Giving up the ghost, p.1
Giving Up The Ghost, page 1
GIVING UP THE GHOST
A Paranormal Thriller Short Story
DEAN RASMUSSEN
Giving Up The Ghost:
A Paranormal Thriller Short Story
Dean Rasmussen
Copyright © 2021 Dean Rasmussen
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental. Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent from the publisher is strictly prohibited, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
For more information about this book, visit:
www.deanrasmussen.com
dean@deanrasmussen.com
Giving Up The Ghost:
A Paranormal Thriller Short Story
Published by:
Dark Venture Press, 15502 Stoneybrook West Parkway, Suite 104-452, Winter Garden, FL 34787
Cover Art: Dark Venture Press and Deposit Photos
Created with Vellum
CONTENTS
Giving Up The Ghost
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About the Author
GIVING UP THE GHOST
The house was ready to give up the ghost, so to speak. Jennifer stared at the broken siding and patchwork of shingles showing years of damage. Florida’s weather could do that to a home, wear it down to a broken shell in all the mad storms, and unless they’d constructed it well, especially for a home near the coast, it would crumble. Mrs. Edith Foster’s home had solid bones. Thick wooden beams stood on either side of her porch, holding up what remained of the overhang. A cement foundation wrapped around the base, and several live oak trees lined her property, serving as a natural barrier against the wind and rain.
The surrounding area was swampy, as is much of Florida, but beautiful. No way to avoid it. The view from the front porch faced a sprawling swamp across the road, and to the right of that, on a small hill, stood an old church and an overgrown cemetery. A wire mesh fence lined the properties with the obvious intention to keep the gators out.
Cement steps led Jennifer up to the porch and the boards creaked on her way to the front door. The porch light was on, as always—the house stood in shadow most of the time because of the trees—but today it was especially dark because of the hurricane.
The weather reports had warned that the hurricane about to pummel the Tampa area would eclipse all the others. A Category 5 moving slowly just off the coast, and it would hit the city head-on. Edith had said on previous visits that the house had weathered many hurricanes over the years, but maybe this time it might not be so lucky.
Standing at the front door, the growing gusts of wind pushed Jennifer sideways as she pressed the glowing doorbell button. Jennifer waited politely a few seconds before unlocking the door and stepping inside. No need to wait—her patient would be expecting her.
“Hello?” Jennifer locked the door behind her. “Mrs. Foster? I’m coming in.”
No response from her patient—the old woman was most likely sleeping at that time of the day. During most visits, Jennifer found Edith either asleep in her room or lying in her bed staring out the window, or at the ceiling.
Jennifer carried two bags with her into the house. One containing her arsenal of medical equipment and everything a nurse required to do her job during a home hospice visit, and the other containing personal overnight supplies, just in case the hurricane forced her to spend the night there.
The intention was to get in and get out of there within an hour, but it hadn’t looked good on the drive over. The police were stopping each car and advising them to evacuate. Only essential workers were allowed to pass without a hassle. There wasn’t time to evacuate Edith, and her only son lived up in Maine, so Jennifer planned to check on the old woman one last time before the storm passed through. No chance her property would flood as it sat far enough away from the ocean and rose above the surrounding area, but they’d projected the winds to hit 100 mph.
The kitchen table was a mess, with one chair tipped over on its side a few feet away. Jennifer dropped her bags on the table, pushing aside scattered trash and unwashed dishes, and hurried over to the old woman’s room. Stepping through the open doorway, she found the old woman rolled over on her side facing the window.
“Mrs. Foster? Edith? I’m back again. How are you feeling today?”
Edith mumbled something and turned her head slightly.
Jennifer stepped up beside the bed and rested her hand on Edith’s shoulder. “Looks like another hurricane this evening. I brought my overnight supplies, just in case you’d like me to stay with you tonight.”
Edith turned and met Jennifer’s eyes. “You don’t need to stay. I can take care of myself.”
“I’m sure you can, but I would hate to leave you here all alone, and what if something happens where you couldn’t get help? They’ll be shutting down the roads soon. Not even the emergency vehicles will be able to get through. All the roads will probably flood.”
Edith’s weak voice grew louder. “I’ve been through a hurricane before. You can check me and go home, if you’d like.”
Jennifer opened her medical bag and began assessing her patient. “Okay, but we’ll see.”
She went through checking all of Edith’s vital signs and cognitive abilities. The same steps she had gone through with her so many times before. Today, Edith was more aware of the visit. Sometimes the old woman would shrink in her bed, pull the sheets over herself like a frightened child at the sight of a stranger entering her bedroom.
Jennifer took the opportunity with Edith’s clarity to ask some questions. “Are you getting around okay? There’s a kitchen chair on the floor out there. Did you fall?”
“I’m not a klutz, you know.”
“Oh, I’m not saying anything like that, Mrs. Foster. I just want to make sure you’re safe.”
