What Haunts Me Read Online Free
Author: Margaret Millmore
combination of all three. More importantly, why was all of this suddenly surfacing? Why did I subconsciously know that I needed to poke the demon or poltergeist to be rid of it…or was I killing it? Why did it feel so real? What was all this pacing and thinking doing for me? Not a damn thing! Because there were no such things as ghosts or poltergeists, or whatever label my brain was trying to pin on them.
I walked over to the liquor cabinet in the corner of my living room and pulled out a bottle of Bushmills. I realized it was still morning, but I needed a swig of some good old fashioned Irish fire water to help calm my confusing thoughts. I didn't bother with ice, just poured two fingers worth and gulped it down, which nearly caused me to throw-up. After a minute the burning stopped and I could feel the warming effects of the liquid gold as it mellowed me out. I felt better, and maybe a little buzzed.
If this was really happening—and I was beginning to believe it was at that point—was there a way to test it? I thought about going around the city finding people with problems, and if a bespectacled, vintage-clothed person was in the vicinity, I could give them a good jab and see if the afflicted one was suddenly healed. I didn't actually think that was a reasonable idea, but it did seem like the only way to test my insane theory. So, I decided to take a walk and head down to a busy area of town where I could observe large crowds. Fisherman's Wharf seemed like a good start. I didn't actually have to wait that long though.
Chapter 5
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 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 edition 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
I walked over to the liquor cabinet in the corner of my living room and pulled out a bottle of Bushmills. I realized it was still morning, but I needed a swig of some good old fashioned Irish fire water to help calm my confusing thoughts. I didn't bother with ice, just poured two fingers worth and gulped it down, which nearly caused me to throw-up. After a minute the burning stopped and I could feel the warming effects of the liquid gold as it mellowed me out. I felt better, and maybe a little buzzed.
If this was really happening—and I was beginning to believe it was at that point—was there a way to test it? I thought about going around the city finding people with problems, and if a bespectacled, vintage-clothed person was in the vicinity, I could give them a good jab and see if the afflicted one was suddenly healed. I didn't actually think that was a reasonable idea, but it did seem like the only way to test my insane theory. So, I decided to take a walk and head down to a busy area of town where I could observe large crowds. Fisherman's Wharf seemed like a good start. I didn't actually have to wait that long though.
Chapter 5
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 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 edition 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
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