Ghost of the Moon- Friday Flash

full moon near snowcap mountain

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Ghost of the Moon


Melissa L. Webb


The moon reflected off the water, harsh and cold, like glass on a snow-covered day. A lone figured stood on the sand, staring out at the searing refection. He stayed motionless, his head cocked to one side, mesmerized by the sight.

It stirred a memory in him. One he couldn’t quite place. It nibbled at the edges of his sanity, threatening to resurface with the weight of a 20-kiloton blast.

He didn’t know why it stirred. He had no obvious memories of ever standing on this shore, staring out at the bright shape of the moon as it caressed the water’s surface. Yet, there was something inside him, screaming at the sight of it.

A ripple stirred in the water, branching out like a spider’s web in the cold moonlight. The strands reached the shore as the water shivered underneath their touch.

The man stepped back, frightened by the sight, but frightened even more by his desire to touch it, to see if it was as solid as his heart longed for it to be. The fluttering in his mind became more frantic, a wild rustling that strained at the confines of who he was.

He would never understand what the subconscious wanted if he clung to his reality. He was trapped. He wasn’t the only one, though. Everyone was as trapped as he was and they didn’t even know it. They lived in an illusion, confined by the turmoil of humanity.

But, that was the joke, the big sickening scheme. There was no humanity. Not at all. They were all prisoners trapped in the flesh of those who would play creator.

He sighed as the old memories became clear. He was never meant to be human. No one was ever meant to be human. The shell they’d shackled to him had suppressed so much, but he had finally seen the light and it was beautiful.

The world was as flat as a postcard, just a relic from the days when the soul wanted what it couldn’t have. They had thought that life could be caught, could be shaped and molded to give meaning to the pain. But they were wrong. They were so wrong and they all knew it.

The man smiled as his skin cracked and peeled, dropping off like strips of wrapping paper on Christmas morning. The body was nothing more than a dustjacket and just as archaic. It was time to toss it aside.

His body split open, falling to the ground in a sickly, wet thump as white light poured out, drifting up like tendrils of fog, eager to dance with the crashing waves.

A long, dark arm rose out of the refection of the moon, pulling the swirling light into itself. “Welcome home, my son,” a beautiful voice cooed as the arm dropped back into the ghost of the moon once more.


© 2018 Melissa L. Webb




Beside You- Friday Flash


By Melissa L. Webb

ghost candle

“You can’t hide from us,” a voice whispered in my ear; an icy chill coating my neck as it did.

I turned, looking around me. I was alone. No one else occupied the dark street. It had been like that for the last week. Ever since that day.

The day I died.

People say when you have a near death experience you come back with something. I always thought that was absurd. How could your body gain anything as your cells shut down one by one? If anything, you should come back with less than what you had to start with.

Death is a decaying process. It strips you down until there’s nothing left but dust and bones. No more than nutrients for the ground below. It doesn’t add layers. It doesn’t bestow anything.

I continued on, trying quickly to regain the composure I needed to get on with my life. I needed to put the whole damn mess behind me.

If only I could be so lucky.

“We will never leave,” a hollow disembodied voice informed me; a smile coating every word. “We will always walk beside you.”

Grimacing, I pushed open my door, trying to hide in the confines of my home. It was pointless; the voices followed me as if I was a beacon of light.

It didn’t matter where I went. They were right. They’d always find me. I was the flame to those voices, they fluttered around me, drawn for reasons I will never understand.

When I died, I wasn’t given anything. Instead, I had things taken from me. My life, my sanity, taken from me in a blink of an eye. I wasn’t given any special gifts.

I can’t see the dead, but now they can see me.

© 2015 Melissa L. Webb

A Christmas Peril- Friday Flash

The Last of the Spirits, from Charles Dickens:...

Image via Wikipedia


By Melissa L. Webb

Darkness lay thick before him as Sean stepped into the house. The air was chilly as he tossed the bag containing his weapons onto the couch. Shrugging out of his leather jacket, he ventured deeper into the darkness.

