Can I get the ghost story of at least 350 to 400 words please
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The lake closed over her nose and mouth as Sara sucked in a lung-full of cold, black water. On her next breath, she opened her eyes and saw the red LCD shining: 12:02 AM. Again. Three nights in a row, same dream, same time. Sweat dripped from her hair and drenched her nightgown. Sara stumbled to the bathroom, turning on all of the lights to shake off the aura of the dream that still clung to her.
Steam from the shower filled the bathroom and Sara breathed it in deeply. She could still smell the dankness of her dream. She dropped her head and closed her eyes. They snapped back open as a hissing vortex suddenly sucked all of the steam into the drain at her feet. In the same instant, a fish-dead hand slid across her shoulder. She screamed and threw her body against the shower wall, turning the showerhead to the left. The water scalded her neck, shoulder and hand as she battled to stop the flow.
Adrenaline, pain and fear drove her stiffly from the shower. The room was bright. Normal. Her body shook convulsively and she reached for a towel to warm herself. The towel brushed her badly burned shoulder and she hissed in pain. It sobered her and she headed to the kitchen where she kept the emergency burn salve.
In the kitchen, the salve was already laid out, with fresh gauze, waiting for her. Normal went away again.
The old woman spoke warmly, “Here, let me get that for you. It was my fault – so sorry – but it IS awfully difficult to get your attention!” Sara was frozen in shock. The woman placed a cup in her hand. Here drink this. Coffee. You need it.” Sara sipped wordlessly, numb to the un-reality.
“I can’t stay long,” said the old woman. “Manifestation takes sooo much energy. Easier to show up in a dream, but you kept drowning on me!” She let out a little chortle.
Shock and disbelief turned to annoyance and the very-real pain in her shoulder made her angry. “Well, you’ve got my attention now – what do you WANT?”
“It’s not what I want, but what you want, my dear.”
“I want you to go leave me alone.”
“That’s one option. You’ve been given a choice. You are due to die.” The old woman let it sink in. “I’m here to prove that we do go on, after we die.”
“That’s supposed to be reassuring?” The hair on Sara’s arms stood up.
“For many people it is. Your choice is this: tell people what you’ve experienced here tonight – give them hope, or die at 12:02 tomorrow.” As the last word left her lips, the woman started to fade.
“It’s up to you, dear. . .”
For the first time in days, Sara felt calm. She placed a terry-cloth robe gingerly on her freshly-bandaged shoulder, took a sip of coffee and dialed the phone
Steam from the shower filled the bathroom and Sara breathed it in deeply. She could still smell the dankness of her dream. She dropped her head and closed her eyes. They snapped back open as a hissing vortex suddenly sucked all of the steam into the drain at her feet. In the same instant, a fish-dead hand slid across her shoulder. She screamed and threw her body against the shower wall, turning the showerhead to the left. The water scalded her neck, shoulder and hand as she battled to stop the flow.
Adrenaline, pain and fear drove her stiffly from the shower. The room was bright. Normal. Her body shook convulsively and she reached for a towel to warm herself. The towel brushed her badly burned shoulder and she hissed in pain. It sobered her and she headed to the kitchen where she kept the emergency burn salve.
In the kitchen, the salve was already laid out, with fresh gauze, waiting for her. Normal went away again.
The old woman spoke warmly, “Here, let me get that for you. It was my fault – so sorry – but it IS awfully difficult to get your attention!” Sara was frozen in shock. The woman placed a cup in her hand. Here drink this. Coffee. You need it.” Sara sipped wordlessly, numb to the un-reality.
“I can’t stay long,” said the old woman. “Manifestation takes sooo much energy. Easier to show up in a dream, but you kept drowning on me!” She let out a little chortle.
Shock and disbelief turned to annoyance and the very-real pain in her shoulder made her angry. “Well, you’ve got my attention now – what do you WANT?”
“It’s not what I want, but what you want, my dear.”
“I want you to go leave me alone.”
“That’s one option. You’ve been given a choice. You are due to die.” The old woman let it sink in. “I’m here to prove that we do go on, after we die.”
“That’s supposed to be reassuring?” The hair on Sara’s arms stood up.
“For many people it is. Your choice is this: tell people what you’ve experienced here tonight – give them hope, or die at 12:02 tomorrow.” As the last word left her lips, the woman started to fade.
“It’s up to you, dear. . .”
For the first time in days, Sara felt calm. She placed a terry-cloth robe gingerly on her freshly-bandaged shoulder, took a sip of coffee and dialed the phone
aditiasopa11:
This is not the one I won't but thanxx to help
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Heya...
Your Story....
A Haunted House
Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure--a ghostly couple.
"Here we left it," she said. And he added, "Oh, but here tool" "It's upstairs," she murmured. "And in the garden," he whispered. "Quietly," they said, "or we shall wake them."
But it wasn't that you woke us. Oh, no. "They're looking for it; they're drawing the curtain," one might say, and so read on a page or two. "Now they've found it,' one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. "What did I come in here for? What did I want to find?" My hands were empty. "Perhaps its upstairs then?" The apples were in the loft. And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass.
