Specter Spectacular: 13 Ghostly Tales
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Once you cross the grave into this world of fantasy and fright, you may find there’s no way back out.
Anthology edited by Eileen Wiedbrauk.
Contemporary and historical ghost stories
Release Date: September 25, 2012
Trade Paperback
ISBN-13: 978-0615700182
Anthology: Approx. 155 pages
Also available as an ebook
Find it Online:
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Barnes & Noble
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Wholesale: Ingram or direct: World Weaver Press.
Anthology edited by Eileen Wiedbrauk.
Contemporary and historical ghost stories
Release Date: September 25, 2012
Trade Paperback
ISBN-13: 978-0615700182
Anthology: Approx. 155 pages
Also available as an ebook
Find it Online:
Amazon
Barnes & Noble
Goodreads
Independent Bookstores
Kobo
OmniLit
Wholesale: Ingram or direct: World Weaver Press.
Sold Out
descriptionSpirits, poltergeists, hauntings, creatures of the dark — Specter Spectacular: 13 Ghostly Tales delivers all these and more in thirteen spooky twists on the classic ghost story. From the heartwarming and humorous to the eerie and chilling, this anthology holds a story for everyone who has ever been thrilled by the unknown or wondered what might lie beyond the grave. Step inside and witness ghosts of the past, tales of revenge, the inhuman, the innocent, the damned, and more. But be warned — once you cross the grave into this world of fantasy and fright, you may find there’s no way back out.
contentsIntroduction by Eileen Wiedbrauk
My Rest a Stone by Amanda C. Davis Alabaster by Jamie Rand Cinder by Kristina Wojtaszek The Haunts of Albert Einstein by Larry Hodges Safe Upon the Shore by Kou K. Nelson Wendigo by Shannon Robinson The Little House at Bull Run Creek by Robbie MacNiven Death and Taxes by A. E. Decker "What if it could speak!" by Terence Kuch Pushed Out by Jay Wilburn A Fitting Tribute by Andrea Janes The Secret of Echo Cottage by Sue Houghton Cooter, Ass-munch, and Me by Calie Voorhis excerptFrom “My Rest a Stone” by Amanda C. Davis:
We are all in the lifeboat and our noses are full of the salt sea and I am hugging my dolly, like always, when her head wobbles once and falls off. The stringy hair slides through my fingers and right over the side. It rolls away with her curls all waving around in the water and her glass eye winks at me to say ha ha, she is leaving. She is leaving and I am not. So I scream. I am not as good at screaming as I used to be so sometimes I do it for practice, for When We Are Rescued. I scream for a long time. Mr Bauman says Will Someone Shut That Child Up. Mrs Adde says Let Her Scream Perhaps Someone Will Hear. Be A Brave Girl says Miss Mary who I think has forgotten how to say anything else. I Do Hope My Husband Found A Lifeboat says Mrs Baron because she says it all the time, just like Miss Mary says Be A Brave Girl until I want to hide my face in her skirt and cry, to be cowardly just for spite. But I don’t. I keep screaming. For practice. [Read the rest of this story in the anthology.] From “Alabaster” by Jamie Rand: By Ben’s watch—which he always kept ten minutes fast, because that was what his father did—it was almost five o’clock when they turned from the pavement and followed the rutted tracks deeper into the forest. His uncle Dave, up in the passenger seat, turned the radio down. Grass hissed against the underside of the Jeep and thin branches skittered against the canvas top. It reminded Ben of the sound his nails made when he’d scratch his leg through his jeans. When the trail climbed a steep hill his father dropped into second and gunned the engine. Ben felt his stomach lurch as the Jeep pitched backwards. Pennies and dimes tumbled from the ashtray and rolled under the seats. A quarter bumped against Ben’s shoe and he wiggled down to pick it up. Dave turned around to look at him. “Almost there, Benny. Excited?” “Hell yes!” he said, slipping the quarter into his pocket. And then, almost immediately: “Sorry for cussing, Dad.” His father either didn’t hear him or elected not to; his eyes were on the road, such as it was. It took a hairpin turn—Ben saw the ground drop away outside his window—and climbed at an even steeper angle. His father downshifted into first. The engine roared like a bear ready to charge. Ben could smell exhaust and burning oil. “I think we were just about your age when your grandpa first took us here,” Dave said. He had to almost shout to be heard over the motor. “That right, Mark?” “Yeah,” his father answered. “I was twelve, I think. Maybe thirteen. You were ten.” Ben could imagine his uncle that young—his mom often called him a thirty-year-old boy, so that wasn’t a huge leap—but his dad? No sir. Trying to imagine his father without his beard, without the premature gray in his hair, trying to picture him without the pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket or with fingers that weren’t dirty under the nails? That was like dividing by zero. Mrs. Jankowski had taught him that in class last year. It was impossible. Dave smiled. But it was strange. Benny had never seen him smile like that before. Tight-lipped, eyebrows up, eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth