Already the fishes ate at their edges. Neptune’s trident speared his great chest. Its shaft broken, part of it half buried beneath the sands. I picked it up, clenching my fingers about its thick shaft and let my tears join the fouled-red ocean.

A shudder ran through the coral walls of the palace. The sea creatures invaded still and the highest columns threatened to crush me. My heart ached for the family I had lost and all I wanted to do was allow my battered body to rest, but something urged me to leave.

It tugged at the edges of my mind. It felt as if I swatted at imaginary, tiny jellyfish battling for my attention when a contingent of sharks found me in their new lair. One charged while the others circled above me.

As they taunted me and desecrated the remains of my family, my blood boiled and I fought with a power I did not know I had. I speared each traitor with the jagged end of Neptune’s broken trident until their blood drifted into every crevice of our palace.

The walls trembled again and the tentacles of a hundred krakens gripped the coral columns. I let out a roar from the depths of my soul, sending out a wave to stun them all into temporary oblivion.

I swam then; towards the song that urged me forward for I did not know what else to do.

The sea is vast and so are its creatures. Though I had bewildered some, legions gave chase as I dashed away. Every muscle in my body screamed in protest, but each time I slowed, a whale attempted to swallow me or the sea dogs nipped at my tail-fin.

After a journey I thought would never end, I came to a jagged shore. Neptune’s final storm raged above, battering the coast, sending towers of ice splashing into the roiling sea. I crawled upon old lava, its sharp edges drawing blood. I stained the black rock as I made my way up a cliff.

The seals, sea lions, and walruses lumbered after me. Though they tore at their own bellies, they snapped their jaws, gnashed their tusks, and barked their curses. I bared my teeth, and used my clawed hands to drag my tail across the broken surface.

A strange music filled the air. The same song that had distracted me in the palace and called me across an ocean emanated from something above me. It promised safety, but all I could think of was my dead family and the creatures that turned against us; their crime unfathomable and unforgivable. With trembling limbs and a broken heart, I vowed to avenge Neptune and my children.

After what seemed like an eternity, I crested the lip of the precipice and lay upon my back. The light of a full moon broke through a break in the clouds and I lifted an arm to shield my eyes.

A gasp escaped me.

My arm was not my own. It was thin and pale. Muscle and sinew gone. The claws I used to gather barnacles and tear fish-meat were replaced by pink, weak appendages. I sat up and saw my tail transformed into two thin, knobby legs.

A pitiful scream tore from my raw throat. No longer did my voice have the power to move water. In the thin air above the sea, it did not even reach the moon.

It was then I noticed the human and the music stopped.

In one hand, he held a weapon made of bone and skin. A handful of Neptune’s seawater was at its base. In the man’s other hand was a stick. It was then I suspected the instrument was the source of the sounds that had captured me.

“I did it!” he said. “You came.”

There were tears in the man’s eyes and a smile cracked his face.

Something worked its way up my belly and crawled from my mouth, and I quelled at the man’s magic that gave me human speech.

“No one commands me,” I gasped. “I did not come at your behest.”

The man threw back his head and laughed. And then he bade me stand.

My limbs were like a newborn’s, but my will was stronger. I forced my legs beneath my torso and balanced upon my feet until I towered above him. He took a step back and held his instrument like a shield, ready to strike the bones that had bound me into this form.

I could feel his magic, and though he had a power I envied, it would not contain me. But I could use it.

Grabbing the lapels of his coat, I drew him near. The rough fabric on his chest brushed against me and I noted his greedy eyes roving over my body. Yes, I could use him indeed.

“Together, human,” I said, “we will avenge Neptune. If it takes a thousand years or more, we will rid the world of them all.”

THE END

Loophole

By N. E. White

The thief stands across the desk, gun in hand.

“This won’t work,” I say, my hand trembling, screwing up my signature.

Would that be enough? Will the bank refuse the check if the signature is wonky?

Shouldn’t matter. Jeeves assured me the Neuro-link technology is fool-proof. Even if I sign the draft in good faith, and later decide not to honor my obligation, my signature will unravel when I change my mind.

“Of course it will,” the thief says and fires with an aim a true as a surgeon’s scalpel.

The precise bullet passes through my frontal lobe, severing the Neuro-link connection.

One last thought tumbles through my shattered brain: There’s always a loophole.

THE END

Filed under: Friday Fiction Tagged: fiction, flash fiction

Submission Wrap Up

Happy Monday, Y’All!

I’m happy because our submission window for our upcoming anthology, You Are Here, has closed.

Really, it is both a sad and happy occasion.

I regret closing an opportunity for someone to submit a story. But like all good things, it came to its natural end. Plus, our submission window couldn’t stay open forever. At some point, we just had to stop.

