A Short Story—A Haunted House in the Suburbs—Happy Halloween!

I wrote this story 7 years ago in hopes it would be included in a book on Haunted Houses in Texas. The publisher didn't receive enough enough submissions, and the project was dropped.

I thought I'd posted this story online before, but it didn't show up after an Internet search. So, I'm posting it for my readers this Halloween. I hope you enjoy!

If you've had a ghostly experience, please share it with us in the comment section.

A Haunted House in the Suburbs

            When I think about haunted houses, my mind conjures up old, dark, abandoned dwellings in poor condition or ancient castles and mansions with ugly gargoyles keeping out intruders. Not single story ranch style homes with cement foundations that sit on paved streets not more than fifteen feet from the house next door. Now, it’s my understanding that when a realtor sells a property, they must inform the prospective buyers if a death has occurred in the residence, and if it was natural or violent. When we bought the house in Fort Worth in 1972, we received no such news, so, of course our modest abode, in a clean, neat neighborhood wasn’t a candidate for ghost activity.

            I must admit that one night I heard what sounded like someone fighting for their life. My husband liked to watch TV while lying on the sofa, and invariably he’d fall asleep. Our bedroom was right off the den, the TV sat just outside our doorway. Usually, the noise didn’t bother me, or even wake me. But on this particular night, the horrible, loud sounds of choking, gurgling, and screams had me springing from the bed in fright.

My first thought was a heart attack, but the yells of terror nixed that. The only thing that registered in my brain was an intruder was attacking my husband.

My soul mate slept peacefully, but the woman on the TV screen being sucked dry by a vampire wasn’t. I hit the knob on the tube to turn it off. In that day and time, we didn’t have remote controls. Switching channels required getting up to turn the dial, a major pain. Being a portable set sitting on a flimsy stand, it rocked from the blow.

            Furious, I left him snoring serenely and went back to bed. Beating my pillow into submission, I mumbled a few unkind words to let off steam. My heart rate hadn’t slowed yet, so I took several deep breaths. I might not have been so frightened if we’d not had several break-ins in the neighborhood in the past few months. TV’s, jewelry, and other easy to carry items had disappeared, but the burglaries occurred during the day when everyone was at work. No one had been hurt, but there was always a first time.

Before I get to my story about my haunting experience, first let me say, if there is a foreign sound in the house I will hear it and wake up. I don’t know if it’s a mother thing, ESP, or what. One night I awoke and heard a faint noise I couldn’t identify. I rose and walked all over the house trying to find the source. At first I thought it was water running in one of the toilets, but neither were the problem. It was the water heater. A hole had formed in the bottom allowing water to leak onto the raised platform on which it sat. The slow drip, drip, drip is what woke me.

For once my husband didn’t complain about being woken in the night about some noise. In fact, he was grateful. “If you hadn’t heard that slow drip, we’d have a mess to clean up in the morning.” He turned off the gas flame, and with a hose, drained the tank.

On another occasion, around two a.m., something woke me. I don’t have a clue what it was, if I’d heard some sound or what. I lay there awhile, still and afraid, listening for the noise to be repeated so I could hone it on what had nudged me from slumber. My heart thundered in my chest as I waited. When I didn’t hear anything, I opened my eyes. You’re probably wondering why I hadn’t opened my eyes sooner. If someone was in the house, I didn’t want them to know I was awake. Hearing nothing, I opened my eyes. A man stood in front of the TV just outside our bedroom door staring inside. His body was positioned partially toward us, but his head was turned, looking in our bedroom. I could see fairly well as he stood in the glow of the nightlight we leave on for the kids. He wasn’t moving, so I figured I was dreaming. Fear churning in my belly, I continued to gape, taking in his clothes and posture. Of less than medium height for a man, stocky, or maybe the loose clothes he wore made him appear so. About five feet, five inches tall, he wore olive green or khaki pants and a matching jacket that hit him about mid thigh. I know it was a jacket because the hem didn’t curve and I could see that it hung open. His hat was the same color as his clothes, one of those cloth types with a brim turned slightly down, almost like a fishing hat but the brim was wider. Though the light wasn’t bright, I could see enough to make me believe the man was neat and clean.

