Horror Book Series With Ghosts

Ghost Killer by Margaret Millmore

Series Excerpt

As I was locking the door to my apartment, my neighbor, Justine Wilkinson, was leaving her apartment too. She was a wonderful lady who had lived in the building since her twenty-first birthday, which happened to be sometime in the 1950s. Her father was a wealthy business man and had bought the apartment as a gift to his only child. She said he really bought it for her so that he could get her out of his home at the request of his new bride, who was a mere six months Justine's senior. Either way, Justine had lived there most of her life, and knew just about everything that had ever happened in our building and all the people in it.

She smiled brightly when she saw me. She and I had become great friends over the past few years I'd lived in the building; she was like a surrogate grandmother to me, and I loved her dearly. As usual she was dressed to the nines, wearing a chocolate brown silk dress with a matching light-weight wool overcoat, accessorized with tan shoes and matching handbag. Justine had grown up in San Francisco society and still played her hand in all things of the rich and famous. She wasn't a snob by any means, but she was rather wealthy, and her companionship (and money) was always welcome at the finest of charity events. Based on her apparel and the time of day, I guessed she was off to some sort of luncheon, probably having to do with the ballet—one of her favorite causes.

I pecked her well powdered cheek in greeting and held the elevator door for her. As we were descending she said, “George, my dear, you don't look very well; is everything all right?”

“I'm getting over the flu, nothing to worry about though. I'm feeling better every day. I'm going out now to get some fresh air.” Justine believed that fresh air was the cure to all that ailed you. She took a twenty minute walk up and down the hills of our neighborhood every day, and swore it was what kept her young and spry.

She gave me an affectionate pat on the arm and smiled. Before she could speak again, the elevator stopped at the fourth floor to let on another passenger. I didn't know our newest addition by name, but I had seen her around. She was in her mid-sixties and lived in the building with her husband. She smiled at us when she entered and greeted Justine by name.

“Good morning to you as well, Annette; how are the grandchildren getting along?” Justine asked.

Annette smiled. “Very well for the most part, Justine…well, little Michael is….” She stopped and Justine squeezed her arm gently and gave her a knowing smile. I, however, had no clue what Annette was talking about. Annette smiled wanly in return and then said, “In fact, my daughter is bringing him over now for a bit of a visit. She has errands to run and my husband Fred is suffering from his arthritis today, so I asked her to bring the boy here to be watched.”

“That will be lovely dear. A change of scenery will be good for him, and Fred will enjoy visiting with him,” Justine said kindly as the elevator came to a stop on the ground floor.

Annette waved goodbye and headed for the front door. Justine slowed her pace, leaned towards me in a conspiratorial manner, and quietly said, “Annette's grandson has leukemia…it's such a tragedy. I remember when the boy was born, right here in this building to be exact. Annette's son-in-law was overseas on business and Jeannette, her daughter, was staying with them because she was so close to delivery. The poor dear went into early labor, and by the time the ambulance arrived, the baby was on his way. They delivered him right there in Annette's living room.” Justine smiled as if it was a fond memory.

I could see Annette through the glass in the front doors. She was at the curb, helping a younger woman get a small and fragile looking boy out of the car. The child could walk, but he was clearly in a weakened state. The younger woman handed Annette a backpack and leaned over to kiss the child. She then said something to her mother and got in her car and drove away. Annette began to walk slowly with the boy to the building entrance, so I scooted to the front door to open it for her. She smiled and thanked me, and when I turned around, I saw the man from a few days ago. He was standing near the elevator this time and staring at the boy. I couldn't say for sure if he had a mean or malicious look on his face, but this time I could feel him, his presence and something else, like a bad energy.

I decided to test my theory right then and there. Justine was still standing by the elevator, very close to the apparition. I moved past her, gently nudging her to the side while simultaneously poking the thing with my finger. He snarled at me as he swirled away. To cover my strange movements, I called the elevator and held the door for my neighbor and her grandson. When I turned around to see if the boy had changed, he was just the same. Well, I thought, I guess that wasn't his demon. Maybe the boy just didn't have a demon.

