Showing posts with label Short Story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Short Story. Show all posts

Wednesday, November 2, 2011

Short Story

I've published a new short story on the website Smashwords. It's a story for the upcoming holiday, and available for your e-readers. And here's the best part: it's FREE!

Synopsis:
Ivy is lonely, and Thanksgiving is just another reminder of what is missing in her life. On an afternoon walk she encounters a family that seems to have everything she ever wanted. Is she destined to always be on the outside looking in, or can she find a way to change her life?

A Thanksgiving Afternoon is available in a variety of formats, and there's sure to be one that will fit your needs. http://bit.ly/shQVvQ

I hope you enjoy the story and have a wonderful Thanksgiving!


Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Short Story

STRICKEN

Written by Maureen Mullis
Based on an idea by A.J. Mullis


The smell of ozone was heavy in the air as Dave Castleton walked back to his car parked on the other side of the fence. It was a large pasture and he hadn’t had to go too far into it to reach his patient. Lyle Corbett’s old milker was suffering from old age and there wasn’t much Dave could do about it at this point. Lyle was a young farmer and the cow, whom he’d named Gracie, was one of the first he’d purchased for his farm. She’d borne him a few calves and he had kept her on more for sentiments sake than the fact that she produced enough to make her worthwhile. Being an animal lover himself Dave knew the feeling. It was why he’d become a veterinarian.

The first crack of thunder caught his attention and he stopped in his journey to look up at the sky. Roiling black clouds were moving in at a fast rate. He looked around at the flat empty field. The only thing standing besides the cows was himself. He knew from his Boy Scout years that it wasn’t good to be the tallest thing in an empty field during a thunderstorm, so hitching up his jacket in his left arm and getting a firmer grip on his satchel in his right, he picked up his pace.

He was just about to the fence when he felt it. A searing, burning pain that seemed to center in his entire being and radiate out to the tips of his fingers and toes and even the top of his head. He thought maybe he was having an attack of some kind, and barely registered hitting the ground before everything went dark.

Opening his eyes the first thing Dave felt was nothing. Nothing at all. He felt fine. In fact, he felt terrific. He noticed that the pain that usually radiated down his left leg from arthritis and other infirmities from his 57 years of large animal veterinarian practice wasn’t there. Maybe that attack had set him to rights, he thought.

Then he noticed that there was no sky above him. It was just white. Not a bright white but a calm, soothing subdued white. It’s quiet too, he thought. He felt no breeze, heard no storm. It was as if someone had hit an off switch.

“You’re partially right, Mr. Castleton.”

Startled at the sound of the deep male voice Dave pushed himself into a sitting position where he was able to see that wherever it was he now found himself it wasn’t in Lyle Corbett’s field that was for sure. Everything was the same quiet white. Even the desk and two chairs he was sitting next to. The only color anywhere, besides Dave himself, was a black book sitting on top of the desk.

And the man.

Standing next to the desk he was wearing a suit the same shade as wherever they were. Dave wasn’t quite sure if they were inside or outside. The man’s hair was a silvery white, his face completely unlined in spite of the color of his hair. Blue eyes, a brilliant blue Dave noted, regarded him from behind wire-rimmed glasses. His expression was a bit amused, but not in a belligerent way. There was a kindness that emanated from him and made Dave feel calm in spite of the strangeness of the situation.

“Yes, the situation is a bit strange I’m sure,” the man said, “and yes, I can read your thoughts, which does not eliminate the need for conversation. It’s just a trick, if you will, that I use to be able to break the ice when someone new arrives here.”

“Arrives where?” Dave struggled to his feet. “Where exactly is here? And who are you? You seem to know me and what the situation is, but I’m confused.”

“I know you are Mr. Castleton. Would you like to take a seat?”

Pointing to the chair closest to Dave, he himself stepped around to the opposite side and sat down in that chair. Dave looked around. There wasn’t anything for as far as he could see. It was all just the same … what? Nothingness was how he would describe it if he had to.

“It’s not strictly nothing, Mr. Castleton,” the man spoke again and gestured once more to the seat. Dave pulled the chair away from the desk a little and sat down.

“I’m sure it’s something, wherever we are. But I ask again, who are you?”

“You may call me Jacob,” the man said and smiled at him. “I know you have many questions but I think it best that I begin by explaining to you what has just happened. That may answer most of your queries, and then we can spend some time clearing up any of the other items that need answering.”

Dave nodded. “Go ahead then.”

“As you may have surmised, you were struck by lightening back on earth. You are now, as of this moment, here in a sort of way station. A place where we can talk before you are found.”

“Do you mean before my body is found? Am I dead?” Dave started to feel a little rise of panic in his chest. He looked down at himself and saw he was in the same clothing he’d been wearing earlier in the pasture. There was a scorch mark in the middle of his chest that hadn’t been there earlier which supported the claim that he’d been struck by lightening.

“No you’re not dead. Not yet,” Jacob answered. “That is what we will be discussing.”

“What’s to discuss? Do I have a choice?” Dave cried. “Because if I do I choose not to be dead!”

Jacob shook his head. “It’s not quite that cut and dried, I’m afraid.”

“What do you mean it’s not that cut and dried? Either I’m dead or I’m not!”

“Please calm yourself, Mr. Castleton and I’ll explain. Lightening is one of the elements we use as a determinant, if you will, for our work.”

That completely confused Dave. “What does that mean? What work? Who or what are you?”

“My work, our work, is the work of mankind. It is our job to help you all to become the person you were meant to be: to assist you in the travails of life, through the rough spots, and to remind your spirit to try to be generous during the highs.” Jacob smiled at him. “Do you understand?”

Dave’s eyes swept around once more. “Is this heaven? Are you an angel? Is that what you mean by the work of mankind?”

“Basically.”

Dave was thunderstruck. “So I … I did die?”

“No,” Jacob answered, “at least not yet. That’s up to you.”

“Up to me? You said that before. Who would choose to die?”

“It’s not death in the way you might interpret the word, Mr. Castleton. Death can have many different meanings. And in this case, the choice you have is to return to earth, continue on to heaven, or, and this is what I am here to discuss with you, you can choose to become an angel.”

Dave felt as if the air had been knocked from his lungs.

“You’re kidding me, right? Me? An angel? That’s crazy.”

“Not really. You have lived a good life. In fact, we would say it’s an exemplary life. You have endeavored to help those who have crossed your path in your life. In fact,” he pulled the book over in front of himself and opened it, flipping pages until he came to the one he wanted, “it says here that when you and your wife had only been married a short time and you were still building your practice, you had a few very difficult years financially. Yet you still gave generously to the homeless shelter and food bank. You took the time to volunteer for a variety of charities then, and in the years since.”

“Well,” the attention made Dave uncomfortable.

