Guide Specter Holler: A Short Story

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A guy walked in the door. It took me a second to recognize him. He sat two stools over from me and took his own couple of seconds to remember me. His name was Andy.

western short story The Wind

We said our hellos and chatted for a bit. The two years that separated my lives in Atlanta flashed through my head. The two years seemed like dog years to me. So I expressed this passage of time to Andy the best way I knew how.


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I was White. Andy was Black. We were sitting deep inside of Georgia. I thought about that expression. Did it really mean what I thought it meant? Was Andy sitting there, fuming that he had to sit next to a racist motherfucker like me? Should I apologize? Would it help? I think I was a member of the last generation in America that was raised amidst such flippant racist language. In the late eighties, the whole Political Correctness movement came along. And what do we call Black people in Europe? The full moon bright and the wind shuddering my abode. I was a boy of ten, lying awake in bed, listening to the gust and scratch, scratch, scratching of the old oak's branches on my window.

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It was a small room that my brother and I shared. He asleep and I most certainly aware. Our two beds lay just an arm length apart. How I envied him.

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He who easily slept, while I lay awake fearing the shadows. On the far wall, a moonlit macabre play advanced, as the wind howled and skeletal branches danced. I tried to ease my mind by praying for sleep; but was denied by whispers and moans and the scratch, scratch, scratching on my window. I remember that night for it is always there.


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The night of the specter who had taken me unaware. I was startled … no, I was scared. This stranger who stood at the foot of my bed looked more alive than shadow; he who was looking out my window. His mien was not kind.

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His attire out of date. This much I could make. I tried to deny. I tried to reason.

Stories from Sodor Ep 10: The Norramby Spectre

But this specter … this ghost was beyond all that I could know. My body became rigid and limbs ached. Sweat beaded and rolled down my legs. My breath I tried to measure and control; hoping to become very small.

Thomas Coston

I now live near Galveston, Texas, on the bay. I love to write books and poetry, spanning different genres. I can't, as yet, classify myself as a particular type of author. I simply have too many ideas flooding my brain. I have 6 books in production, at this time and hope to have them released by the end of Two of those are Romance, two are Science Fiction, One is a fictional memoir and the other is a Supernatural Thriller.

I hope you enjoy my work. I pour every emotion into it. Other works are taking longer, but when I am in the right mindset, I will sit down and cram-write, pouring my heart, soul, blood, sweat and tears into it. Are you an author? Help us improve our Author Pages by updating your bibliography and submitting a new or current image and biography. Learn more at Author Central. Previous page. Kindle Edition. Next page. There's a problem loading this menu right now.