16. Historic Hyperbole

                The land line rang. Jocelyn grabbed the phone and settled herself on the front steps. As she answered, her cell indicated she had a text. Dexterous with her devices, she scanned her texts as she spoke on the phone. The texts were from Mitzi, a fellow docent at the Ketcham House, a historic site interpreted back to the 1700’s. The call was from Agnes, a seasoned docent associated with the Hicksville Historical Society for the last thirty years.

            “Jocelyn, glad I caught you! I wanted to make sure you were informed about what occurred here at Ketcham today.”

            --Text message: “She means she wanted to be the first to get to tell the story. I’m standing right next to her,” typed Mitzi.

            “What happened Agnes?” asked Jocelyn.

            “Well, the ambulance just left. They were here for hours.”

            --“Yeah that would be 20 minutes.”

            “Ambulance! What happened Agnes?” Jocelyn asked again.

            “I was in the middle of a tour; had a large group.”

            --“Four people, one was a baby.”

            “A gentleman in the group had some kind of condition. I noticed he was dragging his left leg quite a bit.”

            --“He had a slight limp.”

            “We were just going into the kitchen when it happened.” Here Agnes paused for effect.

            “Go on, Agnes, go on…” Jocelyn prodded.

            “I turned my back to him for just a moment and I heard this loud crash. I thought the old roof was caving in.”

            --“I heard it out in the office. I heard her scream.”

            “I kept my cool and turned to find him on the floor. He must of fainted and landed on the table, the one with the sugar cones and the bowl with the sugar nippers. There was sugar everywhere.”

            --“The man tripped on the raised door jamb and couldn’t catch his balance.”

            “Was he injured?” Jocelyn asked.

            “Mitzi and Louis came running in. My grandson was doing some yard clean-up outside. The ambulance was here in five minutes.”

            --“I called 911. I thought for sure it was Agnes!”

            “Louis knew not to touch him. Could have been a back injury.”

            --“The EMTs told him to get out of the way.”

            “Turns out he cracked his head on the apple peeler. You should have seen the blood!”

            --“He scraped his temple on the wooden apple peeler. There was a little trickle on his cheek.”

            “Oh my God, was there blood on everything?” asked Jocelyn struggling to keep the chuckle out of her voice.

            “Lucky I had a wad of tissues in my sweater pocket. Always carry them. I think ahead just in case.”

            --“Allergies.”

            “And I know CPR.”

            --“Agnes was so shocked I thought she was going to keel.”

            “Did they take him to the hospital?” asked Jocelyn.

            “No, they checked him out and bandaged him up, after they staunched the blood.”

            --“They gave him a band aid and a cold compress for his knee.”

            “It’s a good thing you’re so good in an emergency Agnes,” said Jocelyn.

            “Well, I could tell they know a person who can take charge when it’s needed.”

            --“They made her sit down to catch her breath.”

            “Gonna take a lot of work to get the exhibit back in order.”

            --“We righted the table, swept up the loose sugar, and put everything back just like it was.”

“Reminds me of how Daniel Ketcham had a drunken brawl in the house after the apple harvest was done. Too much hard cider passed around.”

            “I haven’t heard that story,” said Jocelyn.

            --“No one has. It’s new.”

            “Oh they had a big mess on their hands.”

            “Not just another day at Ketcham House, was it Agnes?” teased Jocelyn.

            “I’m glad to serve.”

            --“She sure loves to dish it up.”

(638 words)

15. News to a Cynic

            Cari Pollack met Horace Dunderpill in the hallway on her way to the status meeting.

            “Can’t stand these meetings,” she said. “We waste so much time.” She noticed that Horace wasn’t walking in the right direction. “Aren’t you coming?”

            “Yeah in a minute,” said Horace and flashed her his signature crooked half smile. “I’ve got a mission first.”

            He opened his hand to show her a large spotted moth.

            “Found him under my desk.”

            Cari peered at the powdery wings, the furry body, the filigreed fern-like antennae. There was a light in Horace’s eyes as he loped toward the elevator. She continued to the meeting room thinking he was just trying to get out of a little meeting time. That bug would have been so squashed and tissued if she’d found it.

            “We’ve got to sell more services,” intoned Jed Smythe, Head Assistant Branch Manager. “It’s not enough just to have a bank account. It doesn’t serve the bank. We need customers to invest!” He scanned the less than enthused employees around the conference table. “Therefore, everyone will have a quota of selling five bank services a month.”

            No one was smiling as they filed out the door. Except for Horace with his crooked grin. Jim Lorring rolled his eyes and wondered what he was ‘on’.

