Spring Showers Box-set

by Avell Kro

  My coffee was cold when I put the foot away, locked the shed and went back inside my house.

  Unable to find anything watchable, I switched off the TV at 10 p.m. and returned my empty cup to

  the kitchen. I looked at the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, making a mental note to wash them in

  the morning.

  I took my laptop to bed, checked the internet, but found nothing about the foot. After switching off

  the bedside lamp, I lay awake in the darkness and considered possible explanations.

  Had the owner of the foot been murdered? It was feasible.

  Maybe he was a crew member on one of the cargo ships heading into Teesport? Murdered, cut into

  pieces and buried at sea? But the foot broke loose from the other body parts and washed ashore?

  Jesus. But, still – why wouldn’t the guy have been reported as missing?

  I thought about this and other grisly scenarios, eventually getting to sleep before dawn.

  My advisor sat across the desk from me, checking through my paperwork.Without looking up, he

  asked me questions about how I’d been trying to find a job.

  He was about thirty years old, with glasses and a goatee. Three plastic pens sat in the pocket of his

  shirt, and I hoped that one of them would leak.

  When he first took over my case, he said, “Hi, Mr Wilson. My name’s Ben, and I’m going to find you

  a job in two months.”

  Three months had since passed. Now he couldn’t wait for me to get out of there. Bastard.

  When I left the Jobcentre I took a few deep breaths, trying to clear my head; I’d been going there

  every fortnight for six months, and it was usually a draining experience.

  I thought about my last job, working in Surveillance for the Borough Council. Most of it was long

  hours spent watching CCTV. The other analysts worked in teams of two, but I mostly worked

  alone.

  One day the manager said, “We’re downsizing, Gordon. Sorry, but we’ve got to let you go.”

  Downsizing? Why do people talk like that these days?

  And why was it me who had to go? Probably because I didn’t socialise with the others too much.

  The bastards gave me a decent severance pay-off, so I didn’t mind.

  I wondered if they’d got somebody to replace me as I walked home from the Jobcentre.

  I was watching a shark movie. It was quite silly, but just as I was about to switch it off one scene

  caught my attention.

  A shark with three eyes attacked a scuba diver, and following the frenzied attack there was a shot

  of the diver’s severed leg drifting to the bottom of the ocean.

  Could that explain the foot in my shed? A scuba diver killed by a shark? Or a surfer? Attacked, torn

  to pieces, but only the foot washes ashore?

  After a quick internet search, I realised my scenario was unlikely. There were up to thirty species

  of shark found in British waters, but only a few shark attacks had ever been recorded.

  Apparently, it was statistically more likely to be killed by a bee sting. And if it was a shark attack,

  then surely somebody would have reported the missing person?

  “Where the hell did you come from?” I said, pouring myself a large whisky in the kitchen. I took a

  gulp, topped up the glass and went out to the shed.

  What do I do now? I’ve checked the papers and internet. Nothing.

  What else can I do? I can’t keep the foot, surely. Maybe I should just throw it back in the sea? Yeah,

  maybe.

  Or should I take it to the police? I could say that I’ve just found it today. But what if they don’t

  believe me? What if they find out I’ve had it for two weeks? I could be in trouble.

  Or the bastards might just laugh at me again. It’s not worth the risk.

  I’d better get out to the shed, and give it a clean. It’s turning a weird blue-green colour. I should do

  some internet research, figure out a way to preserve it.

  Maybe I should get one of those jars. The big glass ones. Then I can put it up in the loft with my

  other specimens.

  Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed my story.

  Please feel free to review this book on Amazon, and let me know your thoughts. Until next time.

  Glenn McGoldrick.

  And if you enjoyed reading this story, then you might like to try a collection in the Dark Teesside

  series:

  UK:http://amzn.to/2ArCP96

  US:http://amzn.to/2hbkogy

  GHOSTS OF TAMGROVE HALL

  Jack Massa

  Copyright 2017

  Published by Triskelion Books

  www.triskelionbooks.com

  This is a work of fiction. Al of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Al rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any means now known or hereinafter invented, electronic or mechanical, including but not limited to photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Ebook Edition published November 2017

  Cover design by Ida Jansson, http://amygdaladesign.net/

  1. I always knew you were strange but…

  The ghost is floating in the corner when Franklin walks into my room. He stops dead, his mouth

  dropping open.

  “What in the name of Ramsey’s Kitchen Nightmares is that?”

  As Franklin gropes for the bedpost to steady himself, I glance back at the white, wavering figure.

  I’m astonished. Not so much by seeing a ghost—Been there, done that—but that Franklin can see

  it too.

  “You mean you can see it too?”

  He’s hugging the bedpost, his eyes wild with fright. “I only wish I could say I didn’t.”

  His breathing accelerates. He’s going into a panic attack.

  This is getting serious.

  Maybe it was a mistake to invite Franklin to come to England over winter break. Mom, of course,

  was less than thrilled by the idea. “When I said you could bring a friend, Abby, I meant a girl friend.