“Many do not do half as much, Mr. Castleton. Your heart is expansive. You have a strong desire to serve and help, making you a perfect candidate.”

“I don’t know. I never thought of myself as angel material. And besides, what about my wife? Our children and grandchildren? I can’t just leave them!”

“You have left your wife well provided for. Your children have grown up happy and following your example and their children will do the same.

“You see,” Jacob continued, “every life is like the stone in the pond. The ripples continue based on how you have lived your life. You have been liberal in your kindness and love. Your progeny will follow your example because that is the one you left them.”

“I’m not sure I’m ready to leave my family,” Dave said. This was hard to comprehend yet as much as he loved his family the idea of being an angel and helping others was beginning to take hold in his mind and heart. “Would I be able to look in on them if I wanted to?”

“Of course,” Jacob nodded. “And all the generations that come after.”

Dave also nodded and sat for a moment. Jacob was right. He had provided well for his wife. She would want for nothing. He’d been careful during his life. Their sons would also look after her. He had taken on a partner a few years ago who had been a godsend. Alex loved caring for animals and helping the practice to grow and become more successful. He knew his patients and their owners would be in good hands.

“Wait a minute,” he said as a thought came to him. “There are a lot of people struck by lightening every year. I remember reading that there’s something like a hundred deaths a year, and over three hundred strikes a year overall in the United States alone. Are all those people candidates to be angels?”

Jacob laughed lightly. “No. No, Mr. Castleton, they are not. Sometimes a lightening strike is a wake-up call, as it were, for the individual to reevaluate their life and see if they need to make changes.”

“The old ‘watch out or God will get you’ joke?”

“Well, not exactly, but you get the idea.” Jacob closed the book and stood up once more. “Sometimes it’s just bad luck, and not everyone who dies has chosen to become an angel either. Some choose to continue on to heaven, and many choose to return to their lives on earth, with no recollection of our meeting.”

“That’s a lot of angels,” Dave said. “Do you really need that many? Don’t you have enough already?”

“There’s never enough. In fact we could use more, but we are limited in the number of people we are allowed to take.” Jacob began to pace behind the desk, his hands pressing together under his chin. “The world today is in greater turmoil than any other time in its history. Humankind needs help, whether they ask for it or not. And many who are embarking on paths that will lead to their utter destruction will not listen to your whisperings. It is hard, heartbreaking work at times, Mr. Castleton.”

He stopped walking and looked off, seeing something else in his mind’s eye.

“And yet, it is the most rewarding thing a spirit can do. When you do reach that person who truly needs you, listens to you, and changes their life for the good, why, it makes your heart sing.”

He turned back toward Dave.

“And the choice is now placed before you.”

“Well then, what’s the catch?” Dave asked.

“Catch?” Jacob’s eyebrows rose. “Are you asking if there’s some sort of trick to our offer?”

Suddenly Dave felt ashamed for asking. This man was from heaven, an angel, or head angel or something, and he was questioning his motives.

“That you regret your question tells me once again how right you are for this calling,” Jacob said softly.

Dave was brought up sharply as he remembered that Jacob could somehow sense his thoughts and feelings.

“Here are the terms,” Jacob continued without waiting for an answer. “You may serve as an angel guiding and assisting those on earth who are in need of you until the end of life on earth as you know it today, or until your wife’s passing and you choose to join her in heaven. If you decide to stay an angel then you will join her during the final days on earth.”

“So this would only be a temporary separation.” Dave thought about it. He wouldn’t grow older, he could still keep an eye out for his family, and he could serve others and maybe even help them. If he thought about it, he would also be serving someone else; someone who had given him everything, even his very life. Was there anything better than that?

He stood up and faced Jacob.

“The farmer will find you in a couple of hours. I will send someone to be with your wife when she gets the news. I promise you, she will be alright.”

Jacob smiled at him.

“I know,” Dave said.

* * *

Val Castleton closed the bedroom door behind her after begging her sons for a moment alone. The news had come only a couple of hours ago about Dave, but it felt as though it had been weeks. She needed a moment alone.

Sitting on the edge of her bed she took a deep breath. How could her world have turned upside down so quickly? This morning she was a happy, contented wife. This afternoon, she was alone.

Then, as quickly as that feeling entered her heart and mind it was replaced with another one. One of joy. It was so unexpected that she gave a little gasp. She could feel Dave with her; feel his presence and his love surrounding her.

“I love you Dave,” she whispered. “You’ve always been an angel in my life.”

Unseen, Dave bent over and kissed her on the forehead as he had untold times in the past and would continue to do untold times in the future.

Then he went to work.

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Who Says You Can't Get Something for Nothing?

Just to let you know that I have a selection of short stories available at Smashwords for your e-readers. They are free of charge and available in a wide variety of formats. Please feel free to check them out:

ELIZA AND MRS. FRANK  Left alone in the 19th century sea captain’s home she and her husband bought on the northeastern coast, Eliza finds that vestiges of the original owners surround her. As a storm rages and waves crash below, it seems she and Mrs. Frank, the widow of the sea captain who’d built this house for her, may have more in common than Eliza first thought. http://bit.ly/fOrUM1

TEA AT THE BILTMORE The stately old Biltmore Hotel was once the site of the social events of the year. During afternoon tea two women have a chance meeting that isn’t exactly what it seems to be. http://bit.ly/hGGNzP

FAMILY TREE As an amateur genealogist and an apricot farmer, Ruby Gillingham has learned the value of good lines. Known for the quality of her apricots and getting on in years, Ruby calls her disreputable nephew Lawrence Pratt to the family farm. Intent on getting his hands on his aunt’s fortune as his aunt is on pruning the family tree, but who will get the upper hand? http://bit.ly/hDpdjF

THE BOOK CLUB A group of women meet every month to discuss a book, until one summer evening when the monotony of it all inspires them to try something new ... with some interesting results. http://bit.ly/ifnpFy

I hope you get a chance to read some of my stories and if you do I hope you enjoy them!

Saturday, May 14, 2011

A New Short Story

I've published a new short story! The Book Club is only available at Smashwords.com and is FREE! 


A group of women meet every month to discuss a book, until one summer evening when the monotony of it all inspires them to try something new ... with some interesting results.


Click here to go download it http://bit.ly/ifnpFy and get it for your e-readers, PCs or laptops. You can download the Kindle software for your PCs and laptops free of charge at Amazon.com, or you can download it as a text file or PDF if you wish to read it that way.

I hope you will take the time to read it and post a review on Smashwords if you like.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

Short Story

THE OLD DAYS
by Maureen Mullis


It wasn’t the fall that hurt so much as the indignity of the situation. The embarrassment of landing in such a clumsy, undignified way and the myriad of looks that swept across the features of those around her: pity, disgust, horror. They ran the gamut. And they all made her feel … well what?