like he meant to talk but shut it and glanced at Ben’s father. Then, like he was making a joke, he blurted, “Your watch working, Benny?” Before Ben could answer his dad did it for him. “Shut the fuck up about that, Dave.” “It’s working fine, Dad,” Benny said, confused and a little hurt at the way he’d sworn. It was an Armitron, a digital with two different time settings, a stopwatch, and a display at the top that told him the day, month, and year. Press a button and the face glowed a radioactive green. It even had a little flashlight, small but bright, like they sometimes sold as key rings. It had been a present for his birthday last week. Brand new. Why wouldn’t it work? [Read the rest of this story in the anthology.] From “Cinder” by Kristina Wojtaszek: Beyond the rhythmic rasp of his own breath, Edan could hear the house cry out in death. Rafters buckled and snapped behind him, piercing through the hiss of water from the live line his buddies had dragged in. They were battling the beast at ground level while he searched the second floor. He struggled down the hall where he’d heard whimpering a moment ago, then ripped off his mask in a last effort to see the door more clearly. Soot-blackened tears fell and his lungs heaved, rejecting the toxic air; his whole body was racked with pain as he coughed out smoke. Embers, like tiny fairies, burst into wild flight as he threw his body into the door. His daughter would see things like that—find beauty in the midst of hell. He choked on the thought and took a draw of oxygen from his mask once more. Why, when the roof was disintegrating and the rooms he’d traveled through to get here were nothing more than a gaping inferno, was this damn door so stubborn? Parting his thoughts like a curtain was his little girl. If she only knew what lay beyond the door … Finally, his boot buckled its center, shards snapping, releasing a cool draft from the broken window inside. Glass littered the floor, a thousand stars reflecting heat. There she was. He’d expected her to be bigger, but then, everyone who crumpled and slept from smoke inhalation looked small and deflated. He couldn’t see her sides heave. He strained, ran his gloved hand along her charred fur, feeling for life. He lifted her gently, her head hanging limp over his shoulder, and started carefully back down the hall. From another room he yelled down, and a ladder was shifted over to him. Heading down through the starless night, he could hear his comrades shouting and clapping above the wails of an ambulance. [Read the rest of this story in the anthology.] From “The Haunts of Albert Einstein” by Larry Hodges: For every living human being in the world today, there are about thirty from the past who, by virtue of no longer being alive, are now dead. So while there are about 6.6 billion living humans on the planet, there are about 200 billion dead humans. Ghosts. Now ghosts don’t want to be dead just anywhere. Would you want to be dead for eternity in some desolate ocean covered with plankton? Or freezing your ectoplasm off on some desolate glacier with a bunch of dancing penguins? Or, God help you, in New Jersey? So there are only about 22 million square miles of land that are deadable for ghosts. That’s 9000 ghosts per square mile. Nine Thousand! If you think Earth is crowded with humans with their paltry 300 per square mile, imagine what it’s like for the 9000 ghosts. Sardines! That’s why the ghost of Albert Einstein, no longer constrained by the artificial ethical concerns created by the prefrontal cortex of a living human brain, decided to solve the problem of ghost proliferation. [Read the rest of this story in the anthology.] ANTHOLOGISTEileen Wiedbrauk, Editor-in-Chief of World Weaver Press, is an editor, writer, collegiate English instructor, blogger, coffee addict, cat herder, MFA graduate, fantasist-turned-fabalist-turned-urban-fantasy-junkie, Odyssey Writing Workshop alumna, photographer, designer, tech geek, entrepreneur, avid reader, and a somewhat decent cook. She wears many hats, as the saying goes. Which is an odd saying in this case, as she rarely looks good in hats. Her creative work has appeared in North American Review, Swink, Enchanted Conversation, and others. Her website, Speak Coffee to Me, can be found at eileenwiedbrauk.com.
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praise
NIGHT OWL REVIEWS TOP PICK! “Specter Spectacular is an anthology of 13 ghostly tales that will leave you sleeping with the lights on. Read this book, if you dare!”
— Night Owl Reviews “I loved this anthology. Creepy stories to haunt you, funny stories to charm you, and ghosts that made me shiver and smile. Like a ghost tour through a hundred towns, this was one ride I wanted to last forever.” — Alex Hughes, author of Clean “Remind[s] us that the good old-fashioned Ghost Story is still alive and kicking.” — Dark Eclipse Magazine “If there’s a sequel, I’m definitely buying it.” — Randomology “Poignant and spooky.” — K.C. Ball, Publisher and Editor of 10Flash Quarterly “A nice little collection to read this Halloween … a fun, quick read.” — Tangent Tangent on individual tales in the collection:
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