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  Fallen Stardust: A boy, an outcast and an alien must find salvation in a world of ruin. Samuel must find a medicine to cure the fever ravaging his village. Markus must find the motive that murdered those he loved. And an angel must find a future in a city crumbled into debris. But something lurks beneath the wasted world, and waking it may doom what little of humanity survives.

  The Sisters Will Dance: Blaine Woosely claws his way back to the living. He has cleaned his blood of his addiction, and an unexpected, family farm home rewards his efforts. Only, the country acres isolate Blaine when a sharp-toothed monster hunts to bring Blaine back to dark. The sad history of Blaine's blood brings magic to the country home's new master, but in the end, only Blaine himself can break his chains.

  Mr. Hancock’s Signature: The dead walk in Monteray. The corpse of a nearly forgotten farmer named Hancock arrives via train. Ian Washington remembers Mr. Hancock and vows to return the body home. Yet Mr. Hancock's body will not rest while Ian works to reopen a cemetery, and the corpse staring each morning upon the doorstep forces the town to choose between the isolation of their fear or the hope of their fellowship.

  Not All Spirits Be Foul

  Brian S. Wheeler

  Flatland Fiction thanks you for your purchase of this ebook. This ebook remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed for any commercial or non-commercial use without permission from the author. Quotes used in reviews are the exception. No alteration of content is allowed. If you enjoy this ebook, Flatland Fiction encourages you to send us a review at [email protected]. Unless otherwise instructed, Flatland Fiction reserves the right to post such reviews online.

  Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2013 by Brian S. Wheeler

  Contents

  Chapter 1 – Black Magic All the Same

  Chapter 2 – Company for the Spirit

  Chapter 3 – Haunted Video Games

  Chapter 4 – Better Than a Snake

  Chapter 5 – A Wall of Masks

  Chapter 6 – Arguments Over Breakfast

  Chapter 7 – The Wrong Monster

  Chapter 8 – Father Doesn’t Always Know Best

  Chapter 9 – Revealed in a Dream

  Chapter 10 – Revenge at the Throat

  Chapter 11 – The Arrival of the Wolf

  Chapter 12 – None Left Behind

  Chapter 13 – A Special Way of Seeing Things

  Help Spread the Story

  About the Writer

  Other Stories

  Not All Spirits Be Foul

  Chapter 1 - Black Magic All the Same...

  “Lady Dubois, I beg for your soul, ma’am. Don’t do this.”

  Lady Dubois slapped Abele Washington another time.

  “How dare you warn me of my soul!” Hatred glared in the slim woman’s eyes. “I’ll not suffer your black magic in my home, and I’ll teach your kind a lesson when it comes to weaving the black magic on my children!”

  Abele Washington sobbed. “It ain’t no black magic. It was only a little of the good hoodoo. Moses himself used a bit of the hoodoo when he turned his staff into a snake. My girl Claire was only making a little hoodoo bag to help with your girl’s breathing. She breathes so hard when it’s so hot in the summer days. You don’t need these folks going no further to punish my girl Claire.”

  “How dare you!” Lady Dubois snarled. “How dare you defame the Lord’s teaching. I know the good book tells me to suffer no witch. I’ll show no mercy to one in my home. Maybe we’ll search for a strong enough branch for you too. This swamp has plenty trees from which to dangle witches.”

  Abele collapsed onto the swamp’s damp ground. “Hang me instead, Lady Dubois. My girl was only preparing a little hoodoo bag to help your child with the breathing.”

  Lady Dubois’s fury burned in her eyes. She felt the attention of the others on the back of her neck, and she whirled to face the mob that had paused in delivering its justice.

  “I didn’t tell any of you to stop!”

  “Lord, show a little mercy.” Abele sobbed.

  The mob gave no quarter to the dark, crumpled form that lay on the swamp grass. The crowd cast stones as an awful monster of punishing arms - pelting, bruising, piercing and cutting the body upon which they aimed their ire. The girl’s face had been fair, but the stones had hammered its features into a swollen visage of gore. The stones blinded her eyes. They claimed her teeth. They mangled her nose. So many strong arms perverted a face that promised fertility into an ugly, dying distortion. And for that mob that gathered deep in that secluded swamp, such pain was only the first stage required for the cleansing of the black, devilish magic.

  The mob had promptly answered Lady Dubois’s call to gather in that dark swamp. She had sent her oldest boy into town in lieu of the family’s father, who had passed that season on account of the contagious cough that festered in that damp country. Her boy spoke to the proper white merchant, and thus the mob quickly gathered in the swamp behind Lady Dubois’s estate. The mob demanded no explanation for its summoning. Lady Dubois was a fine country lady, and a simple letter delivered to the particular white merchant was ample ritual for the summoning of a lynch mob.

  Lady Dubois lifted a heavy stone with her thin arms. Casting it upon the crumpled body at her feet, the sound of stone against bone satisfied only a sliver of her rage.