When I looked over at Justine, she was looking at the boy too. When she turned toward me, I could swear she'd seen what I had done, but then her expression changed to a smile. I would ask Justine later on if anyone else in the building had a sudden and unexplained recovery. Maybe the apparition belonged to Annette's husband Fred; after all, she had mentioned that his arthritis was acting up, and that was certainly an ailment. I said my goodbyes and headed to tourist central to find more demons to poke.

I decided to walk to Fisherman's Wharf. It was all downhill and I needed the exercise. I headed east toward Van Ness Avenue and then north from there to the Wharf.

Why I was taking this business seriously, and why did I think these vintage-clothed apparitions were even ghosts? In no way did I feel like I was on the fast-track to lunacy…quite the opposite. In the last few hours I had encountered not one, but two of these things—apparitions or poltergeists or whatever they were—and somewhere deep down inside, something had clicked, like an ingrained knowledge or instinct. I knew what these things were and I knew they were real: and more importantly, I knew I had to kill them. And suddenly I firmly believed that the dreams brought on by the fever were actual memories, and that I or someone else had locked them up in my head. Now, after years of pounding on the door of my subconscious, they'd finally gotten out.

The Wharf was crowded with tourists, street performers, beggars holding signs, and people hocking their wares. Normally I wouldn't go there if my life depended on it; the city had much more to offer than this place. But I wanted the crowds and there certainly were plenty of them there. I kept my eyes peeled for people wearing round-rimmed glasses and out-of-date clothing. However, I quickly realized that I couldn't go around poking everyone I saw sporting Harry Potter specs or unfashionable clothes. After all, the glasses were still a popular style for the living, and the city was full of eclectically dressed people. After an hour or so, I decided to give up. I'd reached Pier 39 by then, and I turned on my heel and headed back toward Ghirardelli Square and the Van Ness Avenue bus stop.

I was approaching the old Maritime Museum building when I found myself stuck behind a large crowd watching a man covered in silver paint. He was performing as if he was a robot—highly amusing if one was into that sort of thing. I edged my way around them onto the grassy area nearest the museum, and as I stepped back onto the sidewalk, I noticed a man sitting on the curb. He was about my age; his hair was long but pulled back neatly into a ponytail. He had an army jacket on, baggy shorts, and one dirty, worn out athletic shoe. The second shoe wasn't needed, because his right leg didn't exist beyond his knee. In his lap was a cardboard sign with black writing that said, “Wounded in Iraq and homeless.” A pair of crutches lay next to him on the curb, and a plastic cup sat on the sidewalk where his right foot should have been resting.

This wasn't an uncommon sight in the city. We had a large homeless population, but it was still heartbreaking. Sadly, I wouldn't normally have given him a second glance, but the girl standing behind him made me look twice. She was in her late teens and her clothes were definitely vintage, but in a not-so-charming 1980s style. Her blonde hair was highly teased and she wore large pink looped earrings, a denim jacket with matching skirt, and pink leggings. To top the outfit off, she was wearing camouflage high top sneakers. Her glasses were more John Lennon than Harry Potter, a bit smaller, but she had a distinctive look that I was beginning to get used to. These ghosts look solid, but there was something in their expressions that gave them away.

I stared for a minute, and then I pulled my phone out and took their picture. The vet had his head hung in what I assumed was despair, but the girl was looking right at me. I pulled a five dollar bill out of my pocket and walked over to him, dropping it in his cup while simultaneously poking the ghost that stood just six inches behind him. She grimaced, and then began to swirl away in a grey mist. As she disappeared for good, I stepped back and was caught up by a large rowdy gaggle of teenagers that had come barreling down the sidewalk, forcing anyone in their path to move forward quickly or get run over by their rude behavior. As soon as I was free of them, I walked back to where the young vet had been sitting, but he wasn't there. I made a full circle of the area looking for him, and finally spotted him just outside the crowd of robot-man people. He was standing on two legs and two feet. I took his picture again and hailed a cab to take me home.