What’s this? A flash fiction Friday post? Do miracles never cease?
No but seriously, I’m pretty sure it’s been actual years since I posted flash fiction. I doubt I’ll get back to posting weekly anytime soon, but I have missed it. For now, sporadic will have to do.
I got the idea below while listening to a paranormal podcast. Hope you enjoy! Oh, and please excuse the broken code in the header. I’m looking into it.
The haunting starts just as Annie tips the dough onto her baking table and sticks her fingers into the gooey substance.
“Damnit…” she mumbles as the tableware on the drying rack starts to vibrate. It’s just past eleven o’clock; she hadn’t meant to be baking this late at night. She knew what was going to happen, after all. But dinner at her sister’s had gone late, and she’ll be damned if she doesn’t bring a fresh loaf with her to brunch tomorrow. It will have to rise in the fridge and be popped into the oven while she gets ready.
A spatula clatters out of a ceramic pot and onto the floor.
“Okay!” she calls into the empty room, using her clean hand to add flour to the sticky substance. She starts kneading with a passion, just as the first cupboard door creaks open and slams shut. “I hear you, I see you. Everything’s okay.” The cupboard door whips back open, then slams shut again. A second one joins. “I’m okay, the heater’s okay, everything’s okay.”
The minutes tick by. It gets worse. It always gets worse. The slamming continues, more and more frequent, and the kitchen chairs start to vibrate.
“No need for that!” she insists, trying to sound calm and reassuring even though she can’t help but remember the last time the chairs started moving and how much it cost to have the window replaced. In the corner of her eye, she sees one of them start to inch into the air.
“Okay!” she calls again. In record time, she checks the dough, thanks her lucky stars it seems ready, rolls it into a neat blob and places it back in the bowl with a towel on top. “I’m going, I’m going.”
The door to the basement is creaking open. She glances desperately between it and the sink, then gives in and simply wipes her sticky hands on her apron as she stomps toward the basement. She flicks on the light and takes the stairs three at the time.
“See, everything’s fine,” she declares, checking the gauges on the heater. “It’s working just as it should. No gas leak here. Just dusty basement air.” She inhales deeply to try to illustrate her point, then gestures to the carbon monoxide detector. “And that thing works perfectly, I just changed the batteries last month.”
She waits a second. Two seconds. Three. The slamming and rattling slow down and, finally, dies out. Sighing, she wipes a stray clump of dough off onto her apron and trudges back up the stairs. “They mean well,” she reminds herself quietly. “They mean well.” After all, a gas leak from the heater was what killed them all those years ago. They just don’t want it to happen to her, too.
It’s not their fault there’s no therapy in the afterlife.