Shift Change

This is another offering by one of our guest authors, Lee McMullen. Some sentiments are universal. 🙂

Tick. And the second hand moves to another number. How can time move slower at the end of a shift? It had been a typical Saturday night shift from 1830 to 0630 Sunday.  The only possible description was boring.

As usual the first couple of hours were slow as Saturday night got its momentum going.  Destiny is a mining camp so the weekends, especially after payday, could get rough and provide business for the local police station.  Being the junior sergeant, I was as usual assigned to the intake desk to process drunk and belligerent miners.

About eleven the street patrols began bringing in the night’s guests and by two thirty all the bars had closed on the last people were brought to the station.  By three all the paperwork was done and the boredom began in earnest. Now with minutes to go the clock seemed frozen at 0625.

Another “Tick”, this can’t be all there is to a police career. I got into this for the excitement and coolness of being a cop.  Last night’s exciting point was seeing a regular drunk projectile vomit more than six feet.

Maybe it was time to look into a transfer to another station or even a new department.  It would have to be more exciting anywhere else.  Possibly I could even apply some of the investigation techniques they taught at the academy as being the proper way to deal with suspects. In retrospect I am sure the instructors never had a drunk vomit on the fingerprint machine causing it to short circuit.

Finally, like the rising of the sun, my relief has entered the building. After she gets her coffee and reads the current notices, she approaches the booking desk. “Tick”, 0630.  I turn over the night’s paperwork and sign out of the log. This night is finally over, and I have two days off before it happens again.

Leaving the station, I looked out of the viewing port to witness Jupiter rising. Europa’s ice surface. Below that ice were the billions of dollars in rare metals that paid for this station and my salary.  But it was still boring.  I’ve decided. I will apply for a transfer to somewhere with more going on for a cop.  Maybe Mars, or even Earth.

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Good Boy pt 3

Sharon’s note: I like writing date scenes. Most date scenes in romance today just talk about how sexually attracted the characters are to one another and forego building chemistry all together. I miss chemistry, gosh darn it. Warning: Author is going for cute.

Sam was waiting for me at one of two tables inside the ‘cafe’. There was more seating outside, but it was mostly occupied by a group of old men smoking cigars and cheering a game of chess like it was a championship boxing match.

A little brass bell above the door jingled as I opened it. The inside of the shop smelled surprisingly good. Brewing coffee melded its aroma with the medley created by so many expensive cigars. The store was divided into thirds, with one counter for each of the products it sold. A skinny older woman with gray hair in a high ponytail and a flannel shirt two sizes too big for her scampered out from behind the coffee counter.

“Oh, oh, you must be Sammy’s date! Oh, it is so good to meet you-”

“Aunt Tam, please.” Sam rose from the table, mortification on his face. 

“It’s fine, sweetie.” She waved him off, and his shoulders dropped in defeat as he shot me apologies with his eyes. When she grabbed my hands, hers were warm and calloused. “I’m Tamera, and I’m so glad to meet you. Sammy’s been talking about this all morning. I’ve never seen him so excited.”

“Well, that’s nice to hear.” I smirked at him over her shoulder. He blushed and looked at the floor, making me want to squee. I returned my attention to Tamera. “I’m Jennefer.”

“Okay, Jennefer, you go have a seat, and I’ll bring out something delicious for you two.” She tapped my nose and pranced behind the coffee counter to a backroom. Shoulders shaking with silent laughter, I went to sit at Sam’s table.

“I am so, so sorry.” He dropped into his chair while rubbing a hand over his face.

“Why? She’s lovely.”

“Aunt Tam is lovely.” He nodded, expression pained. “She’s also pushy as hell.”

“I don’t know, it seems like you need someone running herd on you.” I laughed as he threw up his hands.

“That’s what she always says.” He crossed his arms. “I am a fully capable adult, you know. I have a job. I pay taxes. I do . . . other adult like stuff.”

“You ran up to the door of a woman you didn’t know and asked her out because you thought she was pretty.” I propped my elbows on the table and leaned forward to bat my eyelashes at him.

He pointed a finger at me with a wide grin. “I’ll have you know that was very mature. I didn’t run away, or pull your hair or anything.”

“Well, congrats on moving past kindergarten moves. Most guys never manage it.”

“Here we are! Two extra chocolaty iced mochas and two slices of my extra moist devil’s food chocolate cake with salted caramel frosting.” Tamera’s voice was sing song as she pushed her way through the back door with a loaded tray.

“Aunt Tam!” Sam jumped to his feet. “Let me get that for you.”

“Can your chivalry and sit down,” she barked. Sam dropped his but into the seat. Tamera grumbled as she put our food on the table, all while trying not to smile. “Cocky kid. I’ve been waiting tables and carrying crap heavier than him since before he was born. Thinks he needs to help the little old lady. I’ll show him who needs help. Now you two enjoy. I’ll be back to check on you in a little bit.”

She winked at me as she retreated into the back. My stomach hurt I was laughing so hard. 

Sam crossed his arms and tried to look broody. “I feel compelled to point out she’s not actually my aunt.”

“No?” I took a sip of my coffee. Extra chocolate indeed. It was just short of pudding consistency.

“She’s a friend of my dads.” He looked thoughtful. “I have a very large family. Most of us aren’t related, but we’re really close.”

“That’s cool.” I took a bite of cake. It was a good thing the frosting had a little salt, otherwise it would be too sweet to eat. “Your aunt doesn’t mess around when it comes to sweets, does she?”

He tried the cake and gagged. “No, no she does not.”

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Carnival Girl Pt 5

Sharon’s Note: Character development is tricky. You have to try to balance story progression versus character progression, and you don’t want to leave either one behind. In romance, it’s kind of weird because the character development is the main story, and anything else happening is b plot. You still can’t abandon it, but it shifts the balance somewhat of what you focus on. It’s different to write, but fun. Warning: Sweet moment.

As they left the haunted house they were immediately accosted by a balding, wiry man with a camera. He waved it in their faces. “Hey, you guys want a picture? Only five tickets.”

Jim was about to tell the guy no, when Wendy draped an arm over his shoulder. “I’m going to kiss your cheek for the picture, okay?”

“Uh, yeah, s- sure,” he stammered. The photographer grinned wickedly, knowing exactly why Jim was staring at the camera in panic while Wendy’s lips pressed lightly right in front of his ear. 

The camera clicked several times, then Wendy turned to the photographer. “So where’s the picture?”

“There’s a booth right near the exit. You can pick it up there in about an hour.” He winked at Jim. “Make sure you don’t forget it. Looks like a good memory to keep.”

Wendy sighed and her shoulders dropped. “Didn’t they invent cameras that gave you the picture right away? Wasn’t that a thing that happened?”

“They gotta have time to print out the picture.” The photographer shifted uncomfortably as she stared at him, her face crumbling to confusion and her breath starting to get quick and ragged.

She whipped around to Jim, tears starting to form and her lip beginning to tremble. “But that was a thing? I remembering that correctly, right?”

“Yeah, yeah that was totally a thing. It’s just not what they’re doing here.” He took her hands, his own panic brimming at the thought of her crying. The photographer took the opportunity to scamper away. Jim stroked her hair, feeling its soft strands mixed with the stiff edge of ribbons and coarse twine. “Wow, um, you, you really have trouble remembering things, don’t you?”

“You thought I was lying?” She pulled one hand away to wipe at her eyes.

“I thought you were exaggerating, you know, playing it up for laughs.” He looked around till he found an unoccupied bench and pulled them both to it. “Were you like, in an accident or something?”

Wendy shrugged, petting his hand for comfort like it was a small animal. “I don’t know. I can’t remember that either.”

“Do you have any friends or family who could, you know, help?”

She shook her head. “If I do, I don’t remember them either. All I have is this . . . compulsion. I go around, looking for things and . . . I fix them. It may not have always been like that, but that’s how it is now.”

“I, uh, don’t know how to help.” Jim stared at the hand that petted his. It had freckles on the back of it.

“Help me focus.” She touched his chin, raising it so he had to look at her. “Be here with me and talk to me and be my friend. I need someone to remember for me and point me in the right direction. I need you.”

A smile crept onto his face against his will. “Well, you know, we’re, um, not far from the ferris wheel, if you still want to go.”

Like a sunrise, joy broke over her face. “The ferris wheel, that’s right! See, I need you around.”

Wendy bound to her feet, dragging Jim with her.

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Hard Hunting: The Hospital Pt 3

Sharon’s note: One of the hardest things about being in a hospital is dealing with other patients. There are entitled, whiny jerks there just like anywhere else, but that’s not what I’m talking about. There is a worse kind of person to deal with. Sometimes they’re in a lot of pain. They are always extremely stressed/scared/temporarily mentally unwell, and the only way they know how to deal with it is to spread the misery. They will scream in the halls and verbally abuse everyone they see or beg for random passersby to help them. They only calm down once they see someone else suffering. And the worst part is that you can’t even blame them. They are going through hell, and don’t have another way to cope with it. 

For the most part, I think they need someone to empathise with them. Correctly applied, company can help some misery. Sometimes, though, there is no helping, and they know it. Sometimes, it’s not ever going to be okay again, but they can’t help but grasp for someone, anyone, to make it better. Warning: At some point, everyone loses it, and screams in the hallways.

The klaxons sounded. It was the third time in two days. I frowned up at the speaker. 

“I want to go back to my room,” Claira announced as loud as she could. Her wheelchair was pushed up so she could watch the television in the corner. Her wrinkled, frail hands slapped against her legs.

“Shut up!” Han-Wool shouted from the long wooden table at the center of the room. He’d been playing solitaire, and did not appreciate being interrupted. This was supposed to be the social and activity room, but none of us were very sociable. The Korean Hunter had chased one of his local boojums all the way to the US, and while he’d gotten it, he’d also gotten his leg sliced open to the bone and a nasty infection for his troubles. The whole mess had caused him to miss the birth of his first child, and that had not put him in the mood for anyone’s crap.

I was not having a good day. Every limb felt like it weighed a hundred pounds, I was so tired my head was wooly and my stomach ached. Even though I had trouble sleeping, I wanted to go back to bed. Unfortunately for me, the nurse decided that I needed to spend a little time socializing, or at least not staring at my ceiling. While listening to the other Hunter and the old witch gripe at each other might have been entertaining under other circumstances, it wasn’t doing anything for me right then. 

“I want to go back to my room right now,” Claira wailed. She screwed up her eyes and made sobbing noises, but she didn’t shed a single tear. No one was fooled, especially Nora, the supervising nurse.

“You know we can’t move until the all-clear is sounded.” Nora didn’t even look up from her tablet. 

“I don’t care! I’m sick of being in here. Take me back now or I’m going to call my son! He’s an important contributor to this-”

“Give it up, Claira.” I rubbed my eyes, and the effort of lifting my arms made me want to cry. “Everyone here knows you’re not that senile. If you want some attention, how about just asking someone for a game of cards or something like the rest of us.”

If I’d have slapped her I didn’t think she’d have looked more offended. Her lip started to tremble, and Han-Wool put his hands over his ears with a defeated sigh.

“I WISH I WAS DEAD!” For such a small woman, Claira could really project. She continued on about how everyone hated her because she was old, and she was useless because she was old, and on, and on, and on. With her constant caterwauling, I almost didn’t hear the high pitch trill coming from Nora’s tablet.

“Claira, shut up,” the nurse said as she moved to look out the small window in the door. When the old witch refused to be silenced, Nora hissed, “If you don’t shut up, I will shoot you full of enough lorazepam to make an elephant dopey.”

Claira shut up. In the silence, I could hear a quiet, steady thumping. The vibrations echoed up through my chest, conducted through my chair. 

“Nora? Do we have a t-rex in the hospital?” I tried to smile, but it was hard when my stomach was sinking towards the floor. 

“Just a VIP passing through,” she murmured. Behind her head. I saw something moving. It was big and black and took over three seconds to move clear of that little window.

“What is that?” Han-Wool’s eyes were wide, and his hand was curled at his side, probably missing his side arm as much as I was.

“Can’t say.” Nora pried herself away from the window to smile weakly at us. “Patient confidentiality.”

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Liminal Spaces Pt 3

Sharon’s Notes: I like horror, but I have mixed feelings about how horror starts. It’s always slow, and it’s easy to loose your audience when the beginning is slow. Unfortunately, horror has a lot of the same problems as both fantasy and romance. You need time to build the world and tension as well as the characters so the reader cares if they live or die. Here’s hoping that there’s enough to keep your interest while I build everything up. Warning: Author has a hard time writing a character who doesn’t love rats. Rats are adorable.

The light danced up the stairs as they creaked satisfactorily under my feet. The hallway at the top was short and narrow, the double doors John mentioned were impossible to miss, but so was the small, narrow door on the left that was held shut by multiple hasps and padlocks. I touched one of the locks. It was brand new, a barcode sticker still on the back. There was a short scratch on the door, and I jumped back. Rats?

I rapped my knuckles sharply against the door, and there was a susurrus of scrapes and scampering. The tension in my chest relaxed. I didn’t particularly like rats, but I didn’t hate them either, and I was familiar with the noises they made. Now, this didn’t answer why there was a locked closet full of rats, unless . . .

Stories of McBride’s ‘treatments’, campfire stories and local legends, came flooding back. The hospital was far off the road, deep in private property, so anyone born after it closed in 2000 had likely never seen it, but everyone knew the stories. Whether any of those stories were true was anyone’s guess. My own mother told everyone about seeing a woman in an old style nightgown wandering the halls when she was in the maternity ward with my older sister. 

I never believed her about that, my mother loved her tall tales, but there were other things that had made me wonder. My grandfather was seventy-four, and on holidays when he’d had a little too much to drink he’d talk about his time as an orderly there in the 70’s. It had still been a mental hospital then, and it had changed hands several times since the death of Dr. McBride.  According to Grandpa, it had been a good place to work, and about as good as any mental hospital at the time, except for the weird things that happened. Things would move in locked rooms, and patience would talk about doctors and patients that didn’t exist. And always, there were the rats. No matter how many traps they put down, or poison they set out, the rats would always come back.

The stories gave me nightmares, but they also gave me a fascination with scary places. I’d started a blog about various hauntings. It was small, but I was hoping to do it for a living, and I had plans to write a book. The first step, before I got deep into the research on the real history of McBride’s hospital, I really wanted to get a feel for the place. Besides, I always wanted to stay the night in a haunted house.

I turned away from the locked closet, since I had no way to open it. The double doors to McBride’s office opened easily without even a squeak. I swept my flashlight back and forth across the floor. There was no sign of rats, or dust, or anything. The office was almost sparkling clean. My shoulders dropped. Had John been messing with me? Between the cleaner state of the old wing and new locks I had seen, someone had to be visiting regularly. 

It didn’t matter. All it meant was that I would get a nicer place to sleep. There was a lot of smooth, open floor between the empty desk and the door for me to camp out on, so I unrolled my sleeping bag and started setting up my little electric lamp. The total silence was becoming more comfortable than annoying. In the greater light of the lamp the shadows became longer, almost deeper than the darkness had been. The windows that overlooked the lobby turned into panes of glossy slate and the wood of the desk and floor glowed the color of honey. There was another, narrow door off to the side. It was a tiny bathroom with a pull chain toilet and a pedestal sink. I figured that running water was too much to ask, but I turned the faucet anyway. 

Water came out in a slightly rusty trickle. That was surprising. It wasn’t usable, but it was good to know. I turned off the water and went to eat my dinner of a granola bar while I made notes on the vibes I had gotten so far. I settled down with my phone and my back against the desk while I wrote. Time disappeared, until there was a soft knock at the door that echoed through the silent room like thunder.

Good Boy Pt 2

Sharon’s Note: So, I like the occasional broody-boy love interest (although far too often do the lines of broody and jerk get blurred), but I think the archetype of the happy-puppy love interest is seriously under utilized. Sometimes you’ll see one in a love triangle, but he gets tossed aside because the broody-boy ‘needs’ the main character more. Some people love that, I hate it. I prefer a love interest I can like, not just feel sorry for. Warning: Maybe a slow start, but all good things to those who wait. Probably.

“Um, yeah. I’m Jen. It’s nice to meet you.” His grin was infection, so I had to smile too.

“So, my number should be on the fridge, if you need anything. Rick said he’d leave it there.” He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “So, I stopped by to say hi, but you are absolutely gorgeous and I was wondering if you wanted to go get coffee.”

My cheeks grew hot and I giggled. The guy who looked like he’d just walked out of a romance movie was calling me beautiful, and looked like he had as many butterflies in his stomach as I did over asking me out. I smiled coyly. “I don’t know. Does a town this small even have a coffee shop.”

It was his turn to blush. He looked at the ground and mumbled, “We have a coffee shop. It also sells ammo and cigars, but it is a coffee shop.”

“It sounds charming.” I chuckled. Baskerville must have finished his lunch, because he waddled up behind my legs, gave Sam the customary single woof, then crawled back onto the couch to take a nap. “Tell you what, I’ve had a really long drive up here, and I’m inclined to follow Bask’s example. I’ll give you a call about coffee, okay?”

He deflated briefly, then rallied. “Great. You’re here for a couple of weeks, right? I’m sure I’ll see you around. In a town this small, it’s kind of inevitable.”

“Yeah. I’ll see you around.” I slowly closed the door, then looked through the peephole. Sam hesitated for a moment, then walked back towards the park.

I looked over at Baskerville. “You don’t think Dad is trying to set me up again, do you?”

The old hound let out a loud, prolonged fart in reply. It was the response I expected, and I nodded gravely like it was profound wisdom while sitting on the arm of the couch to stroke his ear. “He’s happy and in love, so he wants everyone else to be happy and in love. At least this guy seems nice. The last guy he tried to set me up with was this super uptight businessman who was rude to the waiter. Like, I walked out in protest, rude.”

Baskerville had nothing to the conversation, so I sighed and went to the kitchen. There was a list of phone numbers taped to the fridge, starting with the local veterinarian, and including Sam, who’s name was underlined as a ‘trustworthy neighbor’. Yep, Dad was definitely trying to get us together. I opened the fridge and perused for my own meal. Alice’s influence hadn’t completely taken over the fridge. There was plenty of lettuce and carrot sticks, but Dad’s sandwich cookies and rootbeer were still hidden at the back. 

I had to smile. Dad’s ‘stash’ had been forbidden fruit for my entire childhood. I gleefully snatched a bottle and the bag of cookies. It was a silly thing to do, since I’d replace anything I ate before Dad got home, but it was fun. I sat at the kitchen table and stared at the list on the fridge.

On the one hand, I’d told Dad to stop his matchmaking efforts, and I kind of resented the fact that he hadn’t. On the other hand, if this guy had asked me out without my father’s urging, I’d very strongly consider it. And it was just coffee. What was the harm? If it didn’t work out, I could use it as evidence that Dad should mind his own business. 

I popped the cap of the rootbeer off on the edge of the table, just like Mom had always yelled at us for doing. I’d give Sam a call in the morning and ask him if he wanted to meet up.

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Monster Wanted

Sharon’s note: So, the inspiration for this was an old Sesame Street song, that I always loved, but thought had some . . . interesting subtext for a kids’ song. I’m actually a fan of subtext of any kind in kids’ media that they don’t understand. It makes it more consumable for adults, and when the kid re-watches it later, there’s an amazing growth moment when they see something they never saw before. Warning: Author loves going outside and between the lines.

Wanted: One Monster

I need a monster

Who will be

A foe to them

And friend to me

Must have fangs

And must have claws

Glowing eyes

And gnashing jaws

Must know a story

And a song

And must know

His right from wrong

And most of all

You have to be

A foe to them

And friend to me

Carnival Girl Pt 4

Sharon’s note: So, I’m teaching myself to write horror at the same time I’m writing this, and because romance and horror are oddly similar in style, I think they’re starting to bleed together. Meh, it’s probably fine. My husband takes me on dates to horror movies after all. Warning: Creepy and cute, but not quite creepy-cute.

A cardboard ghost cut out popped out with a loud clank. Jim jerked. “That’s like a lawsuit waiting to happen. Somebody’s going to walk right into that thing. What are you doing?”

Wendy, while she was still holding Jim’s hand, was tugging gently while she stood on tiptoes, scenting the air. “Looking for something unusual.”

“With your nose?” Jim teased, nudging her in the shoulder.

She grinned sheepishly. “Your senses can pick up more than you realize. If something’s wrong, they’ll try to tell you, if you’ll listen.”

“So, what is your sense of smell trying to tell you?” Jim’s stomach clenched as he took the chance to reach up and boop her nose. Elation raced through him as she giggled and leaned into his shoulder.

“That someone peed in here, and someone else spilled a beer, and before that they used a lot of bleach, but it doesn’t cover up the fact that not that long ago there was a lot of blood spilt in here.” She leaned in and sniffed near his neck. “And I really like the smell of your body wash. It smells a little like oranges. I love oranges.”

Heat crept up Jim’s face, and he decided her attempts to be creepy were adorable. “You have a really good sense of smell. All I’m picking up is the beer. And the piss, now that you mention it.”

She shrugged, then looked at the floor speculatively. “I could probably get down low and track it like a hound, but it is really gross down there.”

“Let’s just keep looking. Maybe we’ll find where the smell is coming from. They could be using pig’s blood as a prop.” The idea was as cool as it was gross.

She scrunched her mouth while she considered that, then shook her head. “I wouldn’t think so. It would be really inefficient. They’d have to keep it refrigerated otherwise it would go bad. Even if you didn’t have a great nose, you’d smell rotting blood. It’s a very loud odor.”

The idea made the funnel cake swim in Jim’s stomach. They continued walking through the trailer, looking at exhibits of wax witches and an animatronic vampire that reached out its arm half-way, made a strange clicking noise, and retracted it with a loud, mechanical whir. As they passed through a dim room with hanging chains and a scratchy screaming soundtrack, a gagging sweet smell hung in the air. 

“Someone was wearing too much perfume.” Jim pulled up his shirt to cover his nose.

“No, someone sprayed a cheap body spray directly into the air to cover up another scent.” Wendy tugged at his shirt until he let it fall. “You should be able to get this one. Take a deep breath through your mouth and make sure you draw the air over your tongue. Really taste it. Close your eyes too. Sometimes that helps.”

Jim smirked, but did as she asked, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. The perfume was horrible. Now that he was really focusing on it, he caught the aroma of alcohol in the air, but under that . . . his stomach revolted and his jaws snapped shut. With a hand over his mouth, he said, “Oh, God, what is that? Is . . . is something rotting in here?”

“That would be my guess. Or maybe it’s something under the trailer. We’d-” She paused, then quickly dropped Jim’s hand to wrap her arm around his waist and pull him close to her side while she stared hard into a dark corner. Her body radiated heat, and his heart jumped into his throat. 

A girl with a white tee-shirt covered in bloody handprints and matted hair came screaming out of the dark. Wendy relaxed against him as the bloody girl disappeared down a hallway. He stared after her in confusion. “Is . . . is she where the smell was coming from? Were they actually using rotting pigs blood?”

“Nah.” Wendy laid her head against his shoulder and Jim was awash with many opposing feelings. “I smelled sugar. It was just colored corn syrup. Come on. There’s definitely something fishy going on here, but I don’t think we’re going to get to the heart of it in here. Let’s go find the ferris wheel. A good view might widen our perspective.”

Jim chuckled weakly at her pun, but the uneasy feeling in his stomach wouldn’t go away wouldn’t go away while he could still taste something spoiled.

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Good Boy Pt 1

Sharon’s note: So, I threatened to write this on Facebook, so here it goes. One wholesome, fated mate werewolf romance, complete with actual alpha behavior coming up. Warning: Author finds herself writing a lot of romance lately, and is curious about this turn in her writing.

Dad’s house was across from the park. For a small town, it had a marvelous park, complete with a fair sized duck pond and a pristinely kept track with exercise stations. Children ran screaming around the playground, kicking up the cedar chips that filled the pit around the equipment. Most of the parents were sitting on benches, chatting and enjoying the sunny day. One man was playing tag with a group of kids on the open grass. 

I had to admit to looking at him a little long. He wore a black tee-shirt that stretched over a nicely muscled, broad-shouldered frame. Tight jeans showed off his . . . assets well. His dark hair was tied back in a short ponytail that was an adorable poof at the back of his head. Physically, he was a stunning specimen, but what I couldn’t stop staring at was his smile. Even at a distance, he had a sweet, heart melting grin that was all joy and no guile. 

Our eyes met, and he froze in place. Several small children ran into the back of his legs and they all fell over in a pile. I laughed and turned to unlock the door. That was enough admiring the scenery when I had a job to do.

Dad’s house always smelled overwhelmingly of eucalyptus. It wasn’t a bad smell, there was just a lot of it. I’d hoped that Alice, his new wife, would convince him that there were other scents, but either she had failed, or was just as big a fan as he was. Baskerville, Dad’s ancient hound dog trotted up to the door. He peered at me through milky eyes, gave a single, tiered woof to let me know that he was still a good guard dog, then proceeded to sniff and lick the top of my shoe. 

