The sound of knocking woke me at three. A silver crescent moon hung askew outside the bedroom windows. Wind rocked gnarled trees that bent like old men with aging spines.
I crept down the stairs, my cell phone in hand with 911 punched in ready to hit send.
The refrigerator door creaked open.
I hadn’t wanted to admit I’d bought a haunted house. I’d hunted for explanations for the odd events that kept happening. The flash of ivory passing my bedroom door, a dream. The wet footprints outside the hot tub, a neighbor. A whiff of Dior’s Poison, a perfume I once loved. I must have imagined it.
She floated in front of the freezer door, a shaped mist when I looked directly at her, but shimmering in my peripheral vision. Cool slate-gray eyes, like river stones, under arched eyebrows. Hair the color of dark honey pulled back into a chignon. A perfect body poured into a tight midnight blue satin dress. The scent of Poison.
The freezer door opened, and ice cubes clinked against glass. She glided forward, moving as if her feet didn’t touch the ground, and opened another cabinet. “You don’t have a lot of food.”
“What are you doing in my house?”
“What are you doing here?” Menace coated her voice.
“This is my home. I bought it.”
She wheeled around to face me, tipped the glass to her vermillion lips, and swigged. “Not from me.”
“The prior owner died. I bought this house from their heirs. You need to leave.”
Her mouth downturned like an angry carp. “You’re the one with the problem. If you don’t like me being here, you can leave.”
“What do you want?”
“What I want is my life back. Since I can’t have that, to learn who killed Michael.”
“Michael?”
“My husband.” She poured three fingers of clear liquid into a highball glass and knocked it back. “Why do you think I drink so much?”
“I didn’t count on a houseguest.”
“I’m not leaving until I get my answer.” She refilled the glass, then drained it. “You want me gone? Find out who killed Michael. And tomorrow, get some food in those cupboards.”
My mouth sagged open. “You ate my cookies, didn’t you?”
She pouted.
“Well, unless you intend pitching in for groceries, leave my cookies alone. And stop guzzling my tequila.”
She scoffed, filled the glass to the brim, and tossed it back. “Trust me, sister. My drinking your cheap booze is the least of your problems. Someone came into this house while we slept and sliced his throat.”
“Wha-what? He died here?”
“Yes, sweetheart. Didn’t the real estate agent mention you bought a house where the last two owners died in the house?” Her seal-bark laugh reverberated against the windows, cracking a pane in one.
I reached toward the window and felt heat.
She snickered. “Oops. They forgot to tell me how to channel my energy. I put it into high gear to pass through the front door.” She scowled. “Because you changed the locks yesterday.”
“They?”
“Keep up, will you? They run things. When they gave me a chance to come back, I snatched it.” She raised her arm in the air as if she’d scored a touchdown.
“You can’t stay here. There’s not enough room for both of us.”
“Since when do ghosts take up space? But chill. Once I solve Michael’s murder, I can rest. Until then, you need more groceries.” She slugged back another gulp. “And please—better quality tequila.”
“I’m not buying anything to make you happier.”
She batted her eyelashes.
“Give it up. That eyelash flutter might work on susceptible guys, but not on me. And I’m getting a dog.”
“Oooh, I love dogs.” Her eyes gleamed. “How about a golden? I can play with him during the day. I’m frightfully lonely.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You’re messing with me. I’m going back to bed.”
She pursed her lips. “And you seemed like a smart girl. Before you head to bed, do you have any ideas about who killed Michael? You sleep in the same bedroom.”
Any hope of a good night’s sleep passed out the cracked window.
This 696-word short story is a mini version of the 4682-word short story that will come to subscribers in the May 2024 newsletter (sent out the week of May 20th) and the updated welcome letter new subscribers will receive.
Did the crafty, smart aleck ghost murder her husband? Was she set up?
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A special thank you to author Cheri Krueger, who provided several sentences of inspiration that added value to this short story
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