In total, we got 77 submissions, including two from the anthology’s editors (one from me and one from Andrew Leon Hudson). We* have gone through about half of them, making the hard decision between rejection or acceptance.

It is incredibly hard to send those rejection letters. Almost as hard as receiving one. But someone’s got to do it. I try to make it as painless as possible.

Sending out an acceptance letter makes up for all the rejection letters. Though I am paying a pittance**, it is nice to reward someone’s sincere – and successful – effort to create an enjoyable story.

With close to 40 more stories to consider, we are far from finished. But I’m very happy with the quality, inventiveness, and breath of stories we have attracted to this project. It is truly inspiring and I can’t wait to share it all with you.

I’ll be posting more details on the anthology’s blogsite. So be sure to add it to your WordPress Reader or RSS feed, if you are curious.

Until next time, gear up for NaNoWriMo! It’s just around the corner!

*We being myself, the aforementioned Mr. Hudson, Dag Rambraut – SFFWorld.com owner, and Rob Bedford.

**One of these days, my budget for these anthologies will increase – I hope!

Filed under: Monday Minutes Tagged: submission window closed, submissions, You Are Here

Ahoy Matey!

Gods and devils be damned, it be ITLAPD*!

If’n ya searching for booty, board the good ship LibraryThing and join the hunt for treasure!

If’n ya be befuddled, ITLAPD means International Talk Like A Pirate Day!

And I’m not very good at it, so I’m stopping right there (especially since it seems pirates end each sentence with an exclamation point). Regardless, TLAPD does allow one’s inner pirate to come out. So how will you celebrate?

I aim to greet everyone I see with the title of this blog, “Ahoy Matey!”

It’s easy, no big commitment. I can easily slip back into normal-speak and I will not be considered weird (or celebrating Halloween much too early).

But if a person I greet happens to know it’s ITLAPD, too, then a little glint will sparkle in their eye, they’ll lean in with a conspiratorial bent, and say, “Aye, Mate! Fancy joining me for a pint of grog? And did I ever tell ya about the time Cap’n Smelly left me adrift on the high seas?”

Oh, and if you happen to frequent a Krispy Kreme establishment, don’t hold back. For today only, talk like a pirate and you’ll get a free doughnut!

Filed under: Monday Minutes Tagged: International Talk Like A Pirate Day, ITLAPD, LibraryThing, pirate, pirates

Lindsay Buroker and I

Ms. Lindsay Buroker doesn’t know it, but she’s one of my personal heroes.

Last year or so, another writer, Wilson Geiger to be exact, told me I had to visit Ms. Buroker’s blog. Since I admire Wilson, I took his advice and discovered a ton of advice for the indie writer. While absorbing all her wisdom, I noticed she also had some fiction for sale. I grabbed a perma-free copy of the first in one of her series and I was hooked.

In a couple of weeks, I sped-read her 8-book Emperor’s Edge series. It left me exhausted and, I thought, satiated. At the time, I didn’t think I would continue with any of her other series. They looked like they had too much romance for me. But her Emperor’s Edge series, while it had a long running romantic streak in it, was just plain fun. Each book is filled with the heroine going through some crazy antics, while magical practitioners and deadly assassins threaten the emperor and the empire itself. Fun, entertaining, and addictive are the best adjectives for this series.

But I had felt I had enough…until I started reading her latest series: Fallen Empire. Again, it has a bit too much romance for me, but Ms. Buroker took all the things she did great in her fantasy series and put it out in space. Pure, space opera fun. If you like Firefly or Star Wars, you’ll like the Fallen Empire series.

Okay, so enough fan-girl gushing on Lindsay Buroker! What does this have to do with me? (Note the title of this post.)

My infatuation in all things L.B. has extended to SFFWorld.com’s annual anthology. I’m so honored to announce that Ms. Buroker is writing an original story set in her Fallen Empire series world for my little anthology, You Are Here. (

I was ecstatic when Ms. Buroker agreed to write a story for us. To be honest, I was humbled. When I reached out, I figured she would say no like most folks. Really, why would a professional writer take time to write for our anthology? But she’s just as excited about integrating maps into her stories! It felt like a perfect match.

And that got me thinking…

Actually, I was thinking this before she agreed.

Here’s the thought (or thoughts):

Ms. Buroker produces a lot of books. Some might call them formulaic. And maybe they are. But there’s no end to her stories’ inventiveness and sense of adventure. Each novel is packed with high-stakes antics that will have you turning the pages despite the characters seeming a little too familiar. After reading close to 15 of her books, I came away with the idea that maybe injecting some of Ms. Buroker’s action-packed crazy adventures into my own writing would probably be a good idea.

