Winslow's Ghost
a short ghost story, plus a round-up of my stories for the 30 Days of Fright challenge
I’ve been writing… a lot… during the past two weeks. The 30 Days of Fright challenge (hosted by Wendy Cockcroft) is going strong. Today’s story, “Winslow’s Ghost,” goes with Prompt 11: Summoning. A summoning goes wrong, or does it?
After the story, I’m linking to all my other pieces for this challenge so far. Some of you have been reading them as we go along. Thank you! Others will just now be finding out about it via email, so I hope you’ll take time this week to catch up on some of my stories AND take a peek at the work of some of the other very skilled writers who are taking part in this challenge.
Winslow’s Ghost
It’s a common misconception in this town that old Mr. Winslow died of a heart attack, due to heavy drinking and an all-around lack of healthy habits.
And who’s to say it’s not true? Only one person was there the night he died—and she certainly wasn’t about to tell the truth.
Being of a more open disposition, and it having been so many years since the event, I’m willing to lay out the tale I heard from my grandmother and you can decide, dear reader, what to make of old Winslow’s demise.
----
Everyone knew Viola Carpenter was special. Some people called it “touched.” Some called it “cursed.” Her mama called it “the sight,” and it had run in the family for generations.
By the time Viola was twelve, the God-fearing Christians stayed well away from the Carpenters and silently crossed themselves after passing the mother and daughter on the street. Many townsfolk remained indifferent or didn’t believe such “hogwash” at all. But more than a few, even from the surrounding towns, called on Viola from time to time, seeking out her special talents.
People said—the believers anyway—that there wasn’t a ghost young Viola couldn’t dispel. Viola herself, at age sixteen, knew it was true. Every ghost she’d met had been sent on to the other side, and the living were left in peace.
---
The Winslow House was a great lodge, a log cabin the size of a mansion, isolated on the edge of town. Everyone knew about Mr. Winslow, the rich businessman and world traveler who’d built his summer home out here in the country, to get away from the bustle of the city. But, equally, they didn’t know him at all. He rarely came into town, never ate at the diner, and had never even been seen buying supplies at the grocer’s. A few had caught a glimpse of him, rocking on his porch, as they headed out of town on the dirt road that passed his place. Most people just assumed he thought himself too good to mingle with the country folk.
So you can imagine Viola’s mama’s surprise when old Mr. Winslow requested Viola’s special services.
When the girl arrived that autumn evening, Winslow ushered her into a large parlor, with a Turkish carpet, an antique grandfather clock, a dining table, and an antique pianoforte in the corner. She trailed her fingers over the wood of the table, trying to pick up the energy of any spirits, while she surreptitiously examined her host. He was substantially past middle age, with an athletic build and a mustache, which she thought looked odd and old fashioned.
“Miss Carpenter,” the man began. “Please take a seat. I suppose you realize that this matter must be handled with the utmost… discretion, since—”
“I won’t tell anyone you have a ghost,” she said, seating herself in one of the high-backed chairs and beginning to take her tools of the trade out of her bag.
She was arranging some candles and a small silver handheld mirror on the table before her. “Do you have any idea who your ghost might be?”
“None,” the man said. “Listen, once again, I can pay you handsomely for—”
Viola looked at Winslow with a hint of irritation. “I don’t take payment,” she said. “I help the spirits cross over, finish whatever business they have in this world. That’s payment enough for me. Mine is a gift. And gifts aren’t to be bought and sold. Now,” she said, leaning back in her too-big chair, “tell me about this ghost of yours.”
Winslow twisted his mustache nervously. “Well,” he said, “at first I didn’t know what to think. I’d be sitting on the porch, smoking a cigar, and I’d see this flicker of something in the tall grass out back, just near the treeline. And I’d get this feeling like I was being watched.” The man shivered and began to slowly pace the length of the impressive table. “I thought it was maybe wolves or coyotes or something, but—” He shrugged. “Then I started to sense whatever it was inside the house. At night.”
He went over to a small liquor cabinet and poured himself a glass of whisky from an almost empty bottle. He didn’t take a sip, just held it in his hand as he continued. “A flash of movement out of the corner of my eye. Sometimes a rumbling sort of sound from a darkened doorway and the worst part—” He turned and she could see the strain in his eyes. “This infernal breathing sound, in my bedroom, like something creeping up on me. I barely sleep anymore.” He downed the whisky and set down the glass a bit too hard.
Dusk was gathering outside the large bay window. Viola slid on her white gloves and proceeded to light the candles. “We must contact the spirit,” she said, “before we can dispel it.” Spirits always had unfinished business, a want or need they could not let go of. Sometimes it was to give a message to a loved one, sometimes to right a wrong. Sometimes they were simply confused and needed help crossing over. She didn’t bother to tell Winslow any of this. Instead, she simply said, “I need quiet now” and gazed into the mirror with the candlelight flickering off its surface, lulling herself easily into a trance.
