GHOST OF A CHANCE, a paranormal short story

by Caridad Piñeiro

  “So you’re saying good ol’ Skippy was involved with the bootlegging?”

  “Or maybe competing with Izzy,” Tracy said and placed her notes back on the desktop.

  “They used to bring alcohol into Newark Bay and Long Branch mostly, but they also brought it through the Shark River Inlet. When we used to spend summers down the shore my grandmother would tell us stories about it,” Peter added.

  “But your grandmother would have been young during Prohibition.”

  “Six or seven. Her father told her the stories. She used to say that her mother would ask him to stop,” he said as if suddenly remembering it. He moved, sitting back on the edge of the desk as she faced him. His thigh skimmed her legs, awakening the connection she had experienced before in the parlor.

  Needing a little space, she moved away from him. “If your great-grandmother was Anna Dolan, and if the bootlegging had caused her to lose her husband, that could explain why she wouldn’t want to glamorize the rum-running.”

  “Sounds plausible, but how do we prove it?” he asked.

  Tracy smiled. “Not we. Me. Remember the contest?”

  With his proximity to Tracy, he had forgotten about a lot, including the contest. He supposed that was exactly what his father had wanted, and something inside of him rebelled for a moment, but only for a moment. It would have been foolish to ignore what he was feeling on account of his father’s manipulation. But if anything, the contest had made the situation a little more difficult. “I suppose that I should go so that the other contestants don’t feel slighted somehow.”

  “I suppose,” she said, but it was half-hearted.

  “The rest of them are in the parlor, arguing about Tommy’s data and what it means.” Which was what he supposed they should be doing and so he said, “We could join them.”

  Tracy considered returning to the parlor and experienced a chill again at the thought of the spirits that still might be in the room. “Or we could go for walk around the grounds since our time in the mansion is limited.”

  His smile broadened and spread up to his eyes, which glittered a bright blue. “Seems like a much better use of our time.”

  He pushed off the edge of the desk and offered her his arm.

  “Shall we?”

  Chapter 6

  Tracy slipped her arm through his. Awareness of him awoke again. How could it not? He was a handsome and seemingly caring man. What she was experiencing was due to that and not to any lingering effects from what had happened in the parlor.

  If anything had actually occurred there, she thought. The logical and practical side of her refused to believe that Nancy the psychic had somehow managed to channel a spirit or two. Especially one who managed to take over Tracy’s body for only the space of a few heartbeats and yet had left behind emotions she was finding it hard to forget.

  Instead of heading out her bedroom door, Peter walked her to the French doors and tossed them open. They strolled through the gardens and down to the water’s edge. The wind had kicked up the surf, washing ashore small jellyfish that glittered like diamonds from the moonbeams.

  “It was dark the night it happened. Anna was afraid,” Tracy said, and wrapped her arms around herself, slightly cold from the strong ocean breeze.

  Peter, who had been walking beside her with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched against the nip of the wind, slipped one arm around her and pulled her close. The warmth of him abated the cold instantly. “Francis was afraid also. I remember that feeling from the parlor room. He was very very fearful.”

  “A local fisherman had been beaten to death about a week before. He used to deliver fish to the mansion. Maybe he brought more than that to the back door,” she said, providing Peter with the information she had discovered during her earlier research.

  “If Izzy killed the Ryans—”

  “I think the dead fisherman was a warning to Skippy to stop, but Izzy might not have been happy to stop there,” Tracy said as they neared a jetty that marked the end of the mansion’s property. She stopped and looked back toward the house, noticed the boathouse about ten feet away from where the jetty ended and a wall of rocks rose from the water and onto the shore. Sand turned to grass as the property sloped upward toward the boathouse.

  Peering at Peter, she pointed to the boathouse. “Can we look inside?”

  “We have the run of the entire property for the weekend, so hopefully they’ve left that open for us as well.”

  Together, they ambled together to the door of the building. A shiny new padlock hung from a rusty latch hasp, but it was unlocked. They removed it and swung open the heavy doors to reveal the equipment within. An assortment of old chains, ropes, oars, and life preservers adorned the walls. In the center of the space, a wooden rowboat lay upside down across two sawhorses. Beside it on a small boat lift was a sixteen foot skiff painted a dark grey and sporting an outboard engine.

  Peter and Tracy walked around the skiff and as they did so, Tracy wondered aloud, “It’s the right age and color for a rum-runners’ skiff.”

  Peter climbed onto a cinder block beside the boat and examined a brownish stain along the top edge. “Could be blood or rust. Seems like your theory is coming together.”

  Tracy scooted onto the block and peered at the large blotch also. “I’m surprised it’s been there all that time and no one ever wondered what it was.”

  “Doubting yourself now?” he said. She lost her balance briefly and he eased his arm around her waist to keep her steady. The action brought her flush to him.

  His body was all lean muscle and totally tempting. Too tempting. Considering what had happened earlier in the parlor, her emotions were a jumble. Was what she was feeling her own desire? Or was it truly possible that the ghosts of Anna and Francis had dropped by for a visit, leaving behind the attraction between them?