No, I won’t be copying (or attempting to copy) Ms. Buroker’s stories. While I thoroughly enjoy reading her books, I don’t think I can write so glibly. I’m much too depressing and serious for that. But this reminds me of one piece of advice an experienced editor once gave me. She said, “Go all out.” Don’t hold back on the magic in a story, whether that’s the comedy, adventure, bleakness, violence, romance or whatever. Whatever it is you get into, jump in with both feet.

I thought I was doing that, but after reading so much of Ms. Buroker’s work, one thing became crystal clear: She’s a writer that doesn’t hold back. Ms. Buroker puts her characters in situations where everything is on the line. And that’s what keeps me coming back for more.

My goal for the foreseeable future is to write like that, with both feet firmly in my story world, holding nothing back.

How about you? Do you shy away from certain aspects of your writing? If so, why? If not, how’s that working out for you?

Filed under: Wednesday Writer, writing Tagged: anthology, Lindsay Buroker, writing goals, writing update

You Are Here

Working cover for You Are Here – SFFWorld.com’s 5th Annual Anthology of Short Stories

Some of you are aware that I do this annual thing where I beg people for stories and then I put them together in an anthology. This year is no different!

However, I’m veering from my normal path by opening up our submissions to everyone. Yes, that means you.

Rather than restrict submissions from SFFWorld.com forum members only, we are accepting submissions from anyone. Last year, Andrew Leon Hudson was at the helm and he opened up submissions in this manner and it was a good thing. So, I’m following suit.

Here are the particulars:

You Are Here

Tales of Cartographic Wonders

Maps, or graphical representations of spatial information, have shaped our world ever since people have put pen to paper, or stylus to a clay tablet, or chisel to stone. The focus of pirates searching for lost treasure or someone following a trail among the stars, maps in many guises have served humanity’s heroes and villains for a long time. What does the concept of maps inspire in you?

GUIDELINES

Authors are invited to submit a story with a map, or maps, playing a central or pivotal role. You are open to interpret ‘map’ however you see fit, but you can use the following definitions to rein in your imagination.

A diagrammatic representation of an area of land or sea showing physical features, cities, roads, etc.,
a picture or chart that shows the different parts of something,
something that represents with a clarity suggestive of a map (i.e. map of the mind),
the arrangement of genes on a chromosome (i.e. genetic map),
star charts, or
the correspondence of elements in one set to elements in the same set or another set (as in mathematics).

Stories must include some elements of science fiction or fantasy, but can be of any sub-genre. In addition, if you would like to submit an accompany map with your story, that is fine. But keep in mind that we may not use it. The resulting anthology may include a limited number of graphical maps.

Stories should be between 5,000 and 10,000 words.

Deadline for all submissions: SEPTEMBER 30th, 2016

To submit a story, email your story directly to nilaewhite (at) gmail (dot) com. Please double-space between paragraphs, single-space within. Also, do NOT tag your formatting. Simply use the italics, bold, centering commands of whatever program you use. Preferred file format is Google Document, Word DOC or DOCX, or RTF.

REQUIREMENTS

Your story must fall in the speculative fiction genre (including but not limited to Science Fiction, Fantasy, Horror, etc.)
No fan-fiction
5,000-10,000 words (firm)

RIGHTS & COMPENSATION

N. E. White (on behalf of SFFWorld.com) will take exclusive, worldwide digital and print rights for six months. Payment is a flat $15 USD (paid via PayPal), plus an e-book copy of the anthology.

Share widely, folks! I look forward to reading your stories.

Filed under: Monday Minutes Tagged: call for submissions, SFFWorld.com, Short Stories, You Are Here

Writing and Sundry

Howdy Folks!

(waves)

It’s been some time since my last post, so I thought I would drop by to let everyone know I’m still alive.

Are you?

Since I managed to snag your attention, here are a few updates:

I’m still writing. Not on the projects I had been earlier this year, but an important one. My own submission into SFFWorld.com’s annual anthology.
I’ve changed the deadline of said anthology to the end of September AND I’m opening it up to non-SFFWorld.com forum members. That means you, too, can submit a story. I’ll make an official announcement later, but get your thinking cap on and ruminate on this year’s theme: maps.
Just finished reading Age of Myth by Michael J. Sullivan and delving into some more of Lindsay Buroker’s new series, Chains of Honor. What are you reading?
My dog has passed on. Sadly, from now on, this means you will not see any new photos of my baby. But on occasion, I’ll post a picture from his youth.

Circa 2005

So…what have you all been up to?

Filed under: writing Tagged: writing update