Fantastic Paranormal Short Stories from Washington State- Start from the beginning. Stories build on one another.
The Tale of Fred
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A large part of why I started this blog was to share the story of Fred. Fred isn’t a person, it’s a place. Why Fred? Because even abandoned forgotten places deserve a name.
In the next few weeks I’ll be sharing the sad and beautiful tale of Fred.
Midnight, ebony, night sky . . . blacks of every shade and texture surrounded us that morning. The day had come- the day of Melinda’s great great aunt’s viewing. I’d never seen a dead person before and I wasn’t looking forward to it. Would she look peaceful? Would she look human? I’d had fitful dreams the night before about the stinking mushrooms Mel had brought to the cemetery. We’d sealed them in a mason jar and left them in the grounds keeper’s shed, on top of the mini fridge with a note for Pete the grounds keeper not to open them. “DON'T OPEN! These smell like death!!” Melinda had written. I followed Kyle, up the concrete stairs, through the front door, into the large meeting room of Beatrice's Funeral Home. A mingled scent of roses and musk filled my nostrils. I heard Melinda let out a surprised snort from behind. No stink. No mushrooms . . . at least not in here. Kyle motioned for me to follow him to an open corner. Melinda trailed behind. W
Photos taken the next day . . . Melinda started to cry, which shocked me most of all. In the few months I had known her, she barely emoted. She was a stoic rock, painted with black eyeliner and covered in lace. I dropped my sponge and pulled her into a hug, fully aware that I would get mud caked all over my Bad Carl’s neon tank and mini skirt. Caring, you may say, is my fatal flaw. My wife, Emma, says that my heart is too big for my body. It doesn’t help that I’m an Empath and can literally feel everyone’s emotions. I’m a sponge. I hurt with every tear- feeling them fall as if they are my own. Emma says that’s why I got tangled up with Fred. I just couldn’t walk away from someone who was hurting so badly. I’m lucky to have Emma. She believes my Fred story and she believes in me- despite the fact that I’m a 23-year-old struggling photographer who hawks “deadly good” burgers for a living. “Breathe, Mel. Just breathe,” I said, patting her back. “Since we’re
I expected hell fire. Or spirits of witches past. Or the room to shake. I expected something big to happen, but nothing did. We sat quietly at Althea’s funeral listening to a priest talk about Althea’s good deeds and her commitment to the holy. “She was a model of propriety” The priest said. He removed the photo of young Althea holding the “DEATH TO WITCHES” sign. Behind it was a photo of the old woman dressed in a black robe with a white cloth over her hair. “She was a nun?!” I whispered just low enough for Kyle and Melinda to hear. “Duh” answered Melinda. “You could have mentioned that!” I whispered back. “Seems like an important detail” Kyle chimed in. “My little cuties, you should get out of here.” A now familiar motherly voice said from behind. Directly behind us, sat the ghost from the casket room. She smiled kindly. Kyle, Melinda, and I eyed each other just to confirm we all saw the same thing. The mourners seated around th
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