Ghost Stories by R Thomas Brown

Author:R Thomas Brown [Brown, R Thomas]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Briarhill Publishing
Published: 2012-02-03T04:30:00+00:00

THE CRYING WOMAN

Harold rolled off the couch and studied the brown blob in front of him. With effort, he focused on the empty beer bottle. Through the haze, he remembered the eleven others that he downed the night before. The night of the fifteenth. The third anniversary of Gail’s death. His wife killed by a drunk driver. He chuckled at the irony, but the laugh turned to vomit.

“Bradley!” He sat up slowly, looking for a rag. “Bradley, bring me a towel.” He leaned back on the couch, breathing deep to keep his stomach in line. “Where is that boy? Denise!”

No answer.

Harold struggled to his feet. He took hesitant, wobbly steps toward the bedrooms. “Hey! When I call you, I expect an answer.” He pushed the first door open. The one with ponies and rainbows.

Empty.

He opened the second door. The one covered in dragons and spaceships.

Empty.

“What the hell?” He stumbled back. More came back to him. The kids were hungry. He was drunk. Told them to get their own. “Fuck.” He grabbed his jeans from the floor, wiping off the stray bits of puke and slipped them on. Felt a weight in the pocket. Phone. “Oh, yeah.” He gave them phones since they got home from school before he did. Couldn’t afford day care anymore. Crap phones were free.

He dialed Bradley. Heard the Star Wars theme in the kitchen.

Dialed Denise. Taylor Swift sang from her bedroom.

His breath was short. They went somewhere. He looked around the couch and door. No note. He opened the door and squinted at the bright sun. He took another deep breath and walked with care across the breezeway.

He knocked on 12C and waited.

Gail opened the door and looked him over. “Rough night?”

Harold didn’t answer. “You seen the kids?”

“Not today, no.”

“Last night?” Harold rubbed his head, trying to clear his thoughts.

“No. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. They’re not home and didn’t leave me a note.” He stepped away. “Thanks anyway.”

“Hey, Harold?”

He stopped, but did not look back. “Yeah?”

“Did you have anyone over last night?”

He looked over his shoulder. “No, why?”

“Nothing. I thought I heard a woman crying last night.”

“A woman. No, no woman was over. Not for a very long time.” He walked away and down the stairs. His stomach was still shaky, but his head was beginning to clear. He walked toward the playground in the center of the complex. The twins were nine, and he’d started letting them head down there on their own a month before after their birthday. But they always left a note if he was sleeping.

He checked at the monkey bars, slides and in tunnels, but they weren’t there.

“Hey, Brad’s dad, are you looking for him?”

Harold looked down at the red-headed boy who knocked on his door every school day five minutes before they were ready. “Hi, Mike. You seen him?”

“Not since yesterday. He was supposed to play soccer this morning, but he didn’t show up. Denise, either.”

Harold felt his heart pounding. “Thanks. I’ll remind them about it when I find them.”

“You need any help looking?”

“No.

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