She smelled a musky scent and heard what sounded like a low growl, and she reached her mind out toward it.
“It’s getting cold,” Winslow whispered anxiously. She felt it too. Good. That meant the ghost was coming.
“Come to me,” she said aloud, and anyone listening would have said it wasn’t the voice of any normal sixteen-year-old girl. “Come. Tell me what you want.”
She heard Winslow gasp, heard a chair fall as he stumbled backwards, as before them on the table materialized a shimmering, translucent tiger.
Even Viola leapt up from her seat, taken aback. Animal ghosts were rare and rarer still a wild animal like this, in someone’s home, far from its land of origin. She honestly didn’t know what to make of it.
She turned to Winslow, but the man was already backing out of the room, into the front hall, eyes wide and fixed on the ghostly beast.
The tiger crouched, eyeing the man, and then noiselessly leapt off the table. It stalked him into the hallway. Viola followed, trying to reach out to the tiger with her mind, but she only met with a feral resistance.
The tiger continued to pursue Winslow. The man had begun to whimper in fear and was edging closer to the doorway of another room. Viola heard a low rumbling growl.
“D-Do something,” Winslow gasped.
Viola tried to connect with the tiger. What do you want? she asked. Why are you here? But there was no human mind to answer her.
The tiger slowly and steadily drove Winslow into the room. She followed.
The man was backed against a stone fireplace. The ghostly tiger paced before him, its head low, eyes locked onto its prey, edging almost imperceptibly closer and closer.
“Do something, girl,” Winslow said shrilly.
This was an unusual situation surely, but Viola wasn’t one to back down. She used all the spiritual power she had to reign in the tiger, to hold it back. It was like pulling on an invisible rope against a heavy weight. But it worked. The tiger stopped, but she wasn’t sure how long she could hold it. It turned its head to look at her.
The tiger was mostly translucent, in shades of grey. Except for its shining gold-green eyes. When Viola looked into them, she saw a momentary flash of velvety green jungle leaves, and smelled a warm musky scent. She heard the crack of a rifle shot, felt a searing pain that made her gasp aloud, and she saw Winslow towering over her. Then blackness.
She blinked and the tiger turned its head away, the connection lost. She followed its gaze back to Winslow, cowering before them, and she saw too now, on the wall above the stone fireplace, mounted on wooden plaques, a grotesque display of animal heads. An antelope maybe, a lion, a bear, a moose. And a tiger.
A tiger head with lackluster yellow glass eyes.
She felt the invisible rope tugging against her will, the tiger straining to be free, to finish off its cornered prey. Winslow shook pitifully. “C-can you stop it? Get rid of it, girl, for God’s sake!”
As she often did when she contacted spirits, she felt like she was in slow motion, in between worlds, her sense heightened. The tiger snarled. It turned back to look at her again, a question in its vibrant ghost-eyes. Such a stark contrast to the dull glass eyes of the tiger head on the wall. I know what you want now, she told it.
The tiger turned back to the man who had hunted it down for sport, the tables now turned, and growled.
She looked into Winslow’s eyes and felt his terror.
Then Viola let go of the invisible rope.
The man’s eyes widened as the tiger bared its teeth and pounced.
Viola turned away then. She left Winslow House without looking back, listening to the man’s shrill screams and the tiger’s snarl. By the time she reached the front steps she knew two things: Winslow was dead, and the tiger was at peace.
Now, you could just head over to my main page and poke around, but here’s a line up of my posts for the 30 Days of Fright so far.
Rattle-Rattle
A toy jack-in-the-box isn't as innocuous as it seems. Do they ever seem innocuous though?
It Won't Last Long
This one is a favorite. A flash fiction story about a supernatural fog. The fog gives, but the fog also takes.
Owner's Manual for a Portrait of Someone's Dead Grandmother
Something a bit more on the amusing side.... When buying a cursed portrait, be sure to read the owner's manual.
Gretel's Witch
What happens after the fairy tale ends? I think a lot about how Gretel would deal with the aftermath of what happened.
And more…
The Verdant Butterfly (Sable Butterfly) has kindly put together this round-up post of everyone’s writings from week one of the challenge. Please do check it out and maybe discover your next favorite writer!
This is the Shrouded Grouse, and here you’ll find supernatural short stories and novellas, essays and musings, zines, and illustrations that explore the liminal spaces and moody places.
Thanks for taking the time to view my work. Every view and like and comment inspires me to keep going. If you decide to subscribe below, make sure you check your promotions tab or spam for my Welcome Email.
Loved this! I’m glad Viola let the tiger finish its business. Winslow had it coming.
Animals getting revenge stories are very rare. Great job!