Hello everyone, and happy… how is it already the end of February???
I’ve have to admit - I’ve been traveling for the Day Job (TM) and I quite enjoy leaving behind the snow for sun and beach… work almost doesn’t feel like work at the beach. :)
I’m considering writing a new book - tentatively titled Knotty Spirits - so today’s short story is heavily influenced by that book. I thought I’d play around with the character and the premise a bit to see if it lands.
Enjoy!
And don’t forget to scroll to the bottom for links to other free short stories from around the world!
Knot Quite
Was there anything so strange as going from a winter snow storm to palm trees and near-summer weather just by sitting in a modified rocket? A few hours and bam— no need for a coat.
I gathered my carryons and meandered my way through the Vegas airport, happy I didn’t have to worry about a rental car because the baggage claim and ground transportation signs seemed to be specifically missing rental cars and ride-shares—
No, there were the ride-share signs. But rentals? Not in sight— but also not my problem.
Feeling vaguely sorry for the traveler searching the signage a bit frantically, I headed upstairs to the private passenger pickup and blessed Jonesie’s need to be early. He’d been waiting in the lot since just after I landed, and now I spotted his white Rav and waved.
Our eyes met through the windshield and he grinned.
My own smirk bloomed and my heart thudded hard, once. He was one of my guys. One of the officers who had made it all the way to retirement. He’d gotten out and moved to Lake Havasu, and when he’d called for help—
I came.
Of course, I came. He was one of mine, and what was I doing anyway?
He slammed the small SUV into park and shouted, “Sarge!” and wrapped me in a bear hug.
I’d forgotten he was a hugger.
I clasped him briefly, then we set my luggage in the back and climbed into the front and headed south.
*
My geography— I’d found— was vague on how I could fly into Nevada, drive to California, and end up in Arizona, but that’s what happened. We chatted the entire way, catching up on each other’s careers and families, and the time and moonlit scenery flew by.
Instead of stopping at his house to drop my luggage, Jones parked the SUV while I gaped out the window to the lit bridge— a bridge that looked suspiciously like it belonged in London.
And indeed, all the signs called it the London Bridge.
Completely out of place here, in the middle of dessert broken only by the Colorado river and a wide spot that had delusions of grandeur.
“C’mon, Sarge.” Jones’s mobile face went flat, guarded.
I hopped out, wondering what exactly that face meant, and what he expected me to do about it.
But I followed anyway, through wrought iron gates, past a shut-off lion-ringed fountain, past a couple closed-up shops under the bridge along the channel.
The store we stopped at was also closed, but Jonesie brought out a ring of keys and opened it up. “I told you I’d opened this shop with my retirement money,” he said, “but what I didn’t tell you was that it was haunted.”
Stepping from the lantern-lit walk into the gloom of the shop, I managed a half-hearted chuckle. “Haunted should be good for business—”
“Not this kind of haunted.” Even in the gloom, I caught his side-eye, and his face looked cold and hard. “It’s broken most of the most expensive clocks already—” his wave took in the empty spots on walls and shelves— “bloodied Mary’s face, last time.”
“Bloodied—?”
“You said you saw ghosts.”
“I was drunk.”
He arched his eyebrows. “I’m hoping that was a hard case of truth in intoxication.” He sighed and leaned against the counter. “Or I’m going to have to sell out. Let someone else deal with this ghost. I can’t see it. No one can. But you might—”
The sigh that wanted to escape me got stuck when a swirl of white formed behind him, and then a cluster of mantle clocks slid off the table at the center of the room and crashed to the floor.
Right.
Jones had a real, dead ghost.
*
“Knitting needles? What the— You didn’t bring any weapons?”
I dodged a flying clock and yelled over my shoulder. “I came on a plane. I had to go through TSA security. I managed to get these sharpened sticks through by putting yarn on them—” dodged again— “but what kind of ninja do you think I am?”
The semi-corporeal apparition opened its mouth and screamed at me, showing it could unhinge its jaws and that it had rows and rows of serrated teeth with spit-slime stretching between them.
Goody.
I screamed back, releasing all the wordless frustration that had built up inside me over the last few months.
The mouth flapped closed and puckered. Then it headed for Jones.
“The kind that knows how to get rid of— Ack!” He saw the pattern of flying bits, realized it was coming for him, and retreated.
I chased after, stabbing it with my knitting needles. Little holes tore in the whitish stuff. “I don’t think a gun could hurt it anyway—”
My foot slid on clock debris.
The knitting needle in my right hand swooped down through the apparition, stabbing into the painted concrete floor. Dammit! That had been one of my favorite—
The ghost jerked to a stop as if the needle was pinning it into place. Debris stopped flying, too.
What the—?
Jones spun and squinted at me. “It… stopped?”
From my sprawl, I stared back.
“What did you…?” he trailed off, unsure.
On my aching knees, I edged forward, holding the other knitting needle in front of me.
The ghost flinched and tugged at its… foot? tail?
I stabbed at it, then swooped around in the same motion I’d been trying to get right for the past few weeks— a knit stitch. Stab it, strangle it, yank it through, push it away.
The white stuff moved between the knitting needles like it was heavy yarn.
Okay.
So I did it again— purl stitch, then another knit stitch.
It wailed, but I hardened my heart. I was freaking knitting a ghost!
A stitch slipped off— I wasn’t very good at knitting yet!— and the wisp yanked and the whole thing disappeared.
Huh.
Maybe— maybe— I had a way to deal with ghosts after all.
More stories HERE:
The Collector by T. R. Neff
Adventures in Space with Doot the Pig by Gina Fabio
Doomed … or Not? by Katharina Gerlach
The Implant Caregiver by ManonF
The Reaper's Gift by Becky Sasala