He remained unmoving and didn’t make a sound. If he was a thief, he’d be quietly gathering loot – a murderer, there would be a weapon of some kind. This had to be a dream. To test my theory, I thought, if I sit up and it’s just a nightmare, I’ll awaken. I sat up in the bed and waited. He bent slightly at the waist and cocked his head in my direction. My mouth was open, a scream gathering in my throat, when his image broke apart and began pulling away. The same way cigarette smoke dissipates if fluttered by a slight breeze. 

I glanced at my sleeping husband trying to make up my mind whether to wake him or not. Deciding no, I got up, tiptoed to the door, and peered around the corner. Nothing. I pulled back quickly, and holding my breath, took another fast peek. No one. I released the air in my lungs and leaned against the door frame to steady my shaky legs. Like most mothers, I couldn’t go back to bed until I’d checked on my children, every door, and window in the house. Everything was locked down for the night as it should be.

For a long time, I lay still in the bed staring at the ceiling, afraid to go back to sleep. Was it possible to be so deep in slumber that you could envision something thinking it real? I don’t think so. As a child, I walked in my sleep on occasion. But in those situations, I interacted with my environment. The minute I woke, I knew I’d been asleep. And felt pretty darn stupid afterwards. Especially the time I walked into my brother’s room and started beating on him.

Whatever I’d seen was totally different. I’d swear he was real, and his head and body did move. I didn’t have a sense of waking, I was already awake. In my mind, I know I saw a ghost. Where this ghost came from or why he was there, I don’t have a clue. If ghosts have temperaments, I’d say this ghost was kind and good. At no time did I feel threatened. Scared yes, but not so much by him as by the fact that I’d seen him period. 

The next morning, I told my husband about our visitor. Being the analytical person he is, he scoffed at the idea of my seeing a ghost. His answer was I’d been dreaming, again. I do have vivid nightmares, ones in living color. If only I could remember them, I’d have tons of ideas for story plots. On occasion I can remember parts of them and make notes for future reference. But, make no mistake, on this occasion, I was awake. I know the difference between a dream and an apparition, ghost, whatever, standing at my door and making eye contact. I’d been haunted – well, not really haunted since I only saw him once.

Over the next few months, I thought of who this individual might be. Across the street and down a steep hill from our house was a railroad track and trains come through regularly. Is it possible he was once a hobo who jumped off the train and fell to his death? Or starved to death, or had been murdered? It didn’t sound likely. He was too clean to be a homeless man. There were numerous possibilities.

Our housing addition sits on soap stone. Until we moved there, I’d never heard of its existence. But when it gets wet, it is slick. As a result, rain washed away parts of the cliff across the street. Back yards slid down the hill, and two vacant lots remained empty where houses had once been. Is it possible that while the streets had been laid out, dirt moved, piled up to form barriers that the land had shifted burying one of the workers? That was a terrible thought.

When I decided to write this story, a fact that puzzled me was the hat the man wore. It was not one I’d seen before. I discussed it with several people and received different answers. I searched the Internet and looked for pictures. Frustrated, I shared my dilemma with my husband. He responded, “It sounds like a jungle hat to me, a Boonie or Daisy Mae.” And sure enough, it was, but not camouflage like the modern ones. After more searching, I found the hat in WWII Army gear – a fatigue Boonie hat to match the jungle fatigues worn in the Pacific.

It was then I realized what he’d worn was a uniform, one when fatigues were standard Army issue, not the camouflage type worn today. Of course, workmen often wore khakis, but I doubt they’d have worn a jacket like my visitor. After further thought, I believe his jacket was a field jacket because my husband still has the one he wore while in the Army in the late 1960’s hanging in his closet.

Our house was built in the early 1960’s, after the Korean War but before Vietnam. Is it possible the people who lived there before us lost a loved one and he’d come seeking them? Or was it someone we had known? It’s possible the ghost didn’t come to see anyone, but something in the house, an item he was attached to. As far as actual antiques, I didn’t have any in the house, but I did have some collectibles and garage sale items.

When our children were small, there were times when they’d wake in the night claiming, “Someone was in my room.” After a thorough search, we found nothing so chalked it up as a dream or moonlight shining through the curtains and highlighting objects on the wall. As for me, I never saw him again.

In the early 1980’s we moved to another town and friends bought the house. When I decided to write this story, I called to see if they’d had any unusual experiences while living there. She asked what kind of oddities I had in mind. I have to give her credit, she didn’t laugh when I said – a ghost. “No, I haven’t and as far as I know, none of the others have either, or if they did, they didn’t mention it to me. But I’ll ask them.” Darn, I was disappointed. I needed some backup, verification that what I’d seen was real.