There were so many things she hated about being older it was hard to put her finger on which was the worst. When she looked in the mirror she was well aware of the passage of time; her hair was white, her face looked like it needed a good ironing for all the wrinkles in it. Her hands, once smooth and strong, were now achy, the skin thin and transparent and looking like they belonged to her grandmother, not to her.

But her eyes were her own. Her 18-year-old eyes were trapped in the face of an old woman, but they were her eyes.

Now the cane, that was something that had been a hard adjustment. The cane defined her somehow. It labeled her as an older person. That label also meant for everyone younger than her 82 years to avoid her, pass her by, run around her and get her behind them. Like she was a pothole on their private road.

At least she wasn’t using the walker her daughter had gotten her out in public. After this she might insist she use it, but Harriet was going to avoid that if she could. If people around her hated her cane who knows how they’d react to that stupid walker. Well, not that stupid. It did help her in the middle of the night when she needed to get up and felt unsteady. But she had no intention of using it outside her bedroom if she could help it.

Her daughter kept trying to get her to try those damned scooters in the stores when they went shopping, but it was something Harriet was still able to avoid. That would be even more embarrassing then her cane, and that stupid cane was embarrassing enough. People would rush by her trying to get past her often bumping into her without so much as a backward glance. That was how inconsequential she’d become. And at church the children running and yelling around her, weaving around her making her feel dizzy and frightened that oftentimes she would either leave early or stay late to avoid the rush of the little ones in the halls.

Although she liked where she was in her life and enjoyed her family quite a lot in her role as the family matriarch, there was much that she missed from her earlier life. Like walking. She would see people loping along without a care in the world. Like walking was something they didn’t even think about. She missed that. Not having to worry about curbs, or steps without handrails, of if there was something on the ground that might trip her up.

And running! Oh how she missed the feel of her legs pumping beneath her and the tight feeling in her chest as she struggled to breathe when she’d get a stitch in her side. She used to love going fast, her hair tangling and closing her eyes against the breeze blowing on her face as she would race along. When the girls were little she would be out with them playing tetherball or tag, and on picnics at the beach she would race them barefoot down the shoreline until they would fall laughing and choking into the surf. What she wouldn’t give to go back to that for just one day to feel it again.

She missed eating. Whatever she wanted whenever she wanted. Heaven forbid she eat pizza after 5:00, or chili or spaghetti or anything with half an ounce of flavor. When she first started staying home with the girls Jerry had worked two jobs. Harriet smiled remembering the nights he’d get home from his second job around 11:30 and they’d have a late supper together before bed. Whatever they’d felt like: frozen pizza, chili dogs, tacos, chips and dip. No, it wasn’t healthy, but they would laugh as they’d eat then fall into bed and each other’s arms without worrying about the consequences.

But the thing she missed the most was feeling like she mattered. Now, at 82, she just didn’t matter anymore, to anyone. Especially since Jerry died. She was just another old person in the way of the younger society around her. It didn’t matter what politically correct rhetoric people sputtered, at her age she was just not of consequence anymore. No one listened to her. Not like when she was younger and so active in her daughter’s school, church activities and volunteering in the community at the polling booths or the library or wherever she was needed. She would offer her opinion and the people around her would listen to her and respond.

Now, if she happened to speak, they would listen and nod and then continue on with whatever they were talking about with someone else. She was dismissed just as surely as if they’d slapped her. The thing she felt most at this point in life was in the way. She’d wager that when that one group of people put their elderly out on the ice float that there were quite a few that went willingly.

Now here she sat, in the hallway at church with a ring of faces staring down at her. Something, who knew what, had caused her ankle to turn and she hadn’t been able to stop herself from falling down. She had no idea how she was going to get back up.

“Are you all right Harriet?” her friend Charlotte called to her.

A young man grabbed her elbow and began yanking on her as if one good tug and she’d leap back to her feet. Someone else retrieved her cane and handed it to her, and yet another person was asking if she were hurt. She wasn’t, but still she felt like crying.

“What’s going on here?” a deep, warm voice asked, and Pastor Krupner was there, a slow smile playing across his face. “Ah … Mrs. Byrnes. Hogging the spotlight are we?”

Harriet gave a mental eye roll. What a stupid question, she thought, as if she was enjoying this.

She felt a pair of strong arms reach around under her arms and she was effortlessly lifted to her feet, her cane returned to her.

Pastor Krupner smiled at her. “Everything okay now? Good,” he said without waiting for a reply, and taking one of the men by the elbow lead him off already deep in another conversation.

As the others retreated, Charlotte handed Harriet her purse.

“Are you alright, Harriet?”

Harriet sighed and closed her eyes.

“Yes,” she said.

Making sure the cane was firm in her grip she made her way slowly down the hallway.

And in her mind she stretched out her arms, threw back her head, and ran.

Friday, February 11, 2011

Something Fun For the Weekend

TROUBLE SLEEPING
by Maureen Mullis

At first I thought the argument was a dream. The foul language and the intensity of the anger entered into my sleeping mind and turned into something distorted and strange. But as I broke out of the dream and finally woke up the voices were still there.

I reached for my husband but found his side of the bed empty. Of course, I reminded myself, the job that brought us to this town and our new home had him working the graveyard shift. What an appropriate name, I grimaced.

“You can go to hell!” the first voice shouted, followed by mumbling and some other irate sounds.

“No, that’s you. You’re the one that holds the grudges, you son of a ….” The voice trailed off but the anger felt like an actual presence in the night.

I crept out of bed to make my way to the window. My entire house was dark and felt sure that if I peered out onto the street below I would not be witnessed by the disputers below my window. Tiptoeing my way across the room I tried to make as little noise as possible. Perhaps it was the dream or my own overly active imagination, but it felt imperative to me that they not know I was eavesdropping on them.

“I don’t believe it!” The first voice again, then some scuffling noises. “No, don’t!” he said louder than it had been even in my dream. “No!”

This last was followed by a scream more distressing than any I could ever remember hearing. I froze. My entire body felt icy. Had the one man killed the other?

I couldn’t move. Tears tracked down my cheeks. I felt so afraid that I didn’t know what to do. I should call the police and let them know, but I was afraid to. I wanted to look out the window and see what was happening so I could give an account of what I had heard and seen to the authorities. Swallowing hard I willed my feet to move and made my way once again to the window and looked out.

The street was empty. And quiet. There was nothing out there, not even a cat prowling around. It was darker than probably normal. The street light nearby was out and I had yet to report it. The moon was bright enough, but in this older neighborhood the tall trees cast long shadows that tricked my eyes into thinking there might be something there when I knew there wasn’t.

