GHOST OF A CHANCE, a paranormal short story Read Online Free Page A

with her.  Tucked into her heart.
    Peter, she thought, only not .  The connection she had experienced in the parlor room hadn’t been with Peter.  It had been with someone else.
    Francis Ryan.
    Except that was impossible, Tracy thought as she paced back and forth in front of the French doors leading to the garden, before stopping to appreciate the beauty outside.  The night was bright, the moonlight bathing everything with cold hoary light.  Beyond the gardens, the ocean’s wash shimmered along the shore as bright whitecaps broke the dark of the water’s surface.
    In her mind’s eye the image changed.  Darkened.
    It had been a moonless night.  Perfect for running rum if that had been their wish.  Perfect for running away.
    She knew that now.  Anna had been escaping with her baby that night.
    But Tracy also knew something else--Anna hadn’t been fleeing her husband.  She had loved him.  Deeply.  Leaving him had cost her.
    A knock came at her door and although the last thing she wanted was company, she sensed he was there.
    Peter.
    She walked to the door and opened it.  He waited, looking a bit sheepish.  His hands jammed into the pockets of those well-worn jeans.  She knew from the look on his face that he still didn’t believe, but then again, she wasn’t quite sure she did either.
    “May I come in?”
    She stepped aside and motioned him in.
    He stood in the middle of the space, clearly uneasy.  As if searching for something to do, he walked to the desk where she had laid out her research notes.
    “May I?” he asked, and at her nod, leaned one hand on the edge of the desk as he flipped through the papers.
    “Fascinating,” he said when he finished, turned, and leaned his butt on the edge of the desk.
    “Not as interesting as what happened before,” she said, crossing her arms and coming to stand in front of him.
    “What did happen before?” he asked, mimicking her pose, both of them obviously in defensive mode.
    “I was hoping you could tell me.  Did Tommy and his people get anything?
    “Nothing visible on the videotape.  But he did get some drastic changes in temperature and wild EMF readings.”
    “All of which means…”
    Peter shrugged and the action pulled the fabric of his shirt across the broad muscles of his shoulders.  “I wish I knew, Tracy.”
    But she did know something, even if she couldn’t explain the why of it.  “Anna loved her husband.  Immensely.  She was afraid that night, but not of him.”
    Peter nodded, but it was reluctant.  “If I believe that I tapped into something from the beyond…I felt fear.  Deadly fear.”
    “I think I may know why,” she said and brushed past him to the surface of her desk.  Shuffling the papers around as he had earlier, she dug up some notes and photocopies.
    “Did you know nearly forty percent of all the illegal alcohol that came into the United States during Prohibition came through Newark, Skippy’s hometown?”
    He turned, grazing her back with his chest as he examined the papers from over her shoulder.  “Is that him?” he said, pointing to a grainy photo from one of the newspapers.
    “That’s Skippy.  Before Prohibition, Newark had a number of local breweries and saloons.”
    “So there was a significant economic impact when those businesses had to shut down,” Peter surmised.
    “Definitely and Skippy’s area took a direct hit.”  She motioned to the photo and circled a face near Francis Ryan.  “This man is Izzy Merlman, one of Newark’s bootleg kingpins.  His runners would bring big ships with whiskey and rum to just outside the twelve-mile limit we had back then.  Smaller skiffs would meet them and bring the liquor ashore.”
    “So you’re saying good ol’ Skippy was involved with the bootlegging?”
    “Or maybe competing with Izzy,” Tracy said and placed her notes back on the desktop.
    “They used to bring alcohol into Newark Bay and Long Branch mostly, but they also brought it through the