One afternoon my son, now grown, came over and helped me with some work on my computer. I explained what I was writing and asked him if he’d seen anything unusual, like a ghost when we lived in Fort Worth. Many young men would’ve burst out laughing, but not my son. He’s more like me in his thinking, and doesn’t automatically deny the possibility of unusual happenings. His answer was, no, not in that house, but he and his sister both had seen something in our new home. He continued. “We talked about feeling spooked, and we both saw the exact same thing. Sometimes at night, when we first turned on the light in our bedroom, we’d see the dark shadow of a man. The vision only lasted a second.”

When I described what I’d seen that night, he snapped his fingers, pointed at me, and said, “That’s the kind of hat our shadow wore.”

                            

                                                           The End

Thank you for stopping by. I hope you'll leave a comment.

Happy Reading and Writing!

Linda

P. L. Parker has a New Release!

If you've not read P.L.'s work, you should. You'll love it, especially if you like paranormal with fantasy and loads of history added. My favorites are Fiona and Riley's Journey, but with Will o' the Wisps she's stepping into the sci-fi genre.I look forward to reading it. Leave her a comment to be entered in a drawing for an ecopy of Will o' the Wisp. Please join me in welcoming P. L. Parker.

I’ve always loved science fiction! The SciFi channel is my favorite channel on TV. My novel Riley’s Journey and the sequel, Into the Savage Dawn, are time travel but in many ways also science fiction. A time portal created by a scientist was the mode of transportation into the past. I am currently working on a third in that series. Recently, I contracted with New Concepts Publishing for my latest novel, The Chalice, another science fiction romance.


My short story, Will o’ the Wisp, was my first conscious step into the realm of science fiction.

Will o’ the Wisp by P. L. Parker

Blurb:

Stalked across the vast reaches of the universe, Tannis, the last fecund female of the clan Light Bringers, takes refuge on Earth, veiling herself within the dying form of a human female. Her energy forces are flagging and to rejuvenate, she must seek the healing properties of the sun’s rays, but by doing so, she risks discovery by the hunter. Time is short and Kadin—the most feared assassin of all—draws near!

Excerpt:

The hunt had led him to this place. A primitive planet on the outskirts of a distant galaxy. He’d arrived ahead of the pack, confident his subtle pointers would lead the others in the wrong direction. Convinced he’d caught up with Tannis at last, he’d come upon her at the moment she’d entered the host body, seeking to mask her presence. Such was the act of desperation, born of her inexperience and misguided information. Her energies pulsed bright and compelling, far too tangible to hide in the husk of the former occupant.

His lips curved in a self-deprecating smile. He could heal the female body with a simple touch. The shell’s hold on life was tenuous but if Tannis flew, the hunt would commence again. He grew tired of the hunt, tired of the unending frustrations. Now he wanted closure, craved an ending. But until he caught her, it was not to be.

He glanced down. A single human male also watched the vehicle’s progress. When the transport disappeared from his line of sight, the human turned, starting up an overgrown pathway into a wooded area. Kadin touched on the human’s mind, taking in information at light speed.

Excerpt 2

“Hold her down while I sedate her.”
“No!” Tannis screamed out. “If I sleep, he’ll find me!”
“No one is going to hurt you,” the woman soothed. “We just want you to calm down.”
“You don’t understand! I can’t sleep,” she cried. “If I do, he’ll destroy me.”
“No one’s going to destroy you,” Laura said as she reattached the tubes. “We won’t let them,” she glanced at the other two. “Will we?”
They shook their heads. “Not on our watch,” one replied.
“But…but you won’t even know he’s here until it’s too late.”
A hand squeezed her shoulder. “You’re in ICU. No one gets in here without us knowing about it.”
“You can’t know…,” she moaned as more drugs entered the body’s system. “He won’t rest until I’m eliminated.”

Buy link: http://www.amazon.com/Will-o-the-Wisp-ebook/dp/B0060M0QU6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1326557858&sr=8-1

About me:

Offbeat is a perfect word when describing me. For many years, I taught, performed, as well as choreographed, dance. I am a dreamer and an avid reader of fiction, a sometimes gardener and an inept crafter. I love to travel, always returning to my beautiful Idaho where I reside with my husband, Jack, my children and extended family, Jared, Travis, Zachary and Tannis, two huge cats and a toy poodle. I am a member of Romance Writers of America and the local chapter, Coeur d’Bois.

