The Ghost of Meadow Street

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic

A double homicide occurs in Worthington. Nicole Haddix is on the case, but will her own curiosity and devotion be the end of her? FOR CHALLENGE. ^^

Chapter 1 (v.1) - Chapter 1

Submitted: March 30, 2009

Reads: 425

Comments: 6

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Submitted: March 30, 2009



Chapter 1

Clack. Clack. Clack.

The sound of something hitting the coldmidnight ground echoed throughout Dante's House.

Dante’s house isn’t really what the house is called. It originally belonged to Mr. Earl T. Gerald. But no one had ever seen ever since he disappeared in the January of 1825.

Tommy MacAdams, a young teenager of 16 living on Meadow, and his friends Ian and Frank walked down the sidewalk. Frank had a cigarette in his mouth, with a lighter in his right hand.

“Okay,” Tommy started. “That party sucked.”

“Yeah,” agreed Ian. “I’ve seen prettier chicks in our school yearbook!”

“Especially Vicky,” murmured Frank. The three of them laughed cockily.

Frank dropped his cigarette on the sidewalk and smothered it with his foot. “Where do you wanna go now? It’s only eleven,” said Ian.

Tommy shrugged. “Like I care, just someplace cool.”

“How about that new bar?” suggested Ian.

“Nah,” rejected Tommy. “Besides, you need a license, so they know you’re 21.”

The three of them groaned. “Being 16 sucks,” Frank muttered.

They were silent.

Suddenly, a shadow was cast over Frank. “ . . . the hell?” Frank grumbled as he turned around.

At first, he said nothing. But then, his face went pale.

“What the hell!” he screeched.

A figure, laced in a shadowy white, brimmed in a tuxedo, and holding a wooden cane with the carving of a snake with piercing fangs. The figure smiled ominously. “Hello, gentlemen,” it said. Its voice was old and crackly.

Tommy curled his hand into a fist. “Beat it, old man,” he threatened.

The figure clicked his teeth with his tongue. “Tsk, tsk,” he scolded pleasantly. “How the youth of today treat they’re elders. This subordination wouldn’t be put up with back in my time.”

“You’re time? When’s that, when FDR was president?” Ian joked.

“Oh no,” declined the figure, “a lot longer back than that.”

“What! How old are you?” questioned Tommy, scowling.

“Hmmm . . .” murmured the figure to himself, though it was out loud. “I don’t really know. It’s been so long . . .”

“You don’t know how old you are?” shouted Frank in surprise.

“Indeed,” said the figure quietly. “I don’t believe I’ve known for years now—”

“You lunatic!” Ian yelled. “Who are you, anyway?”

The figure smiled. “I’m Earl T. Gerald, sonny.”

Tommy laughed scornfully. “No way! Mr. Gerald’s been dead for over 180 years!”

“Oh?” asked the figure. “Are you sure?”

Tommy stopped laughing. “You’re lying, old man,” he accused.

“Then what is this?” said the figure. He held up a small gold watch. “Read the back. See what’s engraved?”

Tommy narrowed his eyes as he scanned the back of the golden watch. Then, his eyes widened.

“Read it out loud,” ordered the figure tensely.

“To my dear Earl Timothy,” Tommy read in shock, “whom rises my sun, sets my moon, and makes the rest of my universe work. Love . . .”

“Love whom?” asked the figure in a casual tone.

“Love Yolanda E. Richardson, your soon to be partner in love,” Tommy finished, dazed.

“I-It could be fake! Or stolen!” cried Ian, his voice shaky.

“No,” whispered Tommy, his eyes wide, his face white. “All of Gerald’s stuff was buried with him when he died. And his grave was cemented shut. He’s said to have never shown that watch to anyone, either.”

Tommy looked up at the figure. “You are Mr. Gerald,” he said, his voice hoarse. “But Mr. Gerald’s dead.”

“That’s right,” said the man. “But I’m a what?”

“Ghost,” Frank whispered, his hands shaking in fear.

Ghost!" screamed Tommy. He turned and ran down the sidewalk, not even waiting for his friends.

Tommy ran. He ran all the way back to his house, which had been about a few minutes of sprinting away. He stormed through his front door, his heart pounding furiously.

* * *

Tommy woke up the next day, in his bedroom, in his bed. “What the hell?” he grumbled. “What was with that freaking dream?”

He walked slowly down his staircase. “Morning, Mom,” he said.

When he got down, he strolled into his living room.

Tommy saw his mother, on the couch, staring at the screen of their television. Her face was stained with tears, her cheeks red and her hands and lips quivering violently.

“Mom!” he exclaimed. He ran to his mother’s side. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.

Mrs. MacAdams turned to her eldest son, hot tears streaming down her face like waterfalls.

“Tommy,” she said, her voice strained. “Your friends…Frank O’Conner and Ian Naroway . . .”

“What?” he asked, shaking her shoulders. “What about them?"

"They were found dead, in the forest, nearMeadow Street." She started to sob.

And then Tommy fell back, his heart’s beating and circulation gone all together.

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