The heat of the day still lingered, which was why I had my window open. Searching back and forth I scanned the street, but not even a breeze made its way down the road.

What on earth was going on? I was in no doubt about what I had heard. Obviously I’d first become aware of the fight as I dreamt, but when I woke up it was real. I had heard the loud voices; I had heard the screaming. Equally obvious was the fact that there were no other signs that any of the neighbors had heard anything at all. All signs of life were absent.

I looked at my alarm clock and saw 2:27 displayed in bright red numbers. I wondered if it was possible to keep dreaming after you awakened. Probably. It seemed that’s what I was doing. I rubbed my hands over my face and went back to bed, turning my pillow over before I lay back down. Maybe someone was up, unable to sleep and watching an old detective show on television and I’d heard a bit of it.

Satisfied I rolled over and returned to sleep.

* * * *

“Come on help me, I can’t lift him on my own!”

My eyes flew open. What the … ?

“What the hell did you think you were doing carving him up like that? Look at all this blood! How are we supposed to explain this to Al?”

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“Doesn’t know? What are you, nuts? You think he’s not going to notice when Buddy suddenly stops showing up?”

“Shut up, shut up! Can you hear that? Sirens!”

I listened, but didn’t hear any sirens.

“Drop him! Let’s get out of here!”

I sat up and looked at my clock again. 3:14. This time I got to the window without any hesitation and looked out.

At first I didn’t see anything and then something caught my eye. Some shadows underneath the branches of the tall spruce trees that lined the driveway in front of my house seemed to move stealthily in the early morning stillness. This time I backed away and picked up the phone dialing 9-1-1.

I decided not to be too specific in case I was continuing my dream, but told the dispatcher that I heard voices that sounded like they were up to no good on my street.

“Please stay on the line ma’am,” the woman’s pleasant voice instructed. “My supervisor will be on the line shortly.”

“Supervisor? Why do I need to speak with your supervisor? I would just like a patrol car to come by and check to be sure everything is alright.” My appeal went ignored, and a man’s voice came on.

“Thank you ma’am. Is this Miss Pettington at 2423 Ravenscourt Avenue?” he asked.

“Mrs. Pettington. My husband works nights, or he’d be making this call,” I informed him.

“Yes ma’am.” He cleared his throat. “Did you hear an argument outside around two-thirty this morning?”

That gave me pause. “Yes. How did you know that?”

“You must be the new owner Mrs. Pettington. We get a call like this every time someone new moves into that house. A small time hood named Buddy Carmichael was killed in front of that house in 1944. It was his house back then, and his killers were never found.”

“What!” I cried my hand flying to my throat.

“I guess Carmichael wants his killers caught and keeps hoping that someone will hear it and bring them to justice.”

“Are you trying to tell me I heard … what? Ghosts?” I sat down on the edge of my bed, stunned.

“Ghosts, voices from the past, whatever. I will send a patrol car to cruise by and check things out but like I said,” he paused a moment and cleared his throat, “we’ve been getting these calls for years. Nothing’s ever there.”

I slowly put the phone back in its stand and returned to the window to look out on the scene of the crime.

A man stood at the foot of my driveway wearing a suit and a hat. He saluted me and turned and retreated down the street.

Buddy Carmichael? I’m not sure. What I am sure of is that I purchased a small stereo and sleep with music ever since.

And I sleep straight through the night.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

New Story Available

I've just published a short story I wrote about five years ago.  It's a tale of suspense titled Eliza and Mrs. Frank, and it's available free of charge on Smashwords http://bit.ly/fOrUM1 in a wide variety of formats for your e-readers.

Left alone in the 19th century sea captain’s home Eliza and her husband bought on the northeastern coast, the young woman finds the vestiges of the original owners surround her.  As a storm rages with waves crashing below, it seems she and Mrs. Frank, the widow of the sea captain who’d built this house for her, may have more in common than Eliza first thought.

Friday, December 17, 2010

A Short Story for the Holiday

Here come the holidays!  I'm going to be offline for the next couple of weeks, and am offering up a short story for the holiday.  Have a wonderful couple of weeks, and enjoy!

A GENTLEMAN LIVES HERE
by Maureen Mullis

Roy was pleased with the fire roaring in the fireplace, but past experience had taught him that it could die out before he wanted it to. Picking up another log he carefully placed it on the burning stack then stepped back and closed the screen across the hearth.

Returning to his recliner he put his feet up and looked around at the cozy family room. The Christmas tree was decorated with decades of homemade ornaments his wife had tenderly preserved. Years of photographs with their children and grandchildren on Santa’s lap festooned the garland draped mantle. A crystal platter sporting a variety of cookies rested on the coffee table while the stereo played Bing Crosby crooning the wonders of the holiday.

Life, Roy thought, had been good to him. He’d been blessed more than he ever thought he would be. As the voices of his family drew near he settled himself into his seat ready to enjoy the Christmas Eve celebration that was a tradition for them all.

His oldest grandson Jeff came into the room carrying a large mug of hot chocolate which he handed to Roy. At 24 he was handsome and successful, and had announced that this year he would spend Christmas day with his young lady’s family. Roy expected that they would soon be hearing of an engagement.

Jeff was followed by his brother and sister and two cousins. Roy’s daughters came laden with drinks and extra platters of food for the evening, their husbands behind them discussing something about a car problem one of them was having. He watched his daughters shush them as his older one picked up an afghan and draped it over his legs.

Smiling she tucked it around him and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Roy thought that it had been a wonderful thing to have daughters. They fussed and cared for him as if he were a king. No son could have treated him with such tenderness and he felt contentment settle over him as his wife came in with a sigh and took the chair next to his.

“Hey Grandpa!” Eighteen-year-old Kyle broke into his thoughts. “Tell us the story of that Christmas when you were my age.”

Roy waved off his request with his weathered hand. “Not that old saw!” he complained good-naturedly. “You’ve all heard it more times than I can count!”

“Yes, Papa,” urged Carly, 17 and his only granddaughter. She and he both knew he would deny her nothing, even this small request. As the others, even his wife and daughters, urged him to tell his story he leaned back, closed his eyes and began.

“Well, like Kyle said I was 18 and it was during the Great Depression. Times were hard, no jobs anywhere, no money for college. I’d met a man named Mike when I was down at the railroad one time looking for work. He was what they called a Hobo back then.

“Anyway, Mike was an old timer who’d been riding the rails for awhile and agreed to take me on as a road kid, which was sort of an apprentice to learn the ways of the road.”

Shifting in his chair, Roy put his mug of chocolate on the table next to him and leaned back again.

“My mother was a new widow and was considering taking in borders to make ends meet. I was a financial drain on her and she could use my room to let if I was gone, so I went home, packed a few things and took off with Mike that night. I thought of it as an adventure and hoped I would land in some town where I would be able to find work and settle down.”

