Member-only story
Ghosts haunt a castle seeking vengeance
When Charles Rampart looked up from his book and squinted through glasses as thick as slices of bread, he swore the vase in the far corner of his study had moved. It had been knocked askew¾not tipped or broken but had shifted slightly when the walls jolted forward.
His noble castle creaked and moaned. A fire flickered lazily in the fireplace to his right, next to the intimidating seven-foot-tall Colorado blue spruce Christmas tree adorned with bright, red teardrop ornaments and glistening, white lights, created strange, swaying shadows. Charles cowered in the formidable, wavering light, dreading the inevitable. He shut his book and set it down quickly on the end table before he rose from his comfortable, red leather chair and shuffled over to the delicate, white vase resting on the middle of the polished cherry table near the entranceway. After considerable effort, he managed to lift it for a closer look. Nothing out of the ordinary explained the shift. He returned the vase to its proper place, then sobbed.
He became aware of these subtle shifts gradually, obvious only to a keen observer. Charles watched and waited, hoping his overactive imagination simply played tricks on him. As days turned into weeks, the bizarre phenomenon became impossible to deny. He wanted to tell his beloved wife but dreaded the confrontation — he knew she would…