Website: http://www.plparker.com/

Blog site: http://www.plparker.blogspot.com/

Thanks for being my guest today, P. L. Readers, leave P. L. a comment to be entered in her drawing.

Happy Reading and Writing!

Linda
http://www.lindalaroque.com/

A Short Story: Goatheads and Yellow Roses, part 2

Thank you for all your kind comments about the first
half of this story. I hope you enjoy the conclusion as much.










Now Grandma was a different story altogether. She was always even-tempered, quiet and loving. Except when you did something where you might get hurt. Then look out Nellie!

Grandma was old when she married, thirty-one, and by the time she had six children she was pretty wore out. So, when I knew her she was already having trouble getting around. We’d been told to stay out of the road, so one day when my brother thought she wasn’t looking, where do you think he went? You got it, into the road. Jimmy heard the screen door slap closed and by the time he looked up all he saw was Grandma’s big tennis shoe coming off the front porch. And she was loaded for bear, with the fly swatter. That thing really gets your attention when you’re wearing shorts and shirtless like he was. From that day on we knew our sweet Grandma meant what she said.

Grandma was a good Christian woman, her kids called her a saint because she “put up with Papa,” but she had two vices. Well, she thought of them as vices. She dipped snuff and read those romance magazines. They sat in a tall stack at the end of the sofa. Every afternoon, after her work was done and before it was time to cook supper, she’d sit and read awhile. It was her one escape from a hard life.

Grandma and Grandpa got too old to manage the farm and moved into a white frame house in town. Town being a small community of about 100 people several miles from the farm. The yard was grass and though there were no rose bushes, honeysuckle covered a trellis on the front porch.

As a teenager I loved to visit, and when Grandpa passed, I went as often as possible. She was lonely. Mama was grateful I liked to go because she couldn’t get out often. I’d take her car, and feeling free as a breeze, drive too fast on the two-lane highway.

We’d sit at her kitchen table and eat tomato and macaroni soup from pink Depression glass bowls — the ones so collectable today. Some days I’d stop at a burger joint just outside town and pick up a couple of hamburgers, her favorite meal. According to her, it was perfect — it had all the food groups, you could eat it with your hands and there were no dishes to wash. While we ate, she listened to my teenage woes, never condemning or scolding. And I learned things about her. I knew she loved roses but not that yellow was her favorite.

I cherish the richness of my childhood. Playing in that dirt with brothers, sisters and cousins we learned give and take, fairness and loyalty. Grandma’s simple life, her love and wisdom taught me compassion, unconditional love, and joy in what I have. Her life was an example of what it means to live the life of a Christian. She truly walked with Jesus.

Only remnants of Grandma’s shrubs and flowers remain at the farm, most died off from lack of water, a valuable commodity in the 1950’s due to the seven-year drought. No wonder she didn’t have grass. A new log home stands a short distance from where Grandma’s small house stood. Scraps of tin from the roof and chips of green asbestos siding are all that remain. Stand there for just a minute and memories will make you smile. Close your eyes, breathe in the scent of roses and listen to the sound of children’s laughter on the breeze as they ride stick horses and hunt doodlebugs in Grandma’s dirt yard.

Each time I look at a rose and its fragrance teases my nostrils, I think of Grandma Riley. Every memory I have is like the flower, beautiful, sweet and lingering. Though I loved Grandpa too, his memory congers up reminders of those goatheads, sharp and prickly.

THE END

Thanks for reading!

Linda
http://www.lindalaroque.com/

A Short Story: Goatheads and Yellow Roses

Oh, the memories of childhood. This is a special one of mine I'd like to share. Since it's longer I'm posting it in two parts. I'll post the conclusion next Tuesday. I hope you enjoy!

This is a picture of Grandma Riley before she married. It was probably taken around 1920.

Goatheads and Yellow Roses

by Linda LaRoque

Grandma Riley’s front yard was odd. It was pretty, with rose bushes and shrubs, but it was all dirt. If a blade of grass poked its head through the soil, Grandma sealed its fate with a “whack” of her hoe. The same hoe she used to kill snakes. As a child, I couldn’t understand her dislike of grass. But her shrubs and flowers created ideal dirt paths for hide and seek, roads for our tricycles, and trails for our stick horses.

