Spooooky fiction time!
Posting the story in the reply.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Fri 4 Jul 2008, 17:47, 7 replies, latest was 16 years ago)

Dark Angel
I sighed as I closed the door after the last of my friends left. As grateful as I was to them for their help moving me into this apartment, it was nice to finally be alone. I surveyed the stacks of boxes for a moment, then carried one into the kitchen to start unloading dishes.

Several hours passed before I stopped. The apartment finally looked less like a warehouse and more like a home. I still needed to hang pictures and curtains, but the clothes were put away, the cupboards were full of dishes and pots, the stereo and TV were hooked up, the bed was made. As good of a stopping point as any, I thought.

I went to the grocery store and returned with six bags which I unloaded. I wolfed down a sandwich and a handful of chips, then sat down in the living room with a beer in my hand and sighed. At last, a place of my own. I raised the bottle and drank deep.

I had two more beers as I finished unpacking some books. A glance at my watch told me that I had better quit or I would regret it in the morning, so I stripped and got into my bed.

The apartment was on the top floor of an old house, surrounded by trees and not much else. I had the windows open to let out the dust and staleness as I was unpacking, and had left them open to get the cool breeze. I now lay there in the dark listening to the wind rustle the twigs and leaves of the old oak outside my window. Infinitely soothing, gentle and restful as a stream, it sang me to sleep at last.

Dreams floated through my mind as I drifted off, dreams of my childhood, listening to the wind in the branches then as now. And on the wind a soft voice sighed, “Come to me...” In my dream I stood in a field of tall grass, trees in the distance visible as a jagged black line against the stars. The starlight was barely bright enough to see the waving grass around my waist, and I strained peering through the gloom. “...my love...” came a murmur. A faint shape was moving toward me, all feminine grace and suggestive shadow.

I sat up in the bed with a start. Half asleep, dreams still clogging my mind, I fumbled in the dark until I found a light. The soft glow of the lamp chased away the remaining wisps of dream.

What the hell was that all about? I wondered. Damn, but that was weird. I shook off the disorientation from it and picked up my book. Maybe a little reading will help.

Gradually I got sleepy again and put down the book, dropping off to sleep immediately. I slept a deep and dreamless sleep the rest of the night.

The following day was Saturday, bright and sunny and cool. I got up early and showered, gobbled some cereal and headed for the stores for curtains and picture hooks.

The little town’s entire business district consisted of a half dozen shops along Route 3, just starting to stir as I approached. I went into the hardware store first and bought curtain rods and screws, then went to the little department store. The counter was run by a blue-haired woman with horn rimmed glasses and a cheery smile. “Well, it looks like you’re doing some decorating today.”

“Yup. I just moved in last night.”

“Where did you move into?”

“An apartment out on Front Street, down at the end.”

She froze, curtains half in the bag. “The last house on the left? John Kimble’s house?”

“Yes, that’s the one. He seems to be a really nice guy, even if he’s never there. I basically have the whole house to myself. It’s nice and quiet.” I smiled at her, but she didn’t return it. She finished bagging my things and took my money, and gave me a secretive look as she handed me the change. “I hope you like it there.”

“What’s not to like?” I replied with another smile. She shuddered and turned away, and I felt the smile fade. I picked up my bag and left the store, suddenly far less cheerful.

I spent the day hanging curtains, assembling a bookcase out of bricks and boards, putting up pictures and generally settling in. After dinner I sat out on the small back porch with my beer, looking out over the tops of the trees and the houses further down the hill. The slanting sunlight painted everything with a mellow orange glow, glittering off of the cars on the main roads. The breeze ruffled my hair and tossed the branches around, and I felt absolutely peaceful.

I thought back to the clerk at the store. What an odd reaction! She acted like there was a plague on the house or something. John Kimble was certainly a nice enough man, a middle-aged businessman who wanted someone in the family house to keep an eye on it now that he lived out of town. Nothing sinister there. And the house itself was roomy and comfortable. What could have been bothering her? I finally shrugged it off and got to bed.

Again I dreamed. A night field, the wind making the grass tickle my knees, the stars close enough to reach up and swirl with my fingers. And again a soft voice on the wind. “Come to me... I am here, my love... come... I’m waiting for you...”

I turned, peering through the darkness. For some reason I couldn’t speak, could only stare into the darkness searching for... what? Something. There was something I had to find. Something? No, someone. I walked forward through the tall grass, searching. The voice was louder now. “Here, my love...”