“But that didn’t happen, did it Papa?” Carly urged him on.

Smiling at her Roy shook his head. “No, sweetheart, it didn’t. At least not for awhile.”

Reaching out his wife’s hand met his and he gave it a squeeze before returning to his grandchildren’s upturned faces as they sat on the floor around him.

“Mike and I spent several months traveling from town to town. We picked up day work when we could, sometimes helping people clean their yards for fifty cents, or raking leaves for a plate of food. Other times we had to spear biscuits or go stemming.”

“What’s that again Grandpa?” his grandson Dylan asked.

“Hobo talk for looking for food in garbage cans or begging on the street,” Roy answered. “I hated that and would do anything to avoid asking for help outright. But sometimes we had no choice. Especially if we landed somewhere small where there was no soup kitchen or lumps for men like us.”

“Lumps?” his daughter Janice asked.

“It’s what we called food we could get at the back door of some homes. In some of the towns the women weren’t as generous, or they’d given too much already so by the time Mike and I got there … “ his voice trailed off and he shrugged.

“Mike first got sick late October. In the beginning it just appeared to be a bad cold that he was having trouble shaking. By mid December it was apparent that it was something more serious. His color was bad and he was having trouble breathing.

“We landed in a small town in western Nebraska. It was a pretty little town and there was a good camp just outside it. I gathered wood, made a fire and settled Mike and decided I would go into town to see if I could get him some help.”

Roy sighed and looked around at his family. It all seemed like it happened to someone else as he sat here near a fire he wasn’t dependent on for warmth, with family and not strangers he traveled with. But the memory of that Christmas would stay with him forever.

“I headed into town and could see all the decorations up for Christmas. The snow was deep and the wind was cutting through me like I wasn’t even there. It wasn’t good for Mike and it occurred to me that if I could find an old coat for him it would help.

“I made my way down the alleys behind the homes. Hobos who’d made their way before me had marked some of the houses. They would carve a symbol on the fence posts indicating if you could receive help there or not.

“I tried a couple of the places that had been marked as belonging to doctors or women who would help and had been turned away over and over. I was getting discouraged and cold and hungry. I didn’t have two cents to rub together, and I knew Mike was too weak to hop on and make it to another bigger town. I had to find something.”

Roy shivered remembering the cold of that day. “It was so bitter, and I was getting tired as it got later in the day. I prayed as I walked that I would find someone, anyone who would help me, help Mike.

“About three o’clock that afternoon I came to this house that had a nice look to it. It was well kept, and I could see a light in the kitchen window. On that grey day it looked like a beacon of hope to me.”

“And the fence post Grandpa?” Kyle said his voice hopeful.

“There was a top hat carved on it,” Roy answered, “which meant …”

“A gentleman lives here!” they chorused, so familiar were they with the story.

“That’s right,” Roy nodded. “So I approached the back door and knocked. A woman answered. She was soft and round looking, with black hair and kind eyes that looked at me with sympathy. When I told her about Mike she invited me in to have some soup. I tried to decline telling her I had to get help for my buddy, but then her husband came to the door and told me it would do no good to argue and to come in and he would help me.

“I tell you that was the best soup I’ve ever had in my entire life, either before or sense. I felt warm and hopeful from the tips of my frozen toes all the way up to my eyeballs.”

Smiling at their laughter he continued. “That kind woman gave me some paper and envelope and a pen and told me to write my mother.

“’Let her know where you are and that you’re alright,’ she told me. ‘I’ll mail it for you.’ So I did. I wrote two pages to my mother and was happy to have the chance she offered me. Riding the rails doesn’t give you a lot of extra for sending letters home. While I was doing that, she’d packed some extra soup into a lunch tin and her husband returned with a thick, warm winter coat for me to take to Mike.

“I started to thank them and was heading for the back door when the man cut me off. Said we were going out front and get in his car and he was going to see about getting me some medicine. And he did. We went to a pharmacy where he knew the owner. Had me explain Mike’s symptoms to the man who said it sounded like pneumonia. He gave me a couple of things and told me what to do to help him.

“Then that kind man, that gentleman, drove me back to the camp and helped me carry everything in to where I’d left Mike. The fire was dead and I was rebuilding it while he checked on my buddy, helped him put on the coat, and set the soup on the flames to warm.

“When he stood back up he held his hand out for me to shake. I told him I didn’t know how to thank him and he told me the best way to thank him was to do the same for someone else when I could.”

Roy had to clear his throat as emotion overtook him in remembering the man’s kindness.

“By Christmas it was clear that Mike was on the mend. We’d washed out the lunch tin and decided to walk back into town to return it and so Mike could properly thank that couple for their help. We got to the spot where the house was. The mark was still on the fence post, but the house …”

He looked up at his family. The family that he always felt saved his life. His beautiful wife, lovely daughters and sons-in-law, his joyful grandchildren meant absolutely everything to him. They were still, watching and listening to him.

“The house was barely standing. The paint was long gone, parts of the roof were missing and the windows were all shattered. Every single one, even the one I’d seen glowing that dark afternoon. It was obvious no one had lived in that house for a very long time.

“Mike thought I was crazy, but I swear I had been there and had received help when I’d needed it most.”

“Who were those people Papa?” Carly whispered.

“I’m not sure who they were honey,” Roy answered. “But I believe they were an answer to my prayers.”

“Angels?” one of his grandsons asked.

“Christmas angels,” his wife interjected.

Roy nodded. “Probably.”

He was silent for a moment, then sighed and straightened his shoulders.

“Anyway, I decided to stay in that town. Found a permanent job at the creamery and about a year later met a beautiful girl who is now sitting here as your grandmother.”

His wife smiled at him reminding him of that day he’d first seen her and fallen in love.

“And then what’d you do?” Jeff urged.

“Why, your grandma and I bought the lot and built this very house on it. Raised your mother’s here and have celebrated more happy Christmases than you can imagine.”

“What about Mike and the fence post Dad?” his daughter asked.

“Mike went on his way,” he said. “Never saw him again. But I do know that when he left here he was healthy and in good spirits.”

Roy shook his head. “All these years I’ve tried to do what that gentleman asked me to do, to help whenever I could.

“As for the fence post … well, I’ve kept that top hat marked on it. Replaced that post a couple of times in the years since, but that symbol will always be there. I want everyone to know that you can come to our door if you need help and that just like then, a gentleman lives here!”

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

A Short Story for the Holiday

A THANKSGIVING AFTERNOON

by Maureen Mullis

Her mother always told her that God never gave you more than you could handle. Ivy wasn’t so sure that was true. She didn’t have anything cataclysmic in her life, but sometimes the loneliness was so heavy she couldn’t breathe. Looking down at her Thanksgiving dinner it was unbearable.