            Cari’s cubicle was catty-corner to Horace. She entertained a fetish of sorts. She liked to watch his activities whenever possible since she started to notice his odd practices. She would catch him gazing feelingly at the photo of a woman on his desk several times a day. His girlfriend? Daughter? Cari thought he looked kind of ageless and nondescript. Maybe it’s a decoy, she thought.

            Horace sat busily jotting something down, in green ink Cari noted. He wrote with green ink in a small notebook kept in his top desk drawer. Notes for his Bookie? A blackmail record? Food journal? Was he a company snitch spying on them all?

            At five the daily populace of Sanborne Bank headed for cars and mass transit. Horace whistled his way to his 2005 Honda Civic. What’s he got to be so happy about wondered Lindy Moore as she climbed into her Prius sport coupe. He wasn’t rich in the financial or social sense as far as she could see. His obvious contentment irritated her.

            The next morning fresh rolls and bagels appeared in the lunch room. Cari knew it was Horace doing what came naturally, spreading some kind of artificial cheer that no one else could fathom. He was writing in his notebook again.  She couldn’t stand it a moment more.

            “Horace, mind if I ask you something?”

            “Hmm? Sure Cari what’s up?”

            “Something’s up with you. Now don’t get me wrong but I can’t help noticing things you do since we’re in such close proximity. There’s a rumor going round that you don’t hate your job, you know, like the rest of us who’re just waiting till we find the next something better. Why is that? Who are you?”

            Horace let out a long full-throated laugh. “My cover’s blown! And I thought that I was off the radar all this time.”

            “OK Horace, just tell me what you’re doing here. Are they missing personnel at the North Pole?

            Again Horace closed his eyes and laughed.

            “You wanna know what keeps me afloat? I’m not that interesting, Cari, you need to get a hobby. I have a little system in place that doesn’t let me forget why living is so desirable. I got tired of reviewing all the ways that life does me wrong and started keeping a log of benefits.”

            “I have a notebook in my desk. It was inspired by where I work. It’s a bank after all. I already sold myself my first banking service that outweighs the brownie points I’ll get if I can sell five every month.”

            Horace took out the book and opened to a random page. Green inked dates were in a column on the left and short paragraphs were on the right.

            “This is my emotional bank account. I keep track of the little things that are too easily discarded from my thoughts; things I didn’t used to think were important. I found that if I fill my head with these things there’s no time or space for those useless ones that have sharp edges. I use green ink because it’s the color of money, though if I could I’d write in gold.”

He blinked languidly at Cari for a moment then returned the book to the drawer. She backed away slowly keeping her eyes on Horace, for any sudden moves.

“Thanks Horace for coming clean like that. You didn’t have a worry that I might call the authorities to have you evaluated.” He smiled at her with all of his teeth. “Gotta go.”

At her desk Cari retrieved a small glittery notepad from her purse. She tore out several pages with reminders about shopping and dinner dates. She fished out a blue pen with a silvery tinge in the ink and wrote,

“November 7^th : Horace Dunderpill convinced me that cynical realism doesn’t’ pay. Now I know a better way…to go on with things.”

(870 words)

14. Nothing to Sneeze At

Glen Otterburn maneuvered his black van into the Elks Lodge parking lot. In purple blackadder script the sides of his van read, “Ghost Trusters.”  He lifted several duffel bags of equipment from its recesses, checked his appearance in the mirror and prior to making his entrance, completed the last requisite preparation vital to his engagement for the evening by the Sisters of the Spirits Council.

Glen removed his SLR (single lens reflex) Nikon camera from its case, and a small wooden box he kept in a satchel. The box contained a distinctive mixture that Glen had created, a combination of black pepper and the type of Rose talcum powder his Aunt May used to wear with intentional liberality. He leaned into the box, his nose inhaled the scent, and he closed the box with a snap. Gripping his Nikon firmly, he held it at a 45 degree angle about one foot away, waited a moment, and aimed a ferocious sneeze directly at the lens. He produced a small hand-held battery-operated fan and dried the surface, making sure that no particulate was visible. He again appraised his appearance in the mirror and emerged.

Once inside the upstairs meeting room and standing at the presenter’s podium, Glen began the program.

“Good evening worthy Sisters of the Spirits.” (Murmurs and a scattering of applause)

“Thank you for inviting me here tonight (for a small stipend of $777.77 mailed in advance). “You will further your exploration and connection to the spirit world by the study of orbs, and then we will proceed to discover the orbs attached to each of you. First, I will show you a brief presentation.”

Glen typed a command and an image from his laptop appeared on the wall to his right.