She stood before me, long dark hair and dark eyes, wrapped in a soft cloth of some sort that billowed in the wind. Her hand reached out to me, fingers beckoning, face rapturous and serene... I stepped closer. Her eyes were the deepest black, absolute contrast against the whiteness of her face. Her raven hair billowed in the breeze as her hand reached for me, to touch me-

I awoke, my heart hammering wildly in my chest as I stared at the dark ceiling for a moment before switching on the light. The shadows seemed to be looking back at me as I picked up my book.

It was a long night.

I waited until nine before going to the department store. The same old woman was there, and she inspected me as I came in. “Hi,” I said as I approached the counter. “Remember me? I bought curtains yesterday.”

“I remember,” she replied quietly. “You look tired.”

I repressed an insane giggle. “Yes, I suppose I do. Can you spare a few minutes?”

She poked at the register and removed a key. “Yes. It’s always slow in here on a Sunday until after church lets out. Come on, I have some coffee over here.” She led the way to a small office in the back. After handing me a styrofoam cup she sat in a chair, gesturing toward another one. “I think I can guess why you’re here.”

I sighed. “Okay, tell me about the house. You obviously know something about it.”

Her milky blue eyes bored into me for a moment from behind the thick lenses. “Yes, I do. I know a lot about it. I suspect that you saw Catherine.”

“Catherine... I don’t know. Who is she?”

“She was my best friend many years ago. We grew up together. And she lived in that house.” She sipped at her coffee, then set it down and forgot about it as she spoke.

“Catherine was the most beautiful girl in town. Tall, slender, with the most expressive dark eyes you’ve ever seen. She broke the hearts of half of the boys in town. Not because she tried, but because they all fell in love with her no matter what she did.

“She was such a sweet girl... I’ve never known as gentle and innocent a girl. Her parents were very protective of her, never allowing her to do much of anything. She was the most sheltered girl in town as well.

“One day a new family moved into town, and they had a son about our age. He was quiet and shy, a tall thin boy with wavy brown hair and grey eyes. He too fell in love with Catherine at first sight- but this time she fell in love herself.

“How her eyes would light when he walked into a room! She couldn’t look him in the face without blushing, which made her that much more beautiful. Every boy in that school hated him! But he didn’t care- he only had eyes for her.

“Her father hated him too, of course. The first time he came to call on her old Mr. Kimble flew into a rage and would have surely beaten him if he could have caught him, but Kevin was too fast. He was around the corner and gone before her father could reach the end of the sidewalk.

“After that he would sneak into her yard at night and climb the oak by the house and use a stick to tap at her window. He would sit on the branch and talk to her through the open window until he couldn’t hang on any longer. She told me of their talks, their dreams of running away together and marrying... they were very deeply in love. Maybe love isn’t the right word for it, though- it was more intense than anything I’ve ever seen.

“One night Catherine’s father heard them and burst into the room. Kevin barely got out of the tree before he came roaring out of the house with a stick in his hand to beat him! He ran through the night with her father hot on his heels all the way back to his house. Kevin’s father heard the commotion and stopped Mr. Kimble in the doorway and faced him down. Everyone in the neighborhood heard them shouting at each other. Finally Catherine’s father stormed back to his own house, but no one got much sleep that night.

“The next day was rainy and cold. Kevin was not in school that day, and Catherine was crushed. Every time someone would enter the room she would jump, then settle back and stare at her hands. Everyone knew what had happened, so no one said anything to her all day.

“That night as she was in bed she heard a tap on the glass. Kevin was out there in the storm, clutching to that tree branch, soaked to his thin bones and shivering. He told her that he couldn’t live without her, and that he would wait for her in Brennan’s field. He then climbed down and disappeared in the dark.

“But her father heard them and before she could react he had locked her in her room. She cried and begged to be let out, but he would hear none of it. She cried all night.

“The following day he still wasn’t in school, and his parents came to ask the students if anyone knew where he might be. They were especially watching Catherine as they said this, and she burst into tears. They took her to the principal’s office and she told them what he had said.

“They went out to Brennan’s field, and there they found him. He had died during the night of exposure.

“Catherine never spoke again, and would sit like a statue staring at nothing. The news shattered her mind and she never recovered from it. Her parents took her to every doctor they could find, but she just wouldn’t respond. They finally had her committed to an institution when she was twenty.

“She lived there for the rest of her life, and died about two years ago. Her mind never recovered, and she went to her grave as silent as ever.” The old woman looked at me for a moment. “And now no one can stand to live in there. Didn’t you wonder why John Kimble doesn’t live there anymore? His aunt’s presence is too strong in there. And I’ll wager that you felt it yourself.”

I shivered. “Yes, I did. I dreamed about her...”

Her eyes met mine for a moment. “And are you going to keep living there?”

