In March, my 30th short story, “Give Them Peace,” was published in Writing a Wrong, the latest mixed-genre anthology by the Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group.
A mob boss with a nefarious retirement plan. A husband preparing the ideal breakfast for his wife. A young girl intent on visiting the neighbor’s turkeys—on her own. A mystery author who steals an idea for a novel and now, years later, faces the consequences. An essayist musing on a letter she would write to a friend she inadvertently upset. Writing a Wrong is filled all of these and more.
“Give Them Peace” is a ghost story featuring psychic-medium paranormal investigator Miranda Lorensen from my novels Testing the Prisoner, By Your Side, and Like Mother, Like Daughters. I hope you enjoy this excerpt. If so, consider grabbing a copy of the anthology in paperback or ebook. Proceeds benefit the Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group and our work in the community.
Give Them Peace
by Phil Giunta
Crippling sorrow flooded Miranda Lorensen’s thoughts the moment she stepped through the door of Heldon Studios. Overlapping voices in her head pleaded for help, begged to be set free. Miranda ignored them for the moment as she and fellow paranormal investigator Marc Malkasian greeted the studio’s general manager, Stillman Ross.
“Thanks for rearranging your schedule for us on such short notice.” Stillman extended a hand. “Where’s the rest of your team?”
“Short notice means shorthanded,” Marc said. “You’re stuck with the two of us. Any more activity since you called?”
“Later that night, in fact.” Stillman nodded toward a row of offices down the hall. “We caught it on a security camera along with the other incidents I mentioned on the phone. I have the footage queued up.”
By now, the edges of Miranda’s vision had blurred and she winced against another torrent of desperation and grief. Closing her eyes, she tuned out the conversation between Marc and Stillman. I’m here. Tell me what you need.
A plaintive voice rose above the chatter. “Finally, someone who can hear us.”
“We’ve waited so long,” another added.
Both were women, but Miranda sensed that they weren’t the only spirits attached to the building, or perhaps the land. How can I help you?
“You’re a sensitive,” the first voice said. “As we were. That’s why he killed us.”
Who killed you?
There was no response.
Are you still with me? What’s your name? Again, Miranda’s questions were met with silence.
“Randy?”
A hand clutched her arm. Miranda’s eyes shot open and met Marc’s bewildered gaze.
“You okay? You wandered off without a word.”
Miranda took in her surroundings. She didn’t recall leaving the lobby, yet she now found herself in a wide corridor between two sound stages. “Right. Sorry about that.”
“Did you have a vision?”
“Not exactly.” As they started back toward the main entrance, Miranda shot a glance over her shoulder. “But the day is still young.”
***
All three tripods crashed to the floor, hurled across the room by an invisible force. In the security office, the astonishing scene played out on two wall-mounted monitors.
“That happened about four hours after we closed on the day I called you,” Stillman explained. “I thought it was one of my technicians playing a prank, but no one was in the building at the time. Of all the footage we captured, this scared the shit out of me more than anything.”
“I can see why,” Marc said. “These spirits definitely seem pissed off about something. Where did this happen?”
“Stage C. Last one on the right before you get to the storage room.”
“Hold on.” Marc pointed to the screen. “When the tripods hit the floor, they kinda resemble arrows, evenly spaced and perfectly lined up beside each other.”
Miranda cocked her head. “Arrows pointing toward the storage room, perhaps?”
“I’ll be damned.” Stillman slumped in his chair. “Since we converted this place from a warehouse, we don’t use that part of the building much. I’ve never been comfortable back there. Always feels like someone’s watching me from the mezzanine.”
“Maybe they are,” Marc said. “When you called, you mentioned a woman who appeared on film, but no one saw her in person. Can you show us?”
“Absolutely.” Stillman opened two video files and dragged each to its own monitor. He pointed to the left screen. “This was the first appearance, during an interview show. Watch for the middle-aged woman with the salt and pepper hair and bruises around her neck. There. See her standing off to the right behind the host?”
“Jeez.” Marc leaned forward. “Her gray eyes and blank expression aren’t creepy at all.”
“Check it out,” Stillman continued. “They cut away and back to the host… and she’s gone.” He stopped the video. “Now, let me draw your attention to the monitor on the right. There’s a company in the area that makes cleaning products. They use our studio to shoot their commercials. This one had three actors, four if you count the dog. Watch this beagle turn its head from the kid and stare at nothing until they cut away, come back, and bam—there she is again. Where she came from, no one knows.”
The beagle whined and stared up at the woman who gazed at the actors with a forlorn expression. Stillman paused the video just as she peered into the camera.
“She came from this place.” Miranda glanced from one monitor to the other. “Her soul is trapped here, and she isn’t alone.”
Stillman raised an eyebrow. “How many are there?”
“Something tells me we’re about to find out.”
