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| PHOTO PROMPT -Copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields |
The house hadn't changed in the years I’d been away. The gracious trees planted along the driveway and the steps that led to the timber-framed veranda with its white painted balustrades and the carefully manicured lawn.
A house built on a
foundation of stifled screams.
I heard the creaking tones of the rocking chair and knew that
he was around. Every evening he would
take off his boots and sit waiting to be served. Each drink a toast to the devil inside.
There he sat, with a hole in his forehead, just as I had
shot him two centuries ago.
***
Written for Friday Fictioneers. Word Count : 100
Great story. Molds terrible evil with satisfying revenge in a heartbeat.
ReplyDeleteThanks Margo, glad you liked it.
Deletecreepy. and I could hear the creaks of the rocking chair. well crafted.
ReplyDeleteThank you for reading and commenting Kalpana.
DeleteDear Subroto,
ReplyDeleteThis is quite the ghost story. "Each drink a toast to the devil inside." Nice one.
Shalom,
Rochelle
Thanks Rochelle. And to think I nearly missed this week's entry. Was written at the midnight hour too :-)
DeleteDear Subroto, I love ghost stories - and this is great! So, maybe the narrator ghost gets to leave every once in a while and he stays put on the porch in the rocker with a hole in his head. He must have deserved it. Good story - I really mean it - nice! Nan :)
ReplyDeleteThanks Nan, the intent was that one was a slave and the other the cruel master who was shot dead. I am glad you liked it.
DeleteOhhh, good one!!
ReplyDeleteThanks Joy, I am glad you liked it.
Delete