Suddenly my mind was made up. “Yes, I am. Thank you for the coffee.” I stood and smiled at her. “And thank you for telling me about Catherine.” Her face was unreadable as I left.

I found Brennan’s field and walked through it. The hay was up to my waist as I walked, blowing softly in the breezes. Wandering through it I looked around with a sense of forboding, seeing the trees in the distance forming a ragged line across the blue of the daytime sky. Shivering in the warm sunlight I made my way back out of the field.

That night I was almost afraid to sleep, uncertain about my plan, but at last I could feel my eyes getting tired. I stripped down and got into bed and fell into a troubled sleep.

Wind soughed through the leaves like a river, stirring the grass around me. Faintly the voice drifted to me over the waving stalks of grass, a whisper on the wind. “My love...”

I walk through the field and find her there, waiting. Her fingers outstretched, her hair blowing, her eyes hidden in shadow, wrapped in soft white, her voice wrapped around me like a soft blanket. “Come to me, my love...” Her marmoreal skin glowed softly in the starlight.

“Catherine...” I suddenly found I could speak. “Catherine. I’m not him. I’m not Kevin.”

Her face became troubled. “Not... my love?...”

I stepped closer to her. “No, I’m not him. Kevin is not here. He’s not coming.”

“Not... coming?” Her face took on a look of grief, and she wavered as though she were under water.

“No, Catherine. He’s not. Catherine, he died many years ago.”

“No!” Her face snapped into focus. “He’s waiting for me here! He promised he would wait for me here!”

“He did, Catherine. He waited for you. And he didn’t leave. He died waiting for you, Catherine. And he’s still waiting for you- but not here.”

“Not here...” She shimmered for a moment. “Where is he?”

“He’s waiting on the other side. Let yourself go, Catherine. Let your pain go and he will find you.”

Her eyes seemed to be burning into me. “Who are you?”

“A friend. Just a friend.” I stepped closer until we were inches apart. “Catherine, let yourself go. He’s waiting there for you. He loved you so much that he has waited all this time for you. Go to him.”

“He’s waiting...” she faltered.

“Yes. He’s waiting for you, I know it. But he can’t come to you- you have to go to him. You must let yourself find peace, Catherine. Leave this place and go to him.”

She smiled up at me, crystalline tears on her cheeks. “Thank you, oh thank you...” She put her arms around me, her lips finding mine...

...and I woke.

The night was warm as the air wafted gently through my open window, fragrant with the flowers and warm grasses and the softness of the summer. The dark was warm and loving now, and I could still feel her lips on mine.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Fri 4 Jul 2008, 17:47, Reply)

*wipes away a small tear*
That was beautiful. I insist you post more.
( Maladicta, Fri 4 Jul 2008, 19:15, Reply)

That one
made the hairs on my arms stand up!

*clickclickclick*
(TheWeeWitch hasn't been here much recently .., Fri 4 Jul 2008, 19:30, Reply)

Thank you.
Again, it was a rather early effort, and is a pretty standard ghost-type story- I've since read more than a few that were almost identical to it. It's not great by any means, but in retrospect it wasn't a bad effort.

Standard note: The stories I'm posting in here are ones that I consider to be not good enough to sell for one reason or another. If anyone reading these happens to know anyone in the publishing industry, PLEASE gaz me- thus far I've been thoroughly ignored by agents and publishers alike, and it's making me despair.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Fri 4 Jul 2008, 21:58, Reply)

ooh, romantic ghost story
Very cool for an early draft.
( fuck shit up the best you never had, Sat 5 Jul 2008, 18:12, Reply)

Mmmmm
Very nice. My only nitpick would be the happy ending. I find short stories more enjoyable when they end on an unanswered question. I find it makes them stick around in my head longer.

So, I suppose my constructive criticism would be: consider changing the ending, perhaps to suggest that Catherine isn't quite gone yet...

Having said all that, it works well as it is. This is just my personal taste :-)
( chart cat has an itch, Sun 6 Jul 2008, 15:48, Reply)

My opinion...for what it's worth...
I think you've got a good story here but - particularly as you said you're being ignored by agents and the publishing industry in general - I think you need to go back and edit this really intensely - at least a third to a half of the words could easily go. I also think that the story may benefit from less explanation - as you've said there are other similar stories out there - so leave some of the explanation out and let the reader fill in the blanks.

Maybe the story would benefit from you deciding what it is that you want the reader to take away from it...a love story? A ghost story? Do you want them to be chilled, uplifted, puzzled?

All that said, I think you've got a great writing style which is easy and gentle to read, so don't lose that!
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Sun 6 Jul 2008, 23:53, Reply)