“Dinner for two,” she’d told the woman at the restaurant just so they wouldn’t think she was spending the holiday alone. But truthfully, who would buy a take-out dinner on Thanksgiving if they weren’t alone?

She leaned back in her chair and stared out the window. It was late afternoon. Families would be gathering around their tables enjoying each other’s company and the fragrance of a meal prepared with love and companionship.

Her mother’s death had hit Ivy hard, and she was ill prepared for a life spent in so much of her own company. At 57 most of her friends were settled with families. Oh sure, they’d make room for her if she’d asked, but she felt uncomfortable in the role of the friend with “nowhere else to go.”

If only her marriage hadn’t failed. That was a long time ago, Ivy thought and shook her head. No use crying over spilt milk.

Gauging the amount of daylight left Ivy decided to take a walk. Riding down to the lobby of her building in the elevator, the doors opened to find a large group of men and women laughing and talking as they waited for her to exit so they could go up to their own celebrations. Working her way through them Ivy was aware that they took no notice of her. Invisible, she thought as she left the building.

The lights in the homes and apartment windows were beginning to turn on as Ivy made her way down the city blocks. She could smell roasting turkey and hear the sounds of football games and cheering as she walked. As isolated as she felt, it was somewhat comforting to know that life went on as normal around her.

She stopped in front of an older building that had been renovated a couple of years earlier. The stonework was dark and worn looking, and the buyer had left as much of the original as possible. Large stone steps led up to double doors with etched glass that glowed behind them. It was a lovely building.

Standing and admiring it she could see the front window was slightly open allowing some of the cold air into the house, but also letting the sounds of some lively music to drift out to where she stood. It sounded Celtic, it’s melody bright and full of joy. A smile spread across her face as she listened and wondered about who lived there.

As she turned to start on her walk again a van pulled up and a large group of people began spilling out. Ivy stopped to wait for them. Four children ranging in age from about six to fourteen piled out of the back and two women and a man followed barking orders as they began unloading. Several people came through the double doors offering assistance.

Tucking her hands into her pockets Ivy watched in amusement. Never having been part of a large family it fascinated her. She envied big extended families and had always hoped to have one of her own someday. Making her way through them one of the women thrust a basket in her arms without looking at her.

“That one goes in the kitchen,” she said. “And be careful, it’s breakable.”

“But ... “ Ivy stammered.

The woman looked up. “Did my lazy sister send you out to help instead of coming herself?”

“No.” Ivy shook her head. “I’ll take it.”

The woman called over the youngest boy and gave him a bottle of soda to carry in.

“Take care not to drop it, Aidan,” she said.

The boy, with red hair and freckles, looked up at Ivy with a sweet smile and took her hand. Pulling on her he lead her up the steps.

It was more crowded inside than out, if that was possible, dozens of conversations ebbing and flowing around her. No one would notice a stranger carrying in a basket of goodies. She relaxed a little at the thought.

A young man came along and took her coat while someone else pushed a glass of punch in her hand. She wandered around a bit dazed at the number of people crowded into the apartment which, although large and airy, still felt as if it’s walls were bursting.

Ivy made her way to the front room whose lights and music had first caught her attention. A tall pine was situated in the corner bare and ready to be trimmed. She wondered if it was part of their Thanksgiving tradition to decorate it after the meal. The music was still on and the sound made her feel somewhat expectant.

Standing at the window Ivy looked out. The streetlights were beginning to come on as darkness settled deeper on the city.

“Not much of a view, is it?”

A deep male voice broke her reverie and she turned around. He looked to be about the same age as Ivy, his hair and goatee turning a soft grey. His face was kind, the eyes sympathetic, but there was a questioning look to his countenance.

He jerked his head back over his shoulder. “A couple of my children and grandkids told me about the beautiful stranger in our midst,” he said. “Most of them think you are a friend of mine.”

Hot with embarrassment Ivy stood speechless for a moment before setting her glass down on the table beside the tree.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice thick with shame. “It was a mistake. I was walking past and someone gave me a basket to bring in and ... “

She shrugged helplessly. “I’m so sorry. I never meant to intrude.”

“You’re not.” He smiled at her. “We’re a pretty big group and it’s easy to get swept away with all the activity around here.”

He walked over to stand beside her. Looking down at her she felt as if he could see inside her before he turned his attention outside the window.

“Like I said, it’s not much of a view. But then when I bought this place I wasn’t interested in that. I only wanted somewhere my entire family could gather together. What’s your name?”

“Ivy.”

“Ivy.” She liked the way he said it. “I’m Sean; pleased to meet you.”

He cocked his head and regarded her for a moment. “Would you like to join us for Thanksgiving dinner?”

“I couldn’t!” she cried, embarrassed again at how she came to be standing there.

“You don’t like turkey?”

“It’s not that,” she shook her head.

“You have nothing to be thankful for?”

Breaking eye contact with him she looked down.

“No matter what our circumstances we all have much to be grateful for this holiday. If we are lonely, or afraid or sick or hurting, we all have one thing in common,” he said touching her lightly on the shoulder.

Looking back up at him she asked, “We do?”

Sean nodded and smiled again. “Someone loved us enough to give us the ultimate gift. He understands everything we feel and is always there for us. He gave us life. He gave us hope.”

Placing his arm around her shoulders he steered her to where the family was gathered and waiting.

“Listen, we all have things we’re not happy with. But this Thanksgiving let’s be thankful for new friends that enter our lives, shall we?”

Ivy smiled back at him as he brought her where two large tables had been set up; children at one, adults at the other.

He stood at the head of the adult’s table as the patriarch of the family, an empty place setting next to his. Looking at all the faces turned to her Ivy felt nervous until she felt Sean’s comforting arm give her a reassuring squeeze.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he said to his family.

He turned to her his eyes warm. “Please welcome my friend, Ivy.”

Friday, August 13, 2010

A Short Story

Writing is a personal journey. It has to be. You do it alone. Inside your head is the whole story just waiting for you to free it. And no one can do that for you.

When a writer puts down “a man walked down the street,” they see a lot more in that sentence. They know what the street looks like, what time of day it is, what the temperature is as he walks, what is on the street, what he’s passing as that sentence is read. He or she knows what the man is wearing, what color his eyes are, and how he got that scar on his chin when a swing clocked him at the age of six.

Most of the time as a writer I have a story inside me that I need to tell. Maybe it’s just a good story, or maybe there’s something I need to say. I always am writing for myself, but sometimes the story is specifically because I need it.

Such is the case with this short story here. We all need to believe in something that is bigger than ourselves. Maybe it’s our children. It could be the special love we share with someone else. Or, as in my case, I believe in God. He is the one I turn to when feeling overwhelmed by things. It was on one of those occasions I wrote this story....when I needed to remember that I am not alone.