  This will make the sleeping arrangements very awkward.” Even though I assured her there is

  nothing like that between Franklin and me—He’s gay, for goodness’ sake. He loves theater, and he

  jumped and squealed with delight at the idea of seeing plays in London and up here in Stratford-

  upon-Avon. When Franklin said he could pay for his own hotel rooms, Mom relented.

  But even before the trip, Franklin’s anxiety and obsessive-compulsive issues kicked in. He tried

  hard not to show it, but he was a nervous wreck in the airport and on the flight over. Even since

  we landed four days ago, he’s been edgy—tense in crowds, constantly checking to make sure he has

  his wallet and passport.

  So, meeting a creepy apparition is not something he needs right now. And it’s weird: Tamgrove

  Hall is supposed to be a perfectly normal hotel. All right, it’s an old manor house, built in the

  1400s, but it’s not like we picked it from some stupid Ghost Tours of Britain site.

  Franklin is staring at the ghost and gasping. I go over and cover his hands on the bedpost.

  “It’s all right, Franklin. Breathe.”

  “But what—What about—”

  “Don’t worry. Let’s go back to your room.”

  We’ve been friends a long time, so he trusts me. We met when we were both thirteen and seeing

  the same therapist for anxiety disorder. Now we’re seniors in high school.

  Pul ing in deep breaths, he allows me to take his a
rm and guide him toward the bathroom. He is

  heavyset and shuffles his feet. At the bathroom door, he glances back over his shoulder.

  “Shouldn’t we, like, call a bellman or something?”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  I lead him through the shared bathroom and into his room, which is a lot like mine—small but

  comfy with a stuffed armchair and single bed. I settle him down in the armchair.

  “Wait here. Keep breathing. And don’t worry.”

  I close the bathroom door and go back to my room. Setting my shoulders, I go over to confront the

  ghost.

  It’s still hovering there, watching me curiously. It’s mostly just a shimmering white form, but

  stepping closer, I can see hands and a head. It’s a young woman with dark hair and eyes. Her

  expression is intense, almost starved, and very sad.

  I haven’t faced anything supernatural since last summer in Harmony Springs, but I have kept up

  my magical training. Well, okay, not as much as I should have. Between school and running cross-

  country on the track team, and trying to have a little bit of a social life in New Jersey, while still

  keeping in touch with my Granma and my friends in Harmony Springs, not to mention with my

  mom working over here in London—it’s all been pretty crazy. But I have meditated almost every

  day and kept up the Daily Ablution ritual, which is designed to keep you psychically balanced.

  Anyway, I’m not afraid of the ghost at all. It feels nowhere near as scary as the apparitions I dealt

  with last summer. I stop a yard away and look it calmly in the eye. Then I use my index and middle

  fingers to trace a pentagram in the air between us.

  I speak with confidence, announcing my magical name. “I am Fighting Eagle, initiate of the Circle of

  Harmony. What is your name, spirit?”

  The ghost looks at me all wide-eyed and startled. Her lips part like she’s about to answer. Then she

  changes her mind, whirls, and flies away—disappearing through the wall.

  Hmm.

  I turn around and my shoulders twitch. Franklin is standing in the doorway with a comical

  expression of amazement on his wide, heavy-browed face.

  “Abby, I always knew you were strange. But when did you become Doctor Strange?”

  §

  Twenty minutes later, we’re sitting downstairs in the hotel bar. It’s a carpeted room off the lobby,

  furnished like a living room with sofas and armchairs and small tables. The bar itself is small,

  backed by a mirror and glass shelves lined with bottles. One wall has an open fireplace, the fire

  burning low at this hour, as the room is almost empty.

  I thought getting Franklin out of his room and walking would do him good, and it seems to have

  helped. He still looks pale, but his face has regained its normal sharp and sarcastic expression. He

  sets his glass of Coke down on the coffee table and glares at me.

  “Okay, Abby. Spill it. And I don’t mean your lime and soda.”

  I laugh. “Right…So I never actually told you everything about last summer in Harmony Springs.”

  “Apparently not, O Mystic Ghostbuster.”

  I laugh again. He’s not far wrong. I lay it all out on the table, so to speak, about how I went to

  Florida in June not just to visit Granma but because I was having nightmares about Harmony

  Springs, and the nightmares were spawning hallucinations when I was awake. Except, as I learned,

  they weren’t really hallucinations at all; they were visions. I was seeing real ghosts and spirits

  connected to the history of the town and my family.

  In Florida, things got a whole lot stranger. An evil spirit almost made me drown myself. Luckily,

  Granma and a couple of her old friends are magicians—true magicians, practicing a system of

  magic created by the people who founded the town back in the 1800s. I was initiated into their

  circle and trained. In the end, I managed to banish the entity that was behind all the trouble.

  Oh, and I also made friends with a girl named Molly Quick, who writes a news blog, and her

  brother Ray-Ray, who helped save me from the magicians who had summoned the entity. Actually,

  I sort of fell in love with Ray-Ray, and we had a wonderful time together the last week I was there.