But they had found it in the drawing room. Not that one could ever see them. The windowpanes reflected apples, reflected roses; all the leaves were green in the glass. If they moved in the drawing room, the apple only turned its yellow side. Yet, the moment after, if the door was opened, spread about the floor, hung upon the walls, pendant from the ceiling--what? My hands were empty. The shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet; from the deepest wells of silence the wood pigeon drew its bubble of sound. "Safe, safe, safe" the pulse of the house beat softly. "The treasure buried; the room . . ." the pulse stopped short. Oh, was that the buried treasure?
A moment later the light had faded. Out in the garden then? But the trees spun darkness for a wandering beam of sun. So fine, so rare, coolly sunk beneath the surface the beam I sought always burned behind the glass. Death was the glass; death was between us, coming to the woman first, hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the windows; the rooms were darkened. He left it, left her, went North, went East, saw the stars turned in the Southern sky; sought the house, found it dropped beneath the Downs. "Safe, safe, safe," the pulse of the house beat gladly. 'The Treasure yours."
The wind roars up the avenue. Trees stoop and bend this way and that. Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the rain. But the beam of the lamp falls straight from the window. The candle burns stiff and still. Wandering through the house, opening the windows, whispering not to wake us, the ghostly couple seek their joy.
"Here we slept," she says. And he adds, "Kisses without number." "Waking in the morning--" "Silver between the trees--" "Upstairs--" 'In the garden--" "When summer came--" 'In winter snowtime--" "The doors go shutting far in the distance, gently knocking like the pulse of a heart.
Nearer they come, cease at the doorway. The wind falls, the rain slides silver down the glass. Our eyes darken, we hear no steps beside us; we see no lady spread her ghostly cloak. His hands shield the lantern. "Look," he breathes. "Sound asleep. Love upon their lips."
Stooping, holding their silver lamp above us, long they look and deeply. Long they pause. The wind drives straightly; the flame stoops slightly. Wild beams of moonlight cross both floor and wall, and, meeting, stain the faces bent; the faces pondering; the faces that search the sleepers and seek their hidden joy.
"Safe, safe, safe," the heart of the house beats proudly. "Long years--" he sighs. "Again you found me." "Here," she murmurs, "sleeping; in the garden reading; laughing, rolling apples in the loft. Here we left our treasure--" Stooping, their light lifts the lids upon my eyes. "Safe! safe! safe!" the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry "Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart."
Your Story....
A Haunted House
Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure--a ghostly couple.
"Here we left it," she said. And he added, "Oh, but here tool" "It's upstairs," she murmured. "And in the garden," he whispered. "Quietly," they said, "or we shall wake them."
But it wasn't that you woke us. Oh, no. "They're looking for it; they're drawing the curtain," one might say, and so read on a page or two. "Now they've found it,' one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. "What did I come in here for? What did I want to find?" My hands were empty. "Perhaps its upstairs then?" The apples were in the loft. And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass.
But they had found it in the drawing room. Not that one could ever see them. The windowpanes reflected apples, reflected roses; all the leaves were green in the glass. If they moved in the drawing room, the apple only turned its yellow side. Yet, the moment after, if the door was opened, spread about the floor, hung upon the walls, pendant from the ceiling--what? My hands were empty. The shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet; from the deepest wells of silence the wood pigeon drew its bubble of sound. "Safe, safe, safe" the pulse of the house beat softly. "The treasure buried; the room . . ." the pulse stopped short. Oh, was that the buried treasure?
A moment later the light had faded. Out in the garden then? But the trees spun darkness for a wandering beam of sun. So fine, so rare, coolly sunk beneath the surface the beam I sought always burned behind the glass. Death was the glass; death was between us, coming to the woman first, hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the windows; the rooms were darkened. He left it, left her, went North, went East, saw the stars turned in the Southern sky; sought the house, found it dropped beneath the Downs. "Safe, safe, safe," the pulse of the house beat gladly. 'The Treasure yours."
The wind roars up the avenue. Trees stoop and bend this way and that. Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the rain. But the beam of the lamp falls straight from the window. The candle burns stiff and still. Wandering through the house, opening the windows, whispering not to wake us, the ghostly couple seek their joy.
"Here we slept," she says. And he adds, "Kisses without number." "Waking in the morning--" "Silver between the trees--" "Upstairs--" 'In the garden--" "When summer came--" 'In winter snowtime--" "The doors go shutting far in the distance, gently knocking like the pulse of a heart.
Nearer they come, cease at the doorway. The wind falls, the rain slides silver down the glass. Our eyes darken, we hear no steps beside us; we see no lady spread her ghostly cloak. His hands shield the lantern. "Look," he breathes. "Sound asleep. Love upon their lips."
Stooping, holding their silver lamp above us, long they look and deeply. Long they pause. The wind drives straightly; the flame stoops slightly. Wild beams of moonlight cross both floor and wall, and, meeting, stain the faces bent; the faces pondering; the faces that search the sleepers and seek their hidden joy.
"Safe, safe, safe," the heart of the house beats proudly. "Long years--" he sighs. "Again you found me." "Here," she murmurs, "sleeping; in the garden reading; laughing, rolling apples in the loft. Here we left our treasure--" Stooping, their light lifts the lids upon my eyes. "Safe! safe! safe!" the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry "Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart."
The question was that :a story starting from I don't believe in ghost
No
Yes
You just wrote a story of a ghost or rather wanted and not starting with I don't believe in ghost
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