“In this photograph you see a small boy on a swing in a lush garden. You can also see that he is not alone. To the right of his head is an orb, proof of ghostly visitation. His parents called on me to capture this image because they were sure of his spiritual abilities in contacting otherworldly beings. They would hear him talking to the spirits in their home.” (murmurs of appreciation)

Glen pointed with his cursor to a pale transparent globule seemingly hovering above the boy’s shoulder.

“The next picture may be a bit disturbing, but is an example of the heritage that I was born to. My grandfather took this image in 1926 at the request of a family friend. The young wife who passed had been a very spiritual lady.”

The photo showed an ornate casket with the deceased reposing in the appearance of sleep, holding a bunch of pale roses. Positioned around her body were orbs of varying sizes and translucencies, some overlapping as if vying for closeness to the corpse. The room erupted in gasps and sighs as the Sisters of the Spirits provided their supportive reaction.

“This third and final capture took place at a wedding. The family wished to see evidence of attendance by their ancestors at the joyful event.”

The bride and groom stood before the altar, their backs to the congregation. A swirl of orbs seemed to dance about them. (laughter and applause)

The first photograph was taken in the large meeting room. Glen arranged his subjects in an attractive array with some Sisters standing on chairs behind others who were seated. Each held an object sure to assist with astral connection in her hands.

“I will take several photographs to assure that any orbs who are shy get into a picture.”

This made the Sisters smile on cue. Glen busied himself with his most professional manner.

The next part of the program consisted of individual portraits of the Sisters of the Spirits in a small enclosure prepared in accordance with Glen’s prior instructions. Each Sister was asked to sit or stand as was her whim against a black velvet backdrop designed to show both believer and ghostly visitant to best advantage. Before each portrait, Glen removed to a small room in the hall adjacent to the meeting room where he sprayed the lens of his Nikon with cleaning solution. Then he employed his sneezing compound, and prepared the lens with a fresh spray of orb manifestation so as to produce authentic variety.

“Oh Mr. Otterburn, we’re so pleased to have had you with us this evening,” gushed the Sisters’ President.  

With fervent avowals that the photographs would be delivered in time for the next monthly meeting, Glen took his leave. Just as he reached the van, a Sister rushed after him.

“Mr. Otterburn!  I took this Instaflash picture of you while you showed us your work. Look Mr. Otterburn. Look!”

Glen glanced down at the picture she thrust into his hand. There about his head and shoulders were three orbs all his own. He smiled a small satisfied smile as he looked at her triumphant face out of the corners of his eyes.

“Yes, you’ve found me out, he said. “They follow wherever I go.”

(841 words)

13. Spirit

            Sandra stepped outside expectantly on Hallows E’en.  She pulled her spider web cape close around her.  And nothing happened. There was no magic, no sorcery, and no sign of a spell.  Just fog.

          She couldn’t understand it.  She had followed all the instructions – whispered an incantation over a flickering candle flame, collected herbs and sprinkled them under the dusty miller plants in her back yard during the most recent full moon.  She’d even danced with a white scarf in the attic.  She’d done everything the little square book in the library had said to do.  To beckon a ghost. 

Sandra walked along the pathway.  The fog was misty and swirled delicately.  Her friend Jack appeared at the hedge, dressed all in black. 

“It didn’t work.”

“Give it a chance.  We just got outside,” said Jack confidently.  He kicked at some of the fog, as it seemed to drift in patches in front of them. 

Slightly encouraged she said, “Here, let’s complete the final step.”

She handed him a miniature sugar cube.

“A sugar cube?”

“It’s something white.  It was that or a slice of bread.”

They ate their sweets.  Walking along, it was harder to see through the thick mist.  Turning the corner, they saw their destination.  An old white wooden church with a pointed spire and scalloped shingles waited for them.  It seemed to be part of the fog, white in white.  And the ancient little churchyard, with a scattering of crooked limestone headstones. 

They walked over to the most ancient of the markers.  They placed their fingertips on its top edge.  Nothing.  Just fog.

By this time they had been out in it long enough to notice mist making their hair and clothes damp. Time to admit defeat and go to the horror fest at the New Community Cinema. 

The fog swirled around them, brushing their faces as they walked.  It had gotten so dense that they could only see a few feet before them.  Finally at the cinema building, they left the fog outside. It looked in at the windows.

All of their efforts had succeeded.  It was just a small error in perspective that prevented Sandra and Jack from seeing their success.  Their intent had been so pure, their belief so strong, and hopes so deep that they hadn’t summoned one ghost.  They’d called them all.

 (391 words)