Edith tensed, and her voice strained as she made a fist. “Nothing can take me down. I’m a tank.”
Jennifer nodded and grinned while continuing with the assessment procedure. “I believe you.”
The wind howled outside and Jennifer called her supervisor, notifying her that, based on the condition of Edith’s health, she would stay there with her patient until morning, until after the hurricane had passed. Edith’s condition wasn’t dire, but Jennifer was concerned that if they lost electricity or water, nobody would be around to help her. Dementia patients were especially vulnerable during natural disasters, but even in the course of a typical day they needed frequent attention. Without the proper guidance, they could end up sprawled out across the floor just seconds after being instructed not to get out of bed.
No, it was better to stay the night and do the right thing.
Jennifer’s supervisor agreed with her decision to stay the night, but recommended she check in every few hours. “Just to keep us updated,” her supervisor had said. “Things are bad and they’re going to get worse.”
Ending the call with her supervisor, Jennifer put away her equipment and leaned in closer to Edith’s ear. “Looks like you’ve got me for the evening. Can I get you anything?”
“Nothing.” She strained to face Jennifer. “You can go home.”
“I know, but I’d feel better if I knew you were safe. Pretty soon neither one of us will be able to get out of here—they’ll close the roads. After that, it’s just you and me.”
Edith stared into Jennifer’s eyes. “Better stay out of my way. I’ve got things to do.”
“I’m sure you do.” Jennifer glanced back toward the living room. “All right then. I guess I’ll just get settled in. I’ll be in the living room working on my laptop and if you need anything, just ring the bell as always.” Jennifer glanced at the small brass bell on the nightstand next to Edith’s bed. It worked well for communicating—easy for Edith to pick up and plenty loud enough to hear over the growing storm. When Edith had rung the bell in the past, it reminded Jennifer of a master calling her servant, and in a way, that was the truth. She was there to serve her patient.
Jennifer left the room and walked over to the window at the back of the house. The dark clouds raced across the sky as the rain pelted the glass. Tree branches swayed and the sky darkened as the sun set in the distance. The news reports had estimated the wind speeds to reach 70 mph by 10 PM. And even then, the wind was just getting started. They would be fine as long as the storm didn’t kick up any loose objects and toss them through the windows.
For the next few hours, Jennifer checked on Edith every twenty minutes, sometimes escorting her to grab a snack from the refrigerator and use the bathroom. Edith could still get around despite her frail, petite frame and dementia, but it was the odd, confused moments that worried Jennifer. The little emergencies could quickly escalate into big problems if she wasn’t there. The close calls terrified her.
Sometimes while walking Edith around the house, Jennifer asked her about her life. What had she learned over the years? What were her favorite moments in life? If she could do anything again, what would it be? Inevitably, the conversation would turn to Edith’s son and that would stir her memories enough to keep her present for half an hour or more.
With the constant wind battering the house, Jennifer made herself comfortable on the couch, not bothering to watch her usual TV programs or check her social media. She read the mystery nov
A short time later, someone knocked on the door.
Her mind snapped alert, but she didn’t react. Had she really heard that? It couldn’t be someone outside in that horrible weather, could it? Impossible. An object must have struck the door.
She waited with the open book in her hands, and a few seconds later, someone knocked on the door again. Now she set the book down and shuddered. “What the hell?”
Climbing off the couch, still dressed in her nurse’s uniform, she hurried to the front door. Did someone need help out there? Someone stranded in the rain or one of Edith’s friends coming to check on her? It wasn’t out of the question but…
… in this weather?
Instead of opening the door right away, she flipped on the porch light and peered through the small peephole in the door’s center. If someone was out there, wouldn’t they have used the doorbell?
The rain blurred the peephole’s glass, and it was difficult to make out any distinct shapes.
She unlocked the door and opened it a few inches before the wind caught it, thrusting it in toward her as if someone were throwing their entire weight against it from the other side. She glanced out to the empty porch before pushing the door closed again. No one was out there. Had someone hurried off before she’d gotten there? It was more likely that something hit the door, and her imagination had played tricks on her. A sleepy mind.
Glancing one last time through the peephole, she paused for several seconds, watching the drops of rain create churning shapes against the outside glass. False alarm.
She gave up and walked back to the couch. There would be a lot of noises that night. Nothing to panic about. She sat on the couch again for a few minutes with her eyelids drooping down. Too tired to read anymore, so she dropped back onto the pillow she’d brought with her. The wind’s whirring sound outside rose and fell.
She fell asleep—a sound sleep…
… then awoke to the sound of someone whimpering. When she opened her eyes, the wind was rushing in through the living room. Damp air whipped over her clothes and Jennifer jumped to her feet. The front door was wide open. Edith had gotten out of bed and now stood in the doorway with one hand on the door handle and her other hand stretched out into the darkness of the doorway. Blood soaked a section of her shirt near her upper chest.