What fun we had in that sandy soil. We made roads and bridges with little ponds. A twig made a perfect tree and with pop sickle sticks, we built houses. My favorite past time was playing Betty Crocker. In the 1950’s coffee cans were bigger around and shorter — the perfect size for a double layer chocolate fudge cake. Mud made icing of perfect consistency and I made swirls on my cake just like those on the cake mix box.

That soil had one drawback, goatheads — a vicious sticker. It was mean and ugly and if you’ve ever stepped on one, most likely you remember it to this day. A goathead has two thorns that stick up, just like a goats horns do and a third one stuck out at an odd angle below them. When planted in the tender flesh of your foot they cause considerable pain going in and more coming out. They’re so tough they can imbed in your shoes and scar the floor. Most days, one of us kids would need first aid. On went our shoes for a while, until we got too hot, then off they’d come again. We’d tiptoe through the hot dirt trying to avoid the goatheads, until we forgot to worry and played with abandon. Tanned and barefoot, we wiled away the hours, never complaining of boredom or expecting someone to entertain us.

In the evenings, by the light of kerosene lamps, electricity hadn’t yet reached the farm, we’d eat grandma’s saucer-sized biscuits. Butter mixed with Karo syrup spread between the two halves made it dee-lish. We’d wash it down with a glass of milk and lick our fingers and plate clean. If Grandpa was in a good mood, we’d play dominoes on the old card table in the front room. We didn’t beat him, though. He was a sore looser.

Before bed, we’d drag the round tin washtub in from the back porch, and wash away the dirt before piling into the big feather bed in the back room. We’d talk and giggle until grandpa bellowed, “quiet.” Since he went to bed with the chickens, it wasn’t long.

We slept in the backroom where grandma stored her eggs. She sold them in town for extra money, and the food she’d canned for the winter. I loved to help sort the eggs. We’d dip them in buckets of water to wash and rinse them, and hold them before a bright light to candle them. If they looked cloudy inside or floated, we threw them out.

That bedroom became off limits the closer it got to Christmas. Grandpa bought apples, oranges and nuts for the holiday and hid them under the bed – Grandma baked and stored cakes and pies on top. With the door closed it was as cold as the refrigerator. The best was her yellow cake with brown sugar icing topped with pecan halves. Somehow a pecan or two would disappear. The culprit was never caught. Grandma never said anything, she’d just smile and replace them. It must have been one of the grown kids, you know, my mama or aunt. Or, maybe it was Grandpa.

Because the only plumbing in the house was water in the kitchen, the facilities were located in the pasture next to the house. It was called the outhouse. I don’t think it had a half-moon cut out on the door though. And I’m not lying, it had old Sears’s catalogues for toilet paper. It really did.

During the day I was afraid to go in the pasture because of the cows, and no way would I chance stepping on a snake at night. If I did go, I’d look long and hard to make sure no cows were near before going through the gate and making a b-line for the door. Before sitting down, I’d peek under the toilet seat and in the corners just to make sure spiders or other critters weren’t waiting to pounce. Most times we kids did our business behind the smokehouse or in the slop jar kept in the back room. Not around Christmas time though.

Grandpa’s bed sat, like a big fluffy shrine, taking up valuable floor space I might add, in the front room. I didn’t know another soul with a bed in the living room. His reason became clear when the cold winter wind whipped through the papered walls. The only heat came from the black pot bellied stove located — “tah-dah” — in the front room. But, please, don’t think because it’s in the living room you can sit on it. No way. The standard question if caught on it was, “Are you sick?” And don’t lean on it, either. The spread remained wrinkle free. Even the adults didn’t sit on the bed.

When Grandpa said to “jump”, we learned to “jump.” Being from the old school, he didn’t take any lip. My first lesson from grandpa came when I was six years old. I was there with my aunt and uncle, and two-year-old cousin.

“Watch the baby and don’t let her go outside,” said my aunt Jewell. She was helping Grandma fix supper.

Proud of this awesome responsibility, I watched her like a hawk. Anna Muriel toddled toward the front door. To keep her inside I latched the screen door.
Grandpa ordered, “Unlatch that door.”

“But, Grandpa, Aunt . . .”

Quicker than a lick, I was marched outside into the dark to stand, alone, by the cistern. Chin trembling, I stood, frozen in fright. Beyond the well it was pitch black and the intermittent howl of wolves seemed to get closer and closer. I knew wolves were around because farmers hung dead ones on the fences to scare others away. I could almost feel them sneaking up to the house looking for food. And I was dinner.

