GHOST OF A CHANCE, a paranormal short story Read Online Free PDF Page B

investigations.
    The linen sheets were cold and slick as she slipped beneath them and snapped off the reading light on the nightstand.  Then she thought better of that and turned it back on.
    She might not be fully convinced of the existence of ghosts in the mansion, but until she had a way to explain what had happened today in the parlor and then in the boathouse, she wasn’t going to take any chances.
     

Chapter 7
    A rhythmic slap, slap, and sway of the bed beneath her slowly roused her from sleep.  Only when she opened her eyes, it was dark.
    With her gaze slightly unfocused, she reached for the bedside lamp and flipped the switch several times, but the room remained pitch black.  Well, not quite black since a multitude of stars illuminated the sky overhead.
    Blinking, Tracy fought against the remnants of what must have been a dream, and as she did so, the sounds of voices raised in anger drifted into her consciousness.  Was that Peter’s voice? she thought a moment before fear overtook her, jolting her awake and providing her with the answer.
    No, not Peter’s voice.  Skippy’s, she guessed from the slight trace of brogue.
    She had to go to him.  Had to help him this time. Tracy’s mind was muddled as she tried to separate reality from the waking dream she could not shake.
    Compelled to move, her body not her own, she left the bedroom and hurried toward the parlor along the dark corridors, part of her wondering what was happening while the other part only knew one thing:  Get to the parlor.
    As she neared, she heard a shout followed by the crash of furniture.  Her hurried pace became a run as silence reigned.
    At the door to the parlor, Tracy hesitated until the voice in her head said, “Help him!”
    She took hold of the heavy glass doorknob and turned it, walking into the parlor room which was blazing with light.  It was as it had been before, with Tommy’s equipment tucked into one corner and the small round table in the center.  But all around the room there appeared to be evidence of a fight and blood.  A trail of blood along the floor, except…
    Tracy crouched down and ran a finger along the stain of blood, but the floor was dry.  As she blinked several times to clear her vision, it was as if a film were playing, with the room around her acting as the screen.
    With that thought came another from within her.
    “Where is Skippy?”
    And, as if in answer, Peter rushed into the room by a doorway that led to the kitchen.  He was bare-chested, his hair tousled from sleep.  A confused not-quite-there look was stamped on his face.
    Tracy understood since she was feeling it as well.  Not quite sure of what was happening.
    Peter took a step toward her, raised his hand and said, “Anna.  I told you to stay away.”
    Overwhelmed by elation, she rushed forward into his arms, burying her head against his chest as she said, “I had to come back.  I had to help you.”
    Peter’s arms came around her, shaky and slightly uncoordinated.  As she glanced up at him, the lines of his face wavered, grew unfocused.  Softened, becoming those of someone else.
    “Francis,” she whispered and Peter wagged his head as if trying to dislodge whatever had commandeered his body.
    “You need to go, Anna.  It’s the only way,” he said and laid his hand on her belly.  Her slightly rounded belly and suddenly it connected.  The condition that the writer of the journal had mentioned.
    Anna had been pregnant with their second child.
    As Peter tenderly ran his hand across the slight swell, the fierceness of his love washed over her and in that second, Tracy knew Francis could not have killed his wife, baby, and unborn child.  Somehow she pushed back the force that had overtaken her and asked, “What happened, Francis?  Why did you kill yourself?”
    Peter ripped away from her, raking his hands through his hair like a man possessed, which she guessed he was.  He took a few sharp steps away from her, then whirled