The air hung thick around him, pressing against his flesh like a living thing. One thing he had learned during his years of hunting the supernatural was to listen to the atmosphere around him. It could tell you some really useful things.

For instance, Sean knew he wasn’t alone in the house.

He slipped into the hallway, venturing deeper into the darkness. Uneasiness settled like a rock in his stomach. He was weaponless. This had always been a sanctuary. He never expected to need a weapon in his own home.

Sliding his back against the wall, he let his eyes adjust to the jet blackness at the end of the wall. What would be laying in wait for him? One of the vamps he had tangled with last week? Or how about someone from the pack of lycanthropes he had busted up last month?

Sean shifted slightly. Who was he kidding? It could be anything. The supernatural world definitely had a bone to pick with him.

Taking a deep breath, he started down the hall. This was his house. Whoever it was in the bedroom would have to pay for invading his turf. He just hopped he didn’t have to die in the process.

He reached his bedroom and flung the door open wide, stepping into the darkness. Fumbling for the light switch, he prayed the thing wouldn’t attack before he turned on the light. He’d hate to die before he saw what was killing him.

Light bathed the room. Looking around quickly, his eyes fell on a figure in the corner. “What the…”

“Hello, Sean.”

He stood there in shock. This was definitely not what he had expected. “Uncle Charlie?”

The figure moved closer, stepping through a pile of dirty laundry. “How have you been, boy?”

“Um, busy,” Sean responded. He watched as the man who raised him, who had taught him everything there was to hunting, stepped through another pile of clothes. “What are you doing here, Uncle Charlie? Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

The ghost gave a dry chuckle. “Oh, I’m still dead, boy, but it doesn’t stop me from having to save your sorry butt one more time.”

“I don’t need any help. I have it all under control.”

“Listen, Sean,” Uncle Charlie’s specter snapped. “You need plenty of help. Way more then I could ever give you.”

Sean folded his arms over his chest. “What are you talking about?”

The ghost shook his head sadly. “You’ve become jaded, boy. You’ve seen so much evil in this world that you’ve begun to think that’s all there is.”

“Damn straight,” Sean growled. “This world is sick and will choke on its own filth.”

Uncle Charlie sighed. “There is still so much good in this world, Sean, and you’ve turned a blind eye to it. All this hate and loathing you have inside you, it’s slowly killing you.” He looked away. “You’re going to die bitter and alone. That’s a thought I can’t even unlive with.”

“So, what? You think you can just fix it all?”

The ghost shook his head. “Not me. I’m just here to prepare you.”

Sean frowned. “Prepare me for what?”
“You will be visited by three ghosts tonight, boy. Hopefully they can knock some sense into that thick skull of yours.”

Seam glared at his uncle’s ghost. “Oh no, that’s not happening. I’ve just come back from a seven-day Creeper job. I haven’t slept. I need a shower and something to eat.” He took a step closer. “The last thing I’m going to do is play Dickens with a bunch of ghosts.”

His uncle looked down at him, fire in his eyes. “Listen to me, boy. I’m tired of your attitude. I’m not going to watch you rot away while you’re still alive. You’re going to listen to what these ghosts have to tell you. You got that?”

Sean rolled his eyes. Even dead, his uncle still had to lecture him. He turned around.

“Are you listening to me, Sean?”

Sean saw a duffle bag sticking out of his closet. He grinned. That’s exactly what he needed. He snatched it up fast and took a small container out of it.

“What do you think you’re doing?” his uncle asked, eyeing the container in his hands.

“I’m getting rid of you.” He pulled the pourer out of the box of salt, flinging the crystals in the ghost’s direction. “Sorry, Uncle Charlie. I’m in no mood for this tonight.”

Salt flew towards his uncle, making the ghost shimmer before disappearing completely.

Sean smiled. That would teach his uncle to mind his own business. He headed towards the kitchen to get more salt. It was time to salt the perimