to jump up and run out of the house, screaming bloody murder at the top of his lungs, or just drop dead of fright right on the spot. Icy cold spread like the wispy roots of Russian Sage down his back, entwined around his spine, and then meandered deep into his chest to wrap around his heart. His heart. It thumped harder than someone buried alive, trying to get out of their coffin. Ian breathed shallow breaths. Afraid to move his head, even barely, he slowly forced his eyes to the right and then down to see if there really was a hand on his shoulder. His eyes discerned nothing out of the ordinary, but he felt the dead weight of it…unmoving…just there.
Odd didn't begin to describe the sensation.
Then the unseen hand flexed its fingers. He felt the movement of each one. His eyes caught the ruffling of his shirt. Fabric indented and formed an outline. Ian brought his eyes back up and looked straight ahead, into the mirror hanging across the room. The sight of his own face, his wide eyes, and the nothing that stood behind him was reflected. He saw only himself sitting in the chair, the window behind him, the rain sliding down the glass. No hazy apparition looming over him, no dark shadow hovering at his back.
But still he felt the hand.
And then the weight vanished.
There was no change in light. No cloud drifted across the window. The pressure lifted, a miracle like the Moses parting the Red Sea fable. There was no other explanation, other than the phantom hand being removed.
Easing himself up from the chair, Ian clutched the thick hardcover book in both hands, ready to wield it as a weapon should the need arise. First objective: Get out of the room. Second objective: Then take the time to wonder what the hell just happened. Third objective: Come up with a rational explanation.
Calmly, not in a blurry, blind rush, he walked out of the room. He almost said “excuse me” just in case a ghost was there. He didn’t want to appear rude. Grabbing his smokes, a lighter, and a soda out of the refrigerator on his way through the kitchen, he casually strolled out the kitchen door and onto the covered porch, where he plunked down into a chair and promptly lit a cigarette. Ian inhaled deeply.
Rational thought , he reminded himself. Ghosts were possible. He knew this going into the whole house deal. It could have also been any number of things.
Phantom hands don’t come out of nowhere. An apparition was one thing. Ian could handle maybe seeing a cloudy image from time to time. No biggie. He could even handle hearing some weird noises at night, providing they didn’t interrupt or otherwise mess around with his creative time.
But if the spirit was going to physically touch him, he was calling foul and filing a complaint. His imagination was creative. That would be a feasible excuse. But he felt it, and saw the indentations on his shirt. Imagination didn’t cause that. He had a ghost. Maybe it was making sure he knew it was there. Kind of just smacking him on the shoulder as its way of saying “hi.”
He popped the top of the soda can and took a long swallow of the cold stuff. Then, with the cigarette dangling from between his lips, he peeked through the kitchen window to see if he spotted anything out of the ordinary. Not sure what he should be looking for, he looked anyway. He saw the kitchen. Nothing odd about that, except he forgot to close the refrigerator door when he got his soda; so he went in and shut it, then came back out and reclaimed his seat.
The sound of the rain in the background helped soothe his heart; it slowed back down to normal. Ian sat and smoked and watched the rain come down.
~ ~ ~
After a few more hours, the rain slacked off for the most part for a while, persisting as more of a sporadic drizzle than actual rainfall. The sun, veiled by bruised-looking
Odd didn't begin to describe the sensation.
Then the unseen hand flexed its fingers. He felt the movement of each one. His eyes caught the ruffling of his shirt. Fabric indented and formed an outline. Ian brought his eyes back up and looked straight ahead, into the mirror hanging across the room. The sight of his own face, his wide eyes, and the nothing that stood behind him was reflected. He saw only himself sitting in the chair, the window behind him, the rain sliding down the glass. No hazy apparition looming over him, no dark shadow hovering at his back.
But still he felt the hand.
And then the weight vanished.
There was no change in light. No cloud drifted across the window. The pressure lifted, a miracle like the Moses parting the Red Sea fable. There was no other explanation, other than the phantom hand being removed.
Easing himself up from the chair, Ian clutched the thick hardcover book in both hands, ready to wield it as a weapon should the need arise. First objective: Get out of the room. Second objective: Then take the time to wonder what the hell just happened. Third objective: Come up with a rational explanation.
Calmly, not in a blurry, blind rush, he walked out of the room. He almost said “excuse me” just in case a ghost was there. He didn’t want to appear rude. Grabbing his smokes, a lighter, and a soda out of the refrigerator on his way through the kitchen, he casually strolled out the kitchen door and onto the covered porch, where he plunked down into a chair and promptly lit a cigarette. Ian inhaled deeply.
Rational thought , he reminded himself. Ghosts were possible. He knew this going into the whole house deal. It could have also been any number of things.
Phantom hands don’t come out of nowhere. An apparition was one thing. Ian could handle maybe seeing a cloudy image from time to time. No biggie. He could even handle hearing some weird noises at night, providing they didn’t interrupt or otherwise mess around with his creative time.
But if the spirit was going to physically touch him, he was calling foul and filing a complaint. His imagination was creative. That would be a feasible excuse. But he felt it, and saw the indentations on his shirt. Imagination didn’t cause that. He had a ghost. Maybe it was making sure he knew it was there. Kind of just smacking him on the shoulder as its way of saying “hi.”
He popped the top of the soda can and took a long swallow of the cold stuff. Then, with the cigarette dangling from between his lips, he peeked through the kitchen window to see if he spotted anything out of the ordinary. Not sure what he should be looking for, he looked anyway. He saw the kitchen. Nothing odd about that, except he forgot to close the refrigerator door when he got his soda; so he went in and shut it, then came back out and reclaimed his seat.
The sound of the rain in the background helped soothe his heart; it slowed back down to normal. Ian sat and smoked and watched the rain come down.
~ ~ ~
After a few more hours, the rain slacked off for the most part for a while, persisting as more of a sporadic drizzle than actual rainfall. The sun, veiled by bruised-looking