THE THIMBLE
by Maureen Mullis

The storm blew in unexpectedly. After months of drought the hard rain hit the too dry earth and kicked up dust that the wind took off with. Soon it was hard to see much of anything. When the lightening and thunder cracked in the skies above Abby knew it was time to get back to the house. There’d be no more work today.

Using her switch she urged the cows to get back up the hill from the watering hole they shared with the neighboring farms. It was best to make sure the herd was on higher ground. After so much time with no rain it could easily flood and that would be the final blow to their farm and their family.

Mother had died the previous fall leaving Abby and her two teenaged brothers and her eight and six year old sisters to pick up the pieces. Her father had been useless since his wife’s death. Unable to communicate with his children he threw himself into his work until the drought forced him to take a job in town at the train station. This left Abby, as the oldest at 19, to run the farm with her brother’s help while tending to the house and the children.

It seemed to her that her life was one long day of hard work after another with no one to support or comfort her. As discouraging as it was, she did find solace in remembering her mother’s faith.

“There’s more to life than what we see here on this earth,” she often told her. “Faith will get you through anything if you let it. Remember that we are not alone.”

But with her mother dead and her father’s absence Abby couldn’t help but feel alone. Completely and totally alone. With the rain coming down in torrents she made her way back to the house and couldn’t remember feeling more isolated.

By the time Abby returned home her brothers and sisters were already there. Thomas had lit a fire and they were dry and warm as they watched their drenched sister run in from the fields.

“This is it, Abby! This is what we’ve all been prayin’ for!” sixteen-year-old Joseph exclaimed. “Just look at it come down!”

At fourteen Thomas was a little less enthusiastic, but Abby could see that his eyes held a glimmer of hope.

“Will Papa come home soon?” six-year-old Samantha asked.

Toweling dry her hair Abby stopped and looked at the four of them. She felt the heaviness of their dependency on her and hoped to reassure them.

“No,” she shook her head. “Papa will stay in town. Especially in this storm. But don’t you worry, we’ll be just fine. I got some bacon and some vegetables and I’ll make us a nice supper. We can eat and listen to the rain on the roof and work on our samplers.”

“Will you tell us a story while we work?” eight-year-old Jane asked. “Like Mama used to?”

Abby felt her heart squeeze and managed a smile. “Of course. It’ll be fun.”

When supper was over the darkened skies outside continued their onslaught while Thomas and Joseph lit the lanterns and the girls retrieved Abby’s sewing basket with their work in it. Samantha and Jane knelt in the pool of light by Abby’s rocking chair and carefully threaded their needles before picking up their samplers and beginning their needlework.

Abby sat down in her chair and asked them to pass her the sewing she’d been doing the night before along with her needle and thimble.

It was the thimble her mother had given her for her twelfth birthday, and Abby had never had anything so lovely. It was silver and engraved with flowers around the base. Her mother showed her how to care for it so it would last her the rest of her life, she’d said. And Abby was going to make sure that it did. When she married and had her own home, a home she would make curtains for, shirts for her husband and dresses for her daughters, she would use this thimble and remember her mother. Perhaps one day she would pass it on to one of her daughters and it would become a family legacy. It pleased her to think about that and those thoughts carried her through on the dark days following her mother’s death and her father’s distance.

“Where’s your thimble Abby?” Jane broke into her thoughts.

“In the basket,” Abby told her, “with my sewing.”

“It’s not,” Samantha said searching through the cloth. “It’s not here.”

Abby sat up and reached for the basket. “It must be,” she said, but after thoroughly rummaging through the basket she could see for herself that the thimble was not there.

Feeling panicky and anxious she began a hunt for her precious thimble. Enlisting the aid of her brothers and sisters the five of them searched the main room without success. The boys even climbed into the loft and looked, but Abby knew it couldn’t be there.

Having no luck Abby sank into the rocking chair and closed her eyes.

“Why don’t you check Mama’s chest?”

“It wouldn’t be there,” she answered.

“What?” Thomas asked.

Abby opened her eyes. “Didn’t you suggest I look in Mama’s chest?”

“You’re the only one who said anything,” Jane said.

Tired and dismayed, Abby stood up feeling irritated with her siblings.

“Fine,” she snapped and retreated to the corner where they kept their mother’s chest. No one had been in it since their mother’s death. It was filled with her most precious things, including a shawl of her grandmothers and the veil she’d worn on her wedding day.

Abby knelt down beside it and lifted the lid. On top was a bundle wrapped in brown paper and tied with a string. Abby’s name was printed on it in her mother’s handwriting. Lifting it out, she quickly untied the knot and opened it.

It was her mother’s needlework. Along the top was Abby’s name and birth date and underneath was a scripture her mother had embroidered. One Abby had forgotten in the months since her mother’s death.

“Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.” Joshua 1:9

Resting in the paper underneath was the thimble.

Clasping the thimble tight in her fist Abby embraced her mother’s embroidery to her breast.

And for the first time in many long months she offered up a prayer of thanks.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

A Short Story

TEA AT THE BILTMORE
by Maureen Mullis

There are many things in life that have changed since I was a girl. As a teenager my friends and I would grab a booth at Woolworth’s and over sodas and a shared plate of French fries we would discuss everything and anything that was going on in our lives. I remember my mother complaining that young women then had no refinements, no manners to speak of. I used to brush off her comments as my companions and I were living in the moment not seeing the need for the sophistication my mother longed to see in us.

But now, as I am well established in my golden years, I see what she was feeling. After an afternoon of shopping downtown I felt dismayed to find there was nowhere to relax and have some refreshment. Nowhere truly relaxing and gracious. It felt as if the center or our city wasn’t that different from the outskirts with its flashy fast food establishments or quick serve restaurants that specialized in sandwiches and booth service.

Although long dead, I could remember how my mother always preferred stopping at the tea room after an afternoon of shopping where she could relax and enjoy a cup of tea and some sandwiches and cake in an unhurried manner while she gathered her thoughts before heading home to her family. Today I found myself longing for the same thing.

But sadly, in today’s hustling and rushed lifestyle there seemed to be no such establishment. Making my way back to where I’d parked my car I passed by the old Biltmore Hotel. Mature and stately, the Biltmore had been around for as long as I could remember. It is the hotel of choice for elegant getaways, weddings and receptions and if one wanted to have a four star meal in their elegant dining room.

I looked up at it’s tall weathered structure remembering my own daughter’s lovely reception there and saw a sign advertising tea being served at four o’clock. Tea! Why that was just what I needed, and pushed open the doors to make my way inside.