“You can lick all you want, buddy, but I think I got all the katchup off.” Baskerville didn’t pay any attention to me, and continued slobbering all over my sneakers. I stepped around him into the house, and he whined in complaint. I sighed. “Spoiled mutt. Come on, I’ll feed you.”

He huffed, and trotted ahead of me. The goofy old thing had never figured out ‘stay’ or ‘get off the couch’, but he understood ‘feed’ well enough. I followed him to the kitchen and had to chuckle. One improvement of Dad’s new married life was that the kitchen was spotless and tidy. I’d house sat for him before. Dad kept things hygienic, but he wasn’t an orderly person. There were always odd projects scattered over his kitchen table. Last time it was a giant puzzle with a picture of a dragon. 

The dog food was under the kitchen sink, like always. I got a scoop and dumped it into Baskerville’s bowl, who nearly knocked me over on his way to inhale his lunch. He didn’t even look up when the doorbell rang.

I rolled my eyes, but grinned all the way to the door to check the peephole. The guy from the park was bouncing on his heels on the doorstep, a nervous grin spread over his face. This close I could tell his eyes were bluish gray. I latched the chain on the door and opened it. 

“Hello?” I said.

“Um, yeah, hi.” He put his hands in his pockets and rocked on his feet. “My name is Sam. I know your dad. You’re his daughter, Jennifer, right? He mentioned you’d be watching his house while he was on his honeymoon. I just thought I’d introduce myself.”

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Liminal Spaces Pt 2

Sharon’s note: So, writing this is harder than I thought. Horror is a genre of grit and demons, but it’s the personal type of demons. Horror is about people, and has to be character driven to make people really feel the fear. I generally create story driven narratives. It’s what I like to read, so that’s what I write. Venturing into horror is more of a writing exercise than anything else, to help me grow as a writer. It’s fun, but it’s making me stretch my brain. Warning: Author is a big advocate of stretching. It’s good for you.

Walking through the door to the old wing was like stepping back in time. The floor was wooden, pitted and gray with age. Instead of the square industrial fixtures of the new wing, these were retrofitted gas lamps. They still weren’t working, but they looked amazing.

“Is it my imagination, or is it less dusty in here?” I scruffed my shoe against the floor, and while grit crunched under it, I didn’t get the expected poof.

“Just because there’s nothing living in the old wing, doesn’t mean there’s nothing moving around in here.” John rubbed his fingers over the can of mace on his belt. 

“Does pepper spray work on ghosts?” I chuckled. 

John dropped his hand and marched ahead. “McBride’s office is upstairs. Once you’re settled in, I have to go make my rounds. Use your radio if you need me, otherwise I’ll be back in the morning to clear you out before shift change.”

 “This is so great.” The hall opened up into the old hospital lobby. The floor changed to slate gray tile, and the walls were mostly wood paneling. An ancient abandoned wheelchair was backed against a counter, and that was all the furnishings that remained. “It really feels haunted, doesn’t it.”

“All you’re feeling now is the creepiness of being in an empty building. When the real haunting starts, you’ll know.” He pointed, and I followed the gesture to a large window overlooking the lobby. “That’s his office there.”

“He liked to keep an eye on things.” The glass itself was surprisingly clean, sparkling in the light of my flashlight, but all I could see beyond it was a black void.

“Most monsters are control freaks.” John pointed at a plain wood staircase under the window. “There. Take those up. His office is the big double doors on the right.”

“You aren’t coming with me?” I raised an eyebrow. John’s eyes were dartling rapidly between all the doors, always coming back to the stairwell to McBride’s office. He was starting to sweat. I half laughed. “Wait, you’re actually afraid. You really believe this place is haunted.”

“I’ve seen some things.” He glared at the windows, then at me. “Look, this is your last chance to come back with me. I’ll meet you down here first thing in the morning, but I won’t go up there looking for you.”

John walked back the way we had come. I talked to his back. “Hey, can I interview you about your experiences here?”

“Sure. Add another hundred bucks to my fee when I come to get you in the morning,” he called over his shoulder, and then he was gone.

I hefted my pack and swallowed hard. The sounds of the security guard’s footsteps faded quickly, and I admittedly felt less secure with him gone. With just one light, the darkness crept uncomfortably close. I could almost feel it curled up against my back. Oh, well. No good complaining. This was what I had asked for, after all.

I turned away from the exit and started up the stairs to McBride’s office.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

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