A Ghost of a Story
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EXCERPT: Jim shifted nervously in his chair, dislodging a few more cobwebs. ""I don't mean to sound facetious,"" he said, ""but don't you think we're insane agreeing to spend the night here? The place reeks of spirits, and I don't mean the drinking kind!"" Tom moved away from the appliances he had been examining -- a gas stove that dated back to the 1940s and an icebox of even earlier assembly. Pulling out a wooden chair from under the metal-topped table, he sat down opposite his friend, accompanied by a spray of dust and mangled cobwebs. ""Nothing will happen to us,"" he replied. Jim did not agree with this, but he contented himself with a shrug and a grimace. Both men were in their early sixties, both lean, with gray thinning hair, though Tom was taller with a darker complexion, and eyes a more intense shade of dark brown. The two had been buddies since college. And although their fields of study differed, their loyalty to each other over the years had remained steadfast. In character, they were true opposites. Their clothes reflected this. Jim was always at home in a white long sleeved shirt and tie, and neatly pressed pants, usually in the charcoal gray family, while Tom almost always dressed as if on a camping trip -- checkered flannel shirts, loose tan baggy pants, and high-backed thick brown oxfords ""Come on, let's take a look at the upstairs,"" Tom said, rising. ""It sure is cold,"" Jim complained, standing up and following his friend into the parlor that was as antiquely furnished and cobwebbed as the kitchen. ""You could at least have had the utilities turned on,"" Jim complained. ""I tried to, but no one has lived in the cottage for over forty years. The entire house needs to be rewired and re-piped. We'll clean out the fireplace in the parlor and gather some wood from the grounds outside. Owing to the age of the cottage, the bedrooms will probably have a fireplace as well.Jim nodded, but as they started up the staircase, he grimaced. Notwithstanding the rubber soles on his black loafers, the staircase creaked and moaned generously each time he put down his foot and lifted the other. He wondered with foreboding if the staircase was any safer than the chipped and peeling plaster walls and cracked ceilings, and the groaning floors. Everywhere he looked there were signs of deterioration. The feeling of utter depression and longing that had greeted them the instant they had entered the cottage persisted. Without actually hearing it, they had felt someone weeping. And with that sensation, a painless ache had settled in their chests, like an invisible fist, clutching at their souls.Hodnocení uživatelů:
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