  “Tell me one more time, Abele, to relent in my punishment of your witch girl for the sake of my soul and I will hang the two of you side by side.” Had the swamps not been so damp for the season’s heavy rains, Lady Dubois’s words might have scorched its swaying grasses. “You watch real close and see if your brood will ever dare again touch my children with the black magic. Oh, you think us all cruel, but this crowd knows that a stoning is a just punishment for a witch.”

  Abele turned her sight to the damp swamp ground. “Oh, it was only a little of the hoodoo. Only a little medicine to help your poor girl with the breathing.”

  Lady Dubois cast a final stone, and the crowd lifted that crumpled girl’s body. They raised the girl over their shoulders, and from a thick and gnarled sourgum, they hung the bruised girl’s slender neck in the hangman’s noose. Standing back, the crowd considered the justice of their work, while the hanging girl’s bruised feet twitched until what life remained seeped into the swamp. The crowd did not lower the corpse before gathering again into their cars and pickups before returning to the tranquility of the homes they believed their justice protected.

  Abele Washington returned the next morning with Cotton Smith, the ancient man who had taught Abele how to mix her first brown bag of the hoodoo medicine, and together they cut Claire down from that gnarled sourgum tree. Cotton Smith gave Abele encouragement as she drew the stale blood from her daughter’s corpse that the old hoodoo man needed to bless his carving knife. Then, with Claire’s blood tinting his blade red and guiding his strokes with a little more of the magic, Cotton Smith began carving the talisman mask from the wood he took from the base of that cursed sourgum. Abele sang while old Cotton carved, and, soon, the gnarled features of a frightful face grinned from the old hoodoo man’s chisel.

  It was the face of Lady Dubois that emerged in the carved sourgum mask. Exaggerated eyes captured much of that woman’s fury. The mask’s crooked nose outlined a great deal of her disdain. The crooked smile exuded a great deal of the arrogance. While Abele continued to si
ng her mournful lament, Cotton Smith spoke some final words as his carving blade completed the last strokes before curing the wooden mask in more of Claire’s lifeless blood.

  Lady Dubois felt the first tickle of that country’s festering cough before the end of the month, and it did not take her long to realize the irritant in her throat foreshadowed the fate she would soon share with the husband she missed. The servants that remained in that lady’s home whispered to one another that such sickness arose from the swamp that hemmed the estate. But none spoke such to Lady Dubois, and none dared to offer any of the medicines they knew would offer a comfort from the wracking coughs that soon sentenced Lady Dubois to her bed, and then soon afterwards to her grave.

  Abele Washington had not asked Cotton Smith to carve that sourgum mask to claim a life. Rather, Abele had led that old, powerful hoodoo man to that gnarled tree in a dark swamp so that his carving could claim a soul.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 2 - Company for the Spirit...

  Mainly, Buck Wilson felt alone.

  Buck discovered that the novelty of hovering near the ceiling as a spook quickly dissipated. He wished it was otherwise. As a ghost, Buck owned an abundance of time, and as a ghost cursed to haunt at the age of thirteen, the spirit world sentenced Buck to cruel boredom.

  Buck always felt saddest when he had nothing to do.

  Buck did not know why his soul lingered in the world. He did not know if his experience as a spirit was common or rare. In life, Buck had not been afforded the fortune to mature a mind that was curious concerning deep whorls of philosophy and theology.

  Buck remembered his family move that winter into the new home in the country. He recalled how he carefully packed his toy soldiers, and how intricately he arranged them across his new bedroom’s floor. He remembered wondering if his parents were finally going to give him the German Shepherd Dog he always desired. Those first days in the country home were positive days filled with much hope, when the world was new and exciting to a boy who had recently turned thirteen.

  The world no longer felt new or exciting to Buck.

  He remembered exploring the woods behind the home one day in the cold winter. He recalled how the wind cracked his lips and froze the moisture the chill drew from his eyes. Buck’s ghost senses struggled to feel much other than numb, but his ears still hurt when he thought back to how his coonskin cap had failed to sufficiently block the wind. Buck’s memory still painted the view of the frozen pond whose ice shimmered in the cold sunlight. He remembered the quick crash as he plummeted through the surface, and his lungs still felt how the searing cold had stolen the breath from his body.

  No matter how he cried, or how he raged, Buck failed to attract his parents’ attention as they mourned for his passing. No matter how Buck’s mist tried to embrace his mother and father, his wispy, ghostly arms could grasp no hug. No matter how he shrieked, Buck could not make his parents hear his pleas for them to stay as they packed the moving trucks and departed. No toy soldiers waited in the closet for his commands. No dog kept him company. Buck Wilson lingered in a haunted, empty home.

  Buck peered out from his old, second-story bedroom window as a van pulled into the home’s country lane. He did his best to temper the surge of excitement welling inside of him. He tried not to smile too broadly as a pair of boys spilled from the van, tried not to shout from glee as a golden retriever followed. He had been alone in that home for a long time, and Buck feared too much excitement would jinx the possibility for company.

  Buck’s ghost heart fluttered for the remainder of the afternoon while he hovered near the ceiling and watched the new family haul their furniture into the rooms. Buck floated near the boys, and he took a keen interest in the strange toys he did not recognize.