I jumped when the screen door squeaked. Warm arms hugged me. My aunt took me inside to the table in the kitchen. And Grandpa didn’t say one word, he knew everyone was mad at him.
One day I asked Grandma why he was so grouchy. “Oh, honey, he doesn’t mean to be that way.” She always made excuses for him. But she did for all of us. I never heard her say an unkind word about anyone.

And, he was good to us in his own way. He’d take us to the pasture with him and sometimes to town to sell Grandma’s eggs. While in town he’d buy us a coke, a rare treat.

We also learned interesting things from him. Useful things, like how to kill mice when traps and poison didn’t do the job. One day we stood around him and watched as he poured coca-cola in a pie pan. What on earth was he thinking? Draw them with the cola and then club them to death? Nope. Mice, like cows can’t belch, so they just blow up and die. Not like “bang” but swell up, bloat.

To be continued next week. Thanks for stopping by. Happy Reading and Writing!

Linda

http://www.lindalaroque.com/

A Short Story - Romance and the Texas Ranger, The Journey Home

This is the short story I wrote for the Saturday night campfire reading at the Texas Mountain Trail Writer's Retreat in April of 2009. It will be published in the Chaos, West of the Pecos, Volume 13, a publication of the Texas Mountain Trail Writers. Enjoy!

Texas Ranger Caleb Johnson slumped atop his horse, swaying to the pace of his sorrel mare. His head bobbed with the gait as he struggled to stay in the saddle and catch a few winks of sleep. It was a ritual he and Red were accustomed to. He’d ridden many miles while asleep and his horse hadn’t tossed him once. Some weeks it was the only sleep he got. Now wasn’t a good time not to be aware of his surroundings. He was alone, wounded, and weak. The pain from his shoulder injury screamed with each movement.

The captain ordered him to stay in camp until he could send him home with an escort. But, Caleb wouldn’t have it. Hell, he was shot, not dead. He’d stolen away in the middle of the night. All he wanted was to get home to Amy. It’d been five years since he’d seen her. Maybe he no longer had a wife. Rangers weren’t good marriage material and she’d not wanted him to join up. They’d had a terrible row. Her blue eyes flashed fire as she screamed, “I won’t be here when you decide to come home.”

Contrite over her scalding words, Amy wrote him faithfully at least once a month. It’d been a year now since he’d heard from her. Every time he thought he’d get home, his division was dispatched to another area and he couldn’t go. He shuddered. Was the tremor from his wound or fear? Something was wrong at home. He could feel it in his bones.

He struggled to stay awake, but fatigue, blood loss, and now with a raging fever, illness won out. His chin hit his chest and darkness clouded his consciousness. Dreams whirled through his mind—Amy on their wedding day, her shiny brown hair piled high on her head, ringlets curling around her face. Eyes spitting fire the day he left, her face red, almost as dark as the freckles that covered her pert nose. Oh, she was a corker. He loved her spit and vinegar.

Red kicked up her heels, sending him forward, jolting him awake. Like a drunk woken by the nudge of a boot, blurry eyed, he glanced around and noticed three Indian braves on the mesa top to the west, a half a mile away.

He wrapped the reins around the saddle horn, pulled his Winchester from its scabbard, and propped the butt on his thigh. He’d show them he was armed. Hell, he was so weak he couldn’t shoot a rabbit. Hopefully they hadn’t seen him swaying in the saddle like a drunk. His knees tightened around Red. She sprinted forward but didn’t break into a full gallop. Don’t let them think you’re afraid and running. They’ll be on you like ants.

War whoops echoed behind him. He raised the rifle with one arm, propping the butt at the juncture of his shoulder, turned and shot wild. A bullet slammed into his chest. He hit the packed earth. Red broke her stride and returned to him, nudging him with her nose and whinnying for him to get up.

Shouts of victory surrounded him. Red’s reins were grabbed by a young brave. She fought against the restriction but the Indian coaxed her forward, gently stroked her muzzle and whispered in her ear. Soon, she quieted and stopped struggling though she snorted and stamped her hooves in agitation at the smell of blood.

Vision fuzzy, Caleb spotted his valued star adorning the shirt of an older brave. Several men poked him with their rifles. He didn’t feel pain, only a roaring in his ears, and a calming sense of peace. The war party rode away in a flurry of triumphant shouts.