  Slowly stepping back down to the floor of the boathouse, she said, “Sometimes you need to step back and reanalyze to see if what’s before your eyes is actually real.”

  Peter would have to be a fool not to realize the double meaning behind her words. He had the same hesitation about what he was feeling for her, although in retrospect, he had been drawn to her even before the possible visitation by their ghostly visitors. Taking a step closer, he bent his head until his lips were barely an inch from hers.

  “This seems all too real to me,” he whispered.

  Her lips were soft, and slightly cold, from the nip of the earlier breeze. They warmed quickly beneath his and as her eyes drifted down, she appeared to lose her earlier reluctance. Her mouth was fluid against his as she met his kiss, opened her mouth to taste him.

  He groaned at that touch of her tongue along his lips, and slipped his hands to her waist. Grasping the slim lines there, he drew her near, loving the brush of her ample breasts against the wall of his chest. Feeling himself harden as her softness cradled him.

  It feels so right, Tracy thought as she kissed him, opening her mouth to his. She danced her tongue along the perfect edge of his lips as he tightened his hold on her and brought her body to rest against him. There was no missing his desire and she rubbed her hips along his in invitation.

  When he raised his hand and cradled her breast, she sighed with pleasure at his tender caress. Leaned into him as he circled the tight peak of her nipple with his fingers before tweaking it into a harder nub.

  The loud clang of something metallic broke them apart just moments before a strong gust of wind whirled around them. Peter drew her tighter and tucked her head close to his chest against the cold blast of air. The breeze was powerful enough to rattle the metal chains and knock one of the oars to the ground. As it stirred around them for one last whirl, it whipped Tracy’s hair across his face.

  And then, just as quickly as it had kicked up, the wind died down.

  Peter smoothed Tracy’s hair as she looked up at him. “That was weird.”

  “It was,” he thought, and for a moment, a vision of auburn hair flashe
d through his mind.

  “Are you okay?” she asked and ran her hand through his hair to smooth out the wind-blown locks. As she did so, she seemed to realize something else.

  “Skippy Ryan had dark hair and blue eyes. Just like you. In fact, you look a lot alike.”

  “Anna was a redhead. A deep rich color.” At her questioning glance, he explained. “I just saw it in my head. Right after the wind left.”

  “Another ghostly visit?” she said, her tones mirroring his own skepticism.

  “If they are trying to tell us something, they’re being rather obtuse,” he said, and with Tracy tucked tight to his side, he urged her from the boathouse. After they had closed it once more, they walked, arms wrapped around each other, back to the French doors to Tracy’s room.

  Inside they hesitated. “I’d ask you to stay for a bit—”

  “But it wouldn’t seem right, would it?” he finished for her.

  “No, it wouldn’t. If I can somehow solve the mystery—”

  “Is winning that important to you?” he asked, cradling her cheek, making her wish that he would stay the night so they could explore the emotions growing between them. But there was something else that made his staying unwise.

  “I could use the money,” she confessed, but then quickly added, “But now, it’s about more than that.”

  “And I somehow make it more difficult?”

  To say that he was a distraction would be an understatement. “I need to keep my wits about me so your father can find peace, and crazily, so that these spirits can rest if they really do exist.”

  A very smug smile came to his mouth a second before he lowered his head and whispered against her lips, “All I can hope is that you solve this mystery quickly, because I’m a very impatient man.”

  And as if to prove his point, he kissed her once again, placing every ounce of emotion into the kiss, rekindling the fire that had threatened to blaze out of control in the boat house before the resident spirit had doused it with its little wind display.

  When they broke apart, they were both breathless, and it took the greatest restraint not to forego common sense and spend the night together.

  Tracy closed the door behind him and changed into her pajamas, although sleep was the farthest thing from her mind. She wanted to review her notes and outline the steps she would take tomorrow in her quest to solve the mystery. At the desk, someone had thoughtfully left a small tray with a tea service and a plate of cookies.

  She sat down, poured herself a cup of tea, and ate some cookies as she reviewed her notes. The discussion at dinner tonight had yielded little information since everyone seemed to be playing their cards close to the chest. The séance had offered just raw emotions, too confusing to understand just yet. At least the trip to the boathouse had moved her closer to a viable theory.

  The few pages from Peter’s great-grandmother’s journal offered only some additional insight. It was clear that she had been a woman of great intelligence, offering her opinion on some of the problems of the times and her role as a woman. Here and there she made reference to “her other life” and how different it had been. Part of the difference had clearly been economic as many an entry on the pages referred to how she was struggling to get by. She also mentioned how lucky she was that someone would even want a woman in her condition.

  Tracy pondered that comment, wondering if it was a reference to her poverty or to her being a woman alone with a child. Unfortunately, the pages stopped before providing enough information to decipher the meaning behind those words.

  With her head drooping and her eyelids drifting closed, Tracy decided it was time to call it a night. She was too tired to learn much more this evening and she wanted to be fresh in the morning to continue with her investigations.

  The linen sheets were cold and slick as she slipped beneath them and snapped off the reading light on the nightstand. Then she thought better of that and turned it back on.

  She might not be fully convinced of the existence of ghosts in the mansion, but until she had a way to explain what had happened today in the parlor and then in the boathouse, she wasn’t going to take any chances.

