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- Herausgeber: Rainbow Crush
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
Ghosts of the Living
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Ghosts of the Living © 2019 by Foxglove Lee
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design © 2019 Foxglove Lee
First Edition January 2019
Table of Contents
Copyright Page
Ghosts of the Living
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Also in the Queer Ghost Stories series
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Ghosts of the Living
from the
Queer Ghost Stories
series
By Foxglove Lee
Chapter One
HELLE ORDERED TWO COFFEES—ONE with milk only, the other creamy and extra sweet. She took off her gloves to pay, but slipped them back on before heading out into the strange blue darkness of a winter’s morning.
Once she had stepped out of the coffee shop, she strained her eyes to distinguish among the various shapes on the other side of the street. Every time Helle set her eyes on the girl who panhandled outside the subway entrance, she smiled. Perhaps she ought not feel so warm-hearted toward a stranger. Perhaps she ought to feel sorry for the girl, or even suspicious. But she did not. When she saw the young person, her maternal instinct ignited.
Helle desired only to care for the girl. Care for her in any way possible.
The girl’s age was difficult to decipher, but Helle was hardly going to ask. Could be that she was only a child, a teenager. Could be that she was in her twenties, possibly older. Younger than Helle, certainly, but how young, she could not say.
The light changed from red to green, and Helle proceeded across the street with a coffee in each hand.
As she approached the girl, she saw that the object of her maternal affections was not alone this morning. Indeed, the girl had not been alone over the past few days, but on those occasions an entire group of friends had been chatting amongst themselves. Today, there was only one other young person with her—boy or girl, Helle did not care enough to perceive.
This other person was seated on a concrete ledge while Helle’s dear young homeless girl sat on the sidewalk, bundled inside a sleeping bag and wearing a large parka, scarf, hat and mittens—everything one needed to spend time outdoors in the winter.
After cutting through the crowd, Helle crouched in front of the homeless girl and said, “Good morning, hello, I’ve brought you some coffee. Lots of sugar and extra cream. I am sorry. I did not know you would have a friend with you. Would your friend like my coffee? It has in it only milk.”
“Nah,” said the friend, and Helle was glad to hear this. She did not wish to share her coffee with this interloper. In fact, she wished this person would disappear so she could share a moment alone with her angel.
“That’s so nice of you,” the homeless girl said, looking up at Helle with her dark eyes twinkling. Chestnut curls cascaded from beneath her hat, and Helle wondered how she kept her hair looking so beautiful when she lived in such dreadful conditions.
“I am very happy to bring you something to keep you warm.” Helle watched the girl bring the coffee cup to her chapped lips and savour the taste. It was good coffee. Helle remembered the slice of coffee cake she’d packed for the girl, and brought it out of her bag. “This is for you as well. I made it myself. So much baking I do, and no one to share it with.”
She’d said too much. She was making the girl uncomfortable, perhaps? She must stop talking now.
“You’re so generous,” the young girl said. “Thank you. Have a great day.”
Was this the girl’s method of telling her to move on? Perhaps Helle was blocking the donations cup, which customarily sat at the girl’s side. Ah yes, this was indeed the case. The longer Helle remained in front of the girl, the less spare change the dear child would receive from other commuters.
Helle pulled a few more coins than usual from her pocket and placed them into the cup as compensation.
The girl thanked her again.
Helle humbly nodded before rising to her feet. As she made her way toward the subway entrance, she could hear the girl chatting with her friend. Were they talking about her? She hoped not, unless they had only kind words to say.
She hoped the young girl did not view her as a foolish old woman.
Not old. She was not old, not compared to some.
When Helle arrived at work, she tried to devote her full attention to every call that came through. She attempted to concentrate on the words these people were saying, on the questions they posed, but her mind fled to the streets, where that dear girl lived. Helle did not know the child’s name, and yet she cared deeply.
More deeply than words could express.
Such a sweet girl did not deserve to sleep in the cold. The weather was taking its toll. One could observe this in the girl’s dried lips.
During her lunch hour, Helle made a trip to the convenience store on the first floor of her office building. There, she purchased a small tube of lip balm for the girl, to soothe those cracked, dried lips.
Helle spent the entire afternoon dreaming about giving this one small gift to the young girl. How happy it would make her. How very much she would appreciate the thought. Not like some people, like some people who expect everything and appreciate nothing.