Bright light enclosed him. A form stepped out and knelt at his side. Pink lips, accompanied by a pert freckled nose and blue eyes, smiled. She leaned down and kissed him sweetly on the mouth. Her lilac scent filled his nostrils and joy filled his heart.

“It’s time, Caleb. Time for you to come home.” Amy helped him rise and took his hand. “Come, my love.” Together they walked into the light. The End

I hope you enjoyed my story. I've heard of many people who're visited by loved ones who've passed when they're near death. How about you? Leave a comment and share your experiences with us.

Linda
Linda LaRoque ~Western Romance with a Twist in Time~
www.lindalaroque.com/
http://wwww.lindalaroqueauthor.blogspot.com/

A Snake in the Grass, A short story

Some years ago, I was on my knees pulling weeds from around the Indian hawthorn in our front flowerbed. I heard something rustling in the bushes but thought nothing of it, probably one of those lizards. Tired, sweating, face red as a beet, I needed a break so went inside for a minute.

When I came back out, a snake – a huge one, slid out of the bushes heading across the yard. It was at least a yard long, if not a yard and a half, and fat – as big around as my forearm. I was considerably thinner back then. I didn’t have a clue what kind it was, but with all the children who played in our yard, I had to swallow my cowardly fear and protect the home front.

I went inside and let my six-year-old son look out the window to see the snake with orders to stay inside. In the bedroom, I slipped on my husband’s cowboy boots, they were lovely with my shorts and tee shirt, and headed for the storage building for a hoe. Fully armed, I tromped back through the house heading for the front door.

My son went out to stand on the porch and watch. As I cautiously approached the snake from behind, it raised its head and made a sound similar to a rattlesnake. I didn’t see any rattles on its tail. So I crept up a little closer, and its head rose again. By this time, my son was frantic, tugging on my clothes. “Mama, don’t do that. Come back.”

“I can’t leave it out here where you kids play. It could me poisonous.”

“Go get Mr. Byrd.” This was our neighbor two doors down. On the other side of our house was a street and field.

His advice made sense but the snake could get away before I got back. Taking a deep breath, I charged forward and whacked the snake right behind the head. I jumped back and it hissed some more though its head wasn’t cooperating now. I dashed in for another blow but the creature still didn’t die.

Hoe in hand, my son inside looking through the glass door, I headed down the street for Mr. Byrd. He came back with me and stared disgustedly at the snake before striking the killing blow.
“That’s a bull snake. You don’t kill them, they’re harmless and eat mice.”

“Well, how was I to know? I’m not up on snakes, and I was worried for the kids’ sake.”

But, being a science teacher at the local university, he was. With the hoe, he picked the snake up, carried it across the road, and tossed it in the field.

I thanked him profusely. He handed me the hoe, shook his head, and went home leaving me feeling like an idiot. When my husband got home, I got the same lecture. Go figure. You can’t win sometimes.

Today is the last day to comment for the April drawing, so leave a comment. Do you have a snake story to share?

Happy Reading and thanks for stopping by.

Linda
Linda LaRoque ~ Western Romance with a Twist in Time.
Forever Faithful, Investment of the Heart 5-09, When the Ocotillo Bloom, 7-09, Champagne Books; A Law of Her Own, Desires of the Heart, My Heart Will Find Yours 5-09, Flames on the Sky 10-23-09 from TWRP.
http://www.lindalaroque.com/
http://lindalaroqueauthor.blogspot.com/

Desires of the Heart

Coming March 4, 2009 from The Wild Rose Press.

When life today is filled with pain, look to the future – or past.

Loren Fairchild longs for children, but is barren. At a cottage in Carlisle, UK, she puts her divorce behind her and begins a new life. She’s interested in the former owners of the small house and about the woman who disappeared into thin air. The same week, according to local gossip, her husband took up with a dark-headed harlot. One morning, a simple minded woman wearing a white nightgown appears at the cottage and triggers events that change Loren’s life forever.

Miles Chapeau misses the wife, the mother of his two children, he’d known before the war. When he returned home in 1945, he learned she’d been hurt in an air raid and now had the mind of a child. He loves her like another child and would never forsake his duty, but misses the intimate side of marriage and having someone to share his interests and goals with. One day she disappears and his existence is turned upside down.