It was everything I’d been longing for, and later as I sat sipping a final cup of tea and watching the patrons milling about something caught my eye. I turned and noticed the hand of a young woman strumming the table next to me, a large diamond ring on one finger winking at me as it caught the light.

“My goodness! What a lovely ring my dear,” I remarked to her.

Stopping her strumming she turned her hand so she could examine the ring and smiled.

“Thank you. I’m very fortunate to be getting married this evening,” she told me.

“Congratulations!” I cried. “And look at you, the afternoon before a wedding and so calm and relaxed having tea. You are a composed young woman. Are you being married here at the hotel?”

She shook her head. “Oh no. We’re being married at St. Matthew’s down the street. I’m here having one last rendezvous before we say our vows. You know,” she leaned over to look me in the eye, “you aren’t supposed to see the groom before the wedding. I came here so no one from the wedding or family would see us.”

I nodded my understanding. “Of course. Those old traditions must seem rather silly in this day and age.”

She shrugged. “Some of them. Although Gerald is rather a traditionalist. But I’m a very lucky girl.”

“I’m sure you are,” I smiled and began to gather my bags when a young man approached the table. The young woman rose and wrapped her arms around him and leaned in for a deep kiss.

“Are you ready for this?” he asked as she pulled away. She nodded and turned to retrieve her purse and glanced back at me.

“Here I go!” she said with a laugh.

“Good luck, my dear,” I said to her and turned to her young man. “Congratulations, Gerald. I hope you’ll be very happy.”

“Oh this isn’t Gerald!” the young woman said laughing at my confused expression. “Don’t you remember? Gerald is a traditionalist, and you aren’t supposed to see the bride before the wedding.”

Thursday, June 17, 2010

A Short Story

TROUBLE SLEEPING
by Maureen Mullis

At first I thought the argument was a dream. The foul language and the intensity of the anger entered into my sleeping mind and turned into something distorted and strange. But as I broke out of the dream and finally woke up the voices were still there.

I reached for my husband but found his side of the bed empty. Of course, I reminded myself, the job that brought us to this town and our new home had him working the graveyard shift. What an appropriate name, I grimaced.

“You can go to hell!” the first voice shouted, followed by mumbling and some other irate sounds.

“No, that’s you. You’re the one that holds the grudges, you son of a ….” The voice trailed off but the anger felt like an actual presence in the night.

I crept out of bed to make my way to the window. My entire house was dark and felt sure that if I peered out onto the street below I would not be witnessed by the disputers below my window. Tiptoeing my way across the room I tried to make as little noise as possible. Perhaps it was the dream or my own overly active imagination, but it felt imperative to me that they not know I was eavesdropping on them.

“I don’t believe it!” The first voice again, then some scuffling noises. “No, don’t!” he said louder than it had been even in my dream. “No!”

This last was followed by a scream more distressing than any I could ever remember hearing. I froze. My entire body felt icy. Had the one man killed the other?

I couldn’t move. Tears tracked down my cheeks. I felt so afraid that I didn’t know what to do. I should call the police and let them know, but I was afraid to. I wanted to look out the window and see what was happening so I could give an account of what I had heard and seen to the authorities. Swallowing hard I willed my feet to move and made my way once again to the window and looked out.

The street was empty. And quiet. There was nothing out there, not even a cat prowling around. It was darker than probably normal. The street light nearby was out and I had yet to report it. The moon was bright enough, but in this older neighborhood the tall trees cast long shadows that tricked my eyes into thinking there might be something there when I knew there wasn’t.

The heat of the day still lingered, which was why I had my window open. Searching back and forth I scanned the street, but not even a breeze made its way down the road.

What on earth was going on? I was in no doubt about what I had heard. Obviously I’d first become aware of the fight as I dreamt, but when I woke up it was real. I had heard the loud voices; I had heard the screaming. Equally obvious was the fact that there were no other signs that any of the neighbors had heard anything at all. All signs of life were absent.

I looked at my alarm clock and saw 2:27 displayed in bright red numbers. I wondered if it was possible to keep dreaming after you awakened. Probably. It seemed that’s what I was doing. I rubbed my hands over my face and went back to bed, turning my pillow over before I lay back down. Maybe someone was up, unable to sleep and watching an old detective show on television and I’d heard a bit of it.

Satisfied I rolled over and returned to sleep.

* * *

“Come on help me, I can’t lift him on my own!”

My eyes flew open. What the … ?

“What the hell did you think you were doing carving him up like that? Look at all this blood! How are we supposed to explain this to Al?”

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“Doesn’t know? What are you, nuts? You think he’s not going to notice when Buddy suddenly stops showing up?”

“Shut up, shut up! Can you hear that? Sirens!”

I listened, but didn’t hear any sirens.

“Drop him! Let’s get out of here!”

I sat up and looked at my clock again. 3:14. This time I got to the window without any hesitation and looked out.

At first I didn’t see anything and then something caught my eye. Some shadows underneath the branches of the tall spruce trees that lined the driveway in front of my house seemed to move stealthily in the early morning stillness. This time I backed away and picked up the phone dialing 9-1-1.

I decided not to be too specific in case I was continuing my dream, but told the dispatcher that I heard voices that sounded like they were up to no good on my street.

“Please stay on the line ma’am,” the woman’s pleasant voice instructed. “My supervisor will be on the line shortly.”

“Supervisor? Why do I need to speak with your supervisor? I would just like a patrol car to come by and check to be sure everything is alright.” My appeal went ignored, and a man’s voice came on.

“Thank you ma’am. Is this Miss Pettington at 2423 Ravenscourt Avenue?” he asked.

“Mrs. Pettington. My husband works nights, or he’d be making this call,” I informed him.

“Yes ma’am.” He cleared his throat. “Did you hear an argument outside around two-thirty this morning?”

That gave me pause. “Yes. How did you know that?”

“You must be the new owner Mrs. Pettington. We get a call like this every time someone new moves into that house. A small time hood named Buddy Carmichael was killed in front of that house in 1944. It was his house back then, and his killers were never found.”

“What!” I cried my hand flying to my throat.

“I guess Carmichael wants his killers caught and keeps hoping that someone will hear it and bring them to justice.”

“Are you trying to tell me I heard … what? Ghosts?” I sat down on the edge of my bed, stunned.

“Ghosts, voices from the past, whatever. I will send a patrol car to cruise by and check things out but like I said,” he paused a moment and cleared his throat, “we’ve been getting these calls for years. Nothing’s ever there.”

I slowly put the phone back in its stand and returned to the window to look out on the scene of the crime.

A man stood at the foot of my driveway wearing a suit and a hat. He saluted me and turned and retreated down the street.

Buddy Carmichael? I’m not sure. What I am sure of is that I purchased a small stereo and sleep with music ever since.

And I sleep straight through the night.