“Mrs. Foster, is everything okay?” Jennifer rushed to her side.
The old woman turned around with her mouth open and eyes wide. “No.”
Jennifer closed the door. “Let’s not go out there tonight.”
Edith wavered in place, groaning on the edge of panic and tears. She coughed and gasped for breath as Jennifer swept her arm around her and held her up.
“Oh, my God, what happened to you?” Jennifer walked her over to the kitchen table and sat her down in a chair. “Let me have a look at that. Did something hit you?”
“He stabbed me.” Edith scowled.
Jennifer grabbed her medical bag and pulled out her bandages and medicines. Slipping off Edith’s damp pajama top, she spotted the wound. A sharp cut beneath the cloth as if a knife had slashed across her chest near her underarm. But no damage to her pajamas except for the bloodstain. “Who stabbed you?”
“Rodney. He’s going to kill me.”
“Who’s Rodney?”
“A bad boy.”
Jennifer furrowed her brow and examined the wound. Edith wasn’t making any sense, but fortunately the cut wasn’t too deep. She cleaned it up and applied a bandage before retrieving another pajama top for her from her bedroom’s dresser. “Were you trying to go for a walk?”
“No.” Edith grumbled. “He came back to get me. They should put him in jail.”
Jennifer looked toward the front door. “I don’t think anyone is out there tonight.”
“He’s out there. Something stirred him up.”
Jennifer smiled warmly and stood beside her. “Let’s get you back to bed. Can you stand?”
Edith stood and waved one fist in the air. “I’ll knock his lights out.”
Jennifer’s smile turned to grin. “I’m sure you would.”
They walked back to Edith’s bedroom, but the old woman refused to get back into bed. Instead, she sat on the edge and nursed her wound.
“You’d feel better if you laid down.” Jennifer straightened the sheets and fluffed the pillows.
“You don’t believe me.” Edith folded her arms over her chest. “Go look for yourself.”
“It’s not that I don’t believe you, but there’s quite a storm outside tonight. I doubt someone would get very far.”
Someone knocked at the door.
They both looked at each other. Jennifer held her breath.
Edith leaned in toward her and spoke in a low growl. “He won’t leave us alone.”
Jennifer forced a smile. “It’s probably just pranksters. I’ll take care of it.” She walked through the house to the front door and opened it, just a few inches, while flipping the porch light on at the same time. The wind and rain rushed in. Again, nobody was out there.
Jennifer took her time now to scan the front yard for any signs of intruders or delinquent teens. She couldn’t understand why or how someone could stand out there in that crazy weather just to pull a prank. “Anyone there?”
The damp air streamed around her and over her face as she listened for a response. Footsteps moved up behind her, and turning back, she faced Edith, who was stumbling toward the door with a rifle.
“I won’t put up with his shit.” Edith aimed the rifle at the open door.
Jennifer jumped toward the rifle with her heart racing and gently pried it away. “Oh, now where did you get that?”
“My son brought it for me.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“You think I won’t shoot him? I will. I still know how to use this thing.”
“I’m sure you do.” Jennifer brought the gun to the kitchen and set it on the counter before walking Edith back to her room. “We won’t be needing that tonight.”
“He thinks he can mess with me.”
“I won’t let him do that.” Jennifer helped Edith back into bed. “I’ll keep you safe.”
“You can’t keep me safe from him.”
Edith had talked about many strange things over the last few months in Jennifer’s care. Stories of imaginary friends and impossible scenarios involving singing refrigerators, levitating vacuums, and forks that scurried across the countertop. But the old woman had never before mentioned a boy named Rodney.
“If you hear any noises at the door, just let me get it next time, okay?”
Edith nodded. “They should lock that boy up. He’s dangerous.”
“He’s gone now.”
“Oh?” Edith leaned forward and peered out of her bedroom door. “Did he leave?”
Jennifer followed Edith’s gaze. “Yes, he left.”
Edith exhaled fully. “Good. Did you lock the door?”
“Not yet. I’ll do that for you.”
Edith looked down and furrowed her brow. “You didn’t lock it?”
“I forgot.”
She reached out and nudged Jennifer with a finger. “Do it now.”
The air pressure changed then, and a light breeze blew through the house before the front door slammed shut.
Jennifer shuddered and stood up, holding back a scream. “What’s that?”
“He didn’t leave.”
“Okay, stay right here.” Jennifer helped Edith lie back on the bed, then walked out to the living room. The curtains swayed and a few loose papers settled against the table. “Anyone here?”
No answer. Of course not. She hurried to the front door and made sure she locked it this time. It must not have latched properly earlier, and with the wind intensifying every minute—60 or 70 mph by then?—she expected the house to creak and groan a lot more in the coming hours. And it was nonsense to think that anyone would venture out into a hurricane just to harass an old woman.
