The Bleeding Heart Flower - Part 3

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
There's something odd happening within the suburban home of Brian Trebble.
Objects missing or moved.
The eerie feeling that he isn't the only one in the house.

Brian is about to discover why.

-A four part short story-

Submitted: October 27, 2011

A A A | A A A

Submitted: October 27, 2011





The thing about life… Excuse me, the thing about life to ME is that we live and grow, make money and spend it, dream and imagine, but most of us… We never accomplish a damn thing.

I read today that Ghosts are people with ‘unfinished business’.

That’s horseshit.

If ghosts were just people, who felt their life incomplete, well, the planet would be swarming with them. We’d be up to our chubby cheeks in them and eventually - like we do everything else - we’d probably declare war on them.

If what is in my house is a ghost who just didn’t live life to the fullest, well, he must have felt he didn’t eat enough pudding. All of my pudding this morning was gone. I made another batch the next day.

That morning. Gone.

Chocolate pudding: My ghosts heroine. His ‘unfinished business’.


I also read that ghosts live off our fear. Like, when we get all scared with our goose bumps and wide eyes, we produce edible energy for them.

Again, horseshit.

If my ghost lived off fear, he’d be dead, because I’ve been nothing but pissed off the past month. No fear in this body. Just full-fledged rage.

I like to eat my chocolate pudding.

I bought today, the 38th day since I’ve moved in, a recording device. I read we can only hear what they are saying if it’s recorded because our inferior ears cannot pick up their tiny sounds.

I sat on the couch in my living room, completely drenched in darkness. All the lights, they were off. The only thing I could see, before my eyes adjusted, was the light from the clock on the microwave. It read 2 a.m.

I asked, “How are you?”

“Where are you from?”

“How is it like being a ghost? Fun? No?

“Are you even there?”

“Why do you eat my chocolate pudding?”

“Do you watch me sleep?”

“Do you like pissing me off…?”

Finally, before nearly falling asleep there, at a 90 degree angle on my couch, I asked one more question: “Where are you?”

I heard, almost immediately after asking, a slight ticking noise coming from the kitchen. Like a mouse tapping its foot.

I glared at the black hole, black abyss that was my kitchen space. I saw the clock on the microwave. Blinking. Then, I saw it disappear. At first I thought to myself: Damn it, the ghost unplugged the microwave, now I’ll have to reset the clock. But, then, the light reappeared and I realized something had been standing in front of it.

I will admit. I did become a bit frightened.

I got up and walked to the kitchen, slowly. Each step got heavier as I approached the mouth of my kitchen, viewable only through the doorway from the living room.

I reached the kitchen, swung in arm in and flipped on the light switch. Nothing. Obviously.

Wait. There was something. There, on the kitchen cabinet, in-between the sink and the microwave, was the perspiration from a human foot. It appeared to be a women’s foot. Sort of tiny.

The small and wet little space then evaporated in front of me and I was like: what the flying fuck was that.

The next day I went to a radio and video store and purchased a small camcorder. Then, I made a fresh batch of chocolate pudding to put in the fridge; sort of like bait. Finally, I sprinkled flowery flakes from a cut-up plant that I found in my backyard.

The plant was called The Bleeding Heart Flower.

I haven’t read anywhere that ghosts could die from poison, but then again I have never read anywhere they have eaten anything either. However. My pudding was most definitely devoured the morning after I would make it. So if my ghost can eat, maybe the bastard could be poisoned…

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