  Chapter 7

  A rhythmic slap, slap, and sway of the bed beneath her slowly roused her from sleep. Only when she opened her eyes, it was dark.

  With her gaze slightly unfocused, she reached for the bedside lamp and flipped the switch several times, but the room remained pitch black. Well, not quite black since a multitude of stars illuminated the sky overhead.

  Blinking, Tracy fought against the remnants of what must have been a dream, and as she did so, the sounds of voices raised in anger drifted into her consciousness. Was that Peter’s voice? she thought a moment before fear overtook her, jolting her awake and providing her with the answer.

  No, not Peter’s voice. Skippy’s, she guessed from the slight trace of brogue.

  She had to go to him. Had to help him this time. Tracy’s mind was muddled as she tried to separate reality from the waking dream she could not shake.

  Compelled to move, her body not her own, she left the bedroom and hurried toward the parlor along the dark corridors, part of her wondering what was happening while the other part only knew one thing: Get to the parlor.

  As she neared, she heard a shout followed by the crash of furniture. Her hurried pace became a run as silence reigned.

  At the door to the parlor, Tracy hesitated until the voice in her head said, “Help him!”

  She took hold of the heavy glass doorknob and turned it, walking into the parlor room which was blazing with light. It was as it had been before, with Tommy’s equipment tucked into one corner and the small round table in the center. But all around the room there appeared to be evidence of a fight and blood. A trail of blood along the floor, except…

  Tracy crouched down and ran a finger along the stain of blood, but the floor was dry. As she blinked several times to clear her vision, it was as if a film were playing, with the room around her acting as the screen.

  With that thought came another from within her.

  “Where is Skippy?”

  And, as if in answer, Peter rushed into the room by a doorway that led to the kitchen. He was bare-chested, his hair tousled from sleep. A confused not-quite-there look was stamped on his face.

  Tracy understood since she was feeling it as well. Not quite sure of what was happening.

  Peter took a step toward her, raised his hand and said, “Anna. I told you to stay away.”

  Overwhelmed by elation, she rushed forward into his arms, burying her head against his chest as she said, “I had to come back. I had to help you.”

  Peter’s arms came around her, shaky and slightly uncoordinated. As she glanced up at him, the lines of his face wavered, grew unfocused. Softened, becoming those of someone else.

  “Francis,” she whispered and Peter wagged his head as if trying to dislodge whatever had commandeered his body.

  “You need to go, Anna. It’s the only way,” he said and laid his hand on her belly. Her slightly rounded belly and suddenly it connected. The condition that the writer of the journal had mentioned.

  Anna had been pregnant with their second child.

  As Peter tenderly ran his hand across the slight swell, the fierceness of his love washed over her and in that second, Tracy knew Francis could not have killed his wife, baby, and unborn child. Somehow she pushed back the force that had overtaken her and asked, “What happened, Francis? Why did you kill yourself?”

  Peter ripped away from her, raking his hands through his hair like a man possessed, which she guessed he was. He took a few sharp steps away from her, then whirled to face her, hands outstretched. His voice was pleading as he said, “It was the only way to protect you.”

  “Why?” she asked, approaching him and taking hold of his hands. As she did so, a wave of longing washed over her, so intense that her knees grew weak, but she hung on, fighting the emotions threatening her conscious being.


  “Izzy sent one of his goons for the money.”

  “What money?” she wanted to ask him, but the voice inside her head answered before she could do so.

  The bootlegging money.

  So Francis had been running rum as she had suspected.

  “I told him it was gone. That I was giving it to the people in my ward who had lost their jobs,” Peter continued, in obvious distress. Once again he shook his head, battling against whatever had taken hold, but Tracy smoothed her hand across his check.

  “Let him explain, Peter. It will set him free.”

  She didn’t know how she knew that, but she did. That was why they were here, caught in this rerun of a long ago night.

  “He said Izzy wouldn’t like that and took out a gun.” Once again the spirit controlling Peter took over, pulling away from her and pacing back and forth before finally facing her once again. Guilt and remorse etched on his face.

  “We fought and I killed him. There was blood everywhere and then I knew. I knew how to protect you.”

  This time Tracy was the one who lost command of her body as she went rushing across the floor into his arms. The spirit within her cried, “No, Skippy. I waited for you, but you never came.”

  Almost as if not hearing his wife’s anguish, he said, “If Izzy thought you were dead, you’d be safe. And I was a dead man anyway.”

  “We could have fought him,” she said, her throat tight with grief and her heart heavy at the realization of what her husband had sacrificed for her safety.

  Peter calmed then, dropped his hand and covered her belly once more, a final gesture she realized. “I could not risk it. I left you a note. In our secret place,” he said and motioned to a spot on the wall.

  Tracy tracked the line of his arm and could see what looked like an oval frame hung there, only it wasn’t there in reality. Only in the dream state that had overtaken them.

  “Forgive me, love,” he said, cupping her cheek and bending to brush a kiss across her lips.

  “I forgive you,” she whispered before returning his kiss. As their lips touched, something broke free, releasing them.