  When no one was looking, Buck reached out to pet that wonderful, golden dog.

  His had passed straight through the fur.

  But the dog barked, and Buck giggled.

  Buck felt a thrill, and for the remainder of the night, he literally glowed in the boys’ new bedroom closet.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 3 - Haunted Video Games...

  “Four! Three! Two! One!” Trevor counted down to the final period’s buzzer.

  His younger brother bounced his controller off the carpet. “It’s the controller. You always make me play with the one that has tape on it.”

  “That’s because it’s your controller, Trent.”

  “Because you know it’s the bad one.”

  Trevor raised an eyebrow. “Keep bouncing it off the floor and see if that helps.”

  Another win at video game hockey beneath his belt, Trevor stood and twirled in his customary victory dance.

  “One more game,” Trent growled.

  Trevor laughed. “It’s past your bedtime. I’ve been playing against you for the last two hours, and you haven’t gotten within three goals of me. Maybe you need to get some sleep.”

  Trent cocked his arm to deliver a furious blow to his brother’s shoulder. Yet before he delivered the strike, his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open.

  “There the game goes again,” Trent whispered. “I told you I didn’t lie.”

  Trevor looked into the television and watched the electronic hockey players skate across the white backdrop. Trent and Trevor were well practiced in that game, and the two of them were able to recognize the programmed action of the demonstration game that played while the console waited for the brothers to begin a new match. The movement they watched was too random, too awkward, and too spontaneous to be ascribed to programming. But neither Trent nor Trevor held a controller. A skater broke away from the pack and screamed the puck beyond the goalie as the brothers watched. Trent felt more certain than ever when he saw that goal; for it was a trick shot he and Trevor employed whenever they competed against the computer.

  “I told you something’s been playing our games ever since we hooked the system up in this house,” Trent whispered.

  Trevor shrugged. “You’re letting your imagination run away again. The system is just going through a loop while it waits for us to start a new game.”

  Trent shook his head. “I know what the demo looks like. You can watch this for two more hours, and you won’t find any of the action repeated. Something is playing the game.”

  Trevor chuckled.. “It’s only a computer.”

  “It’s not in the system,” Trent placed a vice grip on his brother’s upper arm. “Look over my shoulder at the controller on the carpet.”

  “No way.” The air hissed between Trevor’s teeth.

  The brothers held their breath as they stared at the controller. The pair of small joysticks built into the device wiggled, though there were no thumbs pressing upon them. Button combinations lowered and reset, though no fingers hovered over the directional pad. Trent and Trevor gulped as another goal rocketed past a goalie on the television and the controller shook slightly, as if held by an unseen hand. Trent and Trevor knew their video game systems well, and they could think of none that included controllers capable of moving with such autonomy.

  “Someone else likes our games, Trevor.”

  “Just tell me what you’re thinking, Trent.”

  Trent’s eyes sparkled as he spoke it. “We have a ghost in our house. And I’ve watched him play the football game too.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 4 - Better Than a Snake...

  Buck smiled for the challenges the brothers presented to him. He could hardly wait at night while the young boys slept, so agitated for a new day’s worth of games and puzzles that it took all of the ghost’s discipline to keep from whispering in the boys’ ears to wake them. With the arrival of brothers, Buck believed that providence remembered how he had been left so lonely, and through the deliverance of the boys, such providence had corrected its oversight by giving Buck another chance to know friends and games.

  Trent and Trevor quickly accepted Buck as a family member. The brothers considered a house populated
by a ghost who enjoyed video games and digital music players a promise of good company. Neither brother felt a shiver should the television in their bedroom change channels or power on without either of them pressing the remote control. Neither of the boys felt any alarm should they see a chess piece slide across the checkerboard. Trevor and Trent thought nothing amiss when their golden lab, Hunter, rolled over onto his back as unseen fingers scratched his belly.

  By winter, Trent and Trevor began seeing Buck’s grinning face and coonskin cap. They might see him in the mirror after the shower slicked the glass with a coat of steam, or in the windows after a layer of morning frost covered the pane. Occasionally, one of their parents would pull into the drive at night, and Trent and Trevor might spy Buck’s shadow momentarily caught in the headlight beams that passed through the room’s curtains.

  Buck defeated his phobia and accompanied the brothers as they explored the woods behind the house. Buck did not float away when he strode past the doorway, and he swallowed a good deal of fear to again gaze upon that shimmering pond of ice that had claimed his life.

  The brothers never failed to share with Buck whatever new toy or gadget came into their possession. Buck learned how to guide a computer cursor with a desktop mouse. He learned what combination of icons he could click to pump the room’s computer speakers with strange music. He learned how to guide a toy truck with a remote control steering wheel. He learned how to dim and brighten the room’s lights. Should one of the boy’s cell phones ring, Buck even learned what button to press in order to open the line, though he could not project his voice through the speaker. Best of all, Buck discovered how pressing the proper combination of buttons played the movie Trent and Trevor loaded into the portable DVD player before going to school.