DEW: the Old Ghosts of Home
I guess you can call this a triple drabble.
The Old Ghosts of Home
By Just Ruth
“You aren’t taking this seriously, are you?” demanded my sister.
“Of course not,” I retorted. A pair of idiots calling themselves the Ghostfacers had showed up at our door trumpeting the news that my grandfather’s ghost had been seen fly fishing on the Racquette River. They had a blurry picture and wanted one of the family to come and “make contact” with the spirit. They were yapping about proof and wanting to get there before someone called the Winchesters showed up.
“If I don’t go with them, they’ll be tromping all around grandpa’s land and who knows what trouble they’ll get themselves into.” My sister scoffed, but stopped nagging at me. Besides, how could I tell her that the story put chills up my spine and I somehow felt they were telling the truth? I was always accused of having an over-active imagination.
Two days later I was on the river trail leading Doofus and Dingbat towards Grandpa’s favorite fishing area. Mist rode the water making an eerie glow in the waning moonlight. There was - someone - there as blurry as that photograph.
“Can you make contact?” squeaked Dingbat.
If that was my Grandpa, he wasn’t supposed to be here, so I had to get him to go “home” where he belonged.
“Grandpa!” I shouted. “Grandma says if you don’t get home now she’ll feed your dinner to the hounds!”
The figure turned for the bank. He vanished before he reached the shore.
“Great!” shrilled Doofus. “Now we’ve got to salt and burn the body!”
“Like hell you will!” I yelled. “You get your asses out of here.”
The Ghostfacers left the next day. I followed after telling my cousins about them. They come back to salt and burn Grandpa; they’re going to find out how cold the river is.
The Old Ghosts of Home
By Just Ruth
“You aren’t taking this seriously, are you?” demanded my sister.
“Of course not,” I retorted. A pair of idiots calling themselves the Ghostfacers had showed up at our door trumpeting the news that my grandfather’s ghost had been seen fly fishing on the Racquette River. They had a blurry picture and wanted one of the family to come and “make contact” with the spirit. They were yapping about proof and wanting to get there before someone called the Winchesters showed up.
“If I don’t go with them, they’ll be tromping all around grandpa’s land and who knows what trouble they’ll get themselves into.” My sister scoffed, but stopped nagging at me. Besides, how could I tell her that the story put chills up my spine and I somehow felt they were telling the truth? I was always accused of having an over-active imagination.
Two days later I was on the river trail leading Doofus and Dingbat towards Grandpa’s favorite fishing area. Mist rode the water making an eerie glow in the waning moonlight. There was - someone - there as blurry as that photograph.
“Can you make contact?” squeaked Dingbat.
If that was my Grandpa, he wasn’t supposed to be here, so I had to get him to go “home” where he belonged.
“Grandpa!” I shouted. “Grandma says if you don’t get home now she’ll feed your dinner to the hounds!”
The figure turned for the bank. He vanished before he reached the shore.
“Great!” shrilled Doofus. “Now we’ve got to salt and burn the body!”
“Like hell you will!” I yelled. “You get your asses out of here.”
The Ghostfacers left the next day. I followed after telling my cousins about them. They come back to salt and burn Grandpa; they’re going to find out how cold the river is.