  But we haven’t done very well keeping in touch since then. Ray-Ray doesn’t text much. We’ve

  talked on the phone a couple of times, but not lately. So now I’m really not sure where the

  relationship is going—

  “Wait. Wait!” Franklin interrupts me. “Can we get back to the spirits, please?”

  “Sure. What else do you want to know?”

  His mouth flaps once, twice, but no sounds come out. You don’t often see Franklin speechless.

  “Let me help,” I tell him. “You want to know if I really believe all the stuff I just told you. Well, the

  answer is yes. It all really happened. You might think I’ve fallen down the insanity shaft. I wouldn’t blame you a bit. But it is what it is. You saw that ghost upstairs, right?”

  His face is incredulous, but he slowly nods.

  “And when I did a little magic, it went away.”

  He takes a swig of his Coke. “Maybe I was hallucinating. Maybe I’m the one who took a plunge

  down the insanity shaft.”

  “I know it’s a lot to take in. Don’t try to process it all at once. The important thing is, the ghost is

  gone, and you’re okay now, right?”

  He blinks, and his eyes get moist. He looks at me with no sarcasm at all, just seriousness—and

  vulnerability. “Abigail Adams. You are something else.”

  He’s used his joke name for me—from the musical 1776—so I know now he’s going to be okay.

  “Benjamin Franklin. I will take that as a compliment.”

  §

  We finish our drinks and climb the carpeted marble stairs to the second floor. This hotel is

  amazing: wide-open halls with high ceilings, fireplaces with stonework, huge paintings hung on

  paneled walls. The only thing I haven’t seen is an empty suit of armor. Given the ghost we met

  earlier, that’s possibly a good thing.

  It’s called Tamgrove Hall, located a few miles outside of Stratford-upon-Avon. We’ve booked it for

  three nights so we can see a couple of plays at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre. This was Franklin’s

  big wish, and Mom wanted to tour the countryside, so it worked out nicely. Franklin and I have

  been going to plays together almost as long as we’ve been friends. When we were younger, we

  often got Mom to take us to shows on Broadway, so—except that we’re in England now—this is

  kind of familiar.

  Mom drove us up from London. She retired to her room right after dinner to catch up on her email.

  She’s supposed to be on holiday, but knowing Mom, she’ll be busy several more hours on her

  laptop. Mom has always been something of a workaholic, but since she got the job with the

  London branch, it’s gotten worse. I’m glad we at least got her out of the city for a few days.

  After getting ready for bed, I sit down to meditate. I breathe slowly and relax for a bit and then go

  into the Daily Ablution. This is my basic grounding ritual, the first magic I learned. With my eyes

  shut, I visualize each of the Springs of Harmony pouring into different nerve centers along my

  spine, starting at the root. As the pure blue water flows in, I contemplate the principle of each

  Spring: Love, Endurance, Balance, Amity, and finally Bliss. Finally, I see the water gushing out the

  top of my head a
nd falling in a shower to completely fill and cleanse my aura.

  Feeling all balanced and blissful, I open my eyes.

  The ghost is standing at the foot of my bed, staring at me.

  Okay. This is getting annoying.

  I stand up on the bed and trace a pentagram. “I am Fighting Eagle of the Circle of Harmony. What is

  your name, spirit?”

  She looks more solid than before, less vaporous, almost a real person. This might be because the

  Daily Ablution has sharpened my spiritual eyesight. She’s wearing a plain gray dress with a long

  skirt and a white apron. Her outfit could be from the 1800s or sometime earlier. I’m no expert in

  historical fashion.

  Her more solid appearance also makes her a little more scary. Tiny fingertips of dread are tap-

  tapping in my stomach. I put more force into my words. “What is your name, spirit?”

  This gets her. “I am Mary Hull,” she says with resentment. Her voice is high-pitched, the accent

  British, of course. Not upper crust. More like you’d expect from a maid on one of those BBC

  shows. “They don’t usually talk to me,” she complains.

  “Well, I guess I’m a little different. Why are you here?”

  She seems confused by the question. “I have always been here. Why are you here, then?”

  “Well…I’m just visiting. But you seem to be…” Not sure how to put this. Is it impolite to tell a ghost that she’s a ghost? What I come up with is lame: “You seem to have wandered out of your time.”

  She clenches her lips, pouting. “I don’t know what you mean!”

  Now I’ve made her angry. She turns and glides to the corner. Then she turns and glares at me. I

  have the definite feeling she’s not leaving this time.

  I climb down from the bed and approach her gently. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  Again, she finds me confusing. “Why would you ask that? No one ever does anything for me.”

  My emotions are gathering more layers: annoyance, fear, and now sympathy. Also curiosity. I have

  an intuition that she’s been drawn to show herself to me because I’ve trained in magic, that maybe

  I’m supposed to help her somehow. I vaguely recall reading about psychics who make it their

  business to “help ghosts cross over.” And I’ve been taught that true magicians sometimes attract