There was a peculiar nip in the cold air of that winter night in Chennai. The breeze that rose from nowhere danced through the open, grilled window. The twin pink colour, translucent, chiffon curtains separated, as if to make way for the breeze, and fell back in place afterwards. The Tanjore dancing woman on the study table began swaying her waist and neck languorously at the soft touch of the cool breeze. The sparkling plastic bead string curtains slowly oscillated as the breeze brushed past them and crossed the door into the drawing room. The wind chimes suddenly came to life and jingled softly, breaking the silence of the winter night.
Did you know that it’s possible to own a ghost? Well, we do.
She arrived in a Victorian trunk that my wife and I purchased not too long ago, and her name is Mary. Currently, she exists in her camelback trunk on our carport here in Georgia.
Getting old is not for the squeamish.
When given time and the natural marinating that comes from watching hands of a clock crawl, minute by minute, as it stares unblinking from the nightstand, ghosts taunt your mind, bones rattle from the closets, and skeletons get restless.
This morning the ghost from the old chest in the garage came calling.
At dusk, three, loud knocks at her front door scared the young, grief-stricken mother of four. Huddling around her in front of a solitary space heater, Ann's three children jumped, startling her even more. For a brief second, they shivered, fearing it was death itself that had come knocking.
Bobby Ray’s attitude burned as hot as a Mississippi summer. After two years of incarceration, rehabilitation and counseling, his psychological profile projected a troubled life in or out of prison. Nothing could quench his thirst for revenge against a nemesis known only as life, yet for all the legal wrangling, for all the editorial page objections to his discharge from prison, he had repaid his debt to society. His release date arrived on the third day of an incendiary August, accompanied by a long list of personal issues and a fuse too short to risk igniting.
If a psychic yanks you by the arm, forces you into a seat, and states that you “arrived just in time”—all without even looking at you—should you panic? That just happened to me, and I am a little weirded out.