haunted houses, suspense, serial killer, thriller, short stories

Haunted houses: chapter 2

New digs

As the morning heated up, an FBI team rolled in from New Orleans in a mobile unit, that would serve as the temporary headquarters on the property. They extended the canvas, fastening the poles of the awning, creating an outer work space, setting up tables and chairs on the grass in the shade.

A second bus pulled in shortly after, with the coroner’s mobile unit following closely behind.

The helicopter arrived back on it’s second trip, with a lone woman hopping out and joining the FBI team. Her clothes and style didn’t quite seem to match that of the other team members, and Jennifer watched her fidgeting uncomfortably as she was brought up to speed.

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short stories, haunted houses, horror, terror, nightmares, suspense, serial killer, intrigue

Haunted houses: chapter 1

Jennifer pulled her midnight blue Acura into the diner, entering so quickly she failed to notice the name. But it was the first place she’d passed that had cars outside, a sign that perhaps the food was edible.

As she waited for the waitress to approach and serve her, she wondered if she had finally gone mad. What was she, a family lawyer from Chicago, doing down in Mississippi, somewhere off the Wolf River, looking for a haunted house?

She rested her head in her hands, hoping the coffee was fresh and strong. No hope of getting her double expresso here, but at least the coffee might be black as her soul.

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short stories, hong kong, authenticity, compassion, gentleness

An olive branch: a short story

Regina sat gingerly in her chair, swinging it from left to right as the nervous tic in her ankles kept her in motion. It was less noticeable than drumming her fingers on the desk.

She took in a long, slow breath through her nose, then gently exhaled, counting to five each time. After three long breaths, the swinging of her chair subsided, and she felt the tension in her shoulders begin to ease.

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Panama, justice system, criminal justice system, corruption, exoneration, persecution, political persecution, persecution of political rivals, wire-tapping, presidential corruption

Justice: Not only done, but seen to be done!

It’s a sad state of affairs this week. In Panama, Martinelli found “not guilty” and Epstein committing suicide. Both evading justice in their different ways.

And I’m sorry – the lawyer in me is going on a mini-rant here about what I consider to be a terrible miscarriage for Lady Justice. I believe that not only must justice be done, but it must also be seen to be done! While Epstein may be dead, where’s the justice for the victims? And what happens to any others that might have been implicated by his testimony?

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The Seven Unwanted Apologies and the Pumpkin Spice Latte

The Seven Unwanted Apologies & the Pumpkin Spice Latte

The title of this short story – and the writing prompt – comes thanks to:

Regina sat on her hotel bed, holding her pillow tightly against her chest, burrowing her face into it as she cried. The frustration and anger pouring out of her freely.

Her overnight bag lay on the floor next to the bed, waiting for any final items that she would add to it tomorrow. The suitcase was carefully stored close to the door. All of her personal items were already in storage or shipped to Hong Kong, waiting for her to arrive there on Wednesday.

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Diablo Rojo, Red Devil, diablos rojos, red devils, Panama, buses, bluebird bus, school bus, humid, hot, tropical, sweaty, stinky, old leather, noisy, traffic jam, perspiration, glow, pick pocket, short stories, short story, fiction

Diablo Rojo – “Red Devil”

She could feel the sweat welling up behind her knees, forming a drop and dripping down her calf, into her shoes.

Ugh! “Why did I think this was a good idea? What am I doing on a diablo rojo in the late afternoon when humidity is at its height?”

Instead of hiring a car at the airport, she’d opted to catch a taxi to her friend’s house. That part of arriving had been fine – coordinating the taxi through the tourism desk at the airport.

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Un-Happy New Years, New Years tears, grandmother, short story, short stories, imagination, writing, Panama, beach, time to celebrate, time to mourn, death, grief, healing, heal

Un-Happy New Years

It was 9.01 pm, and she was late getting ready for the New Year’s Eve party.  Once again, she had no desire to go. Days before, she had felt excited and eager.  But as the day dawned, and the hour neared, she drew back into her shell, wanting to shun it all and stay home.

The excitement was already replaced with anxiety.  And she was feeling pressured into going.

“What will they say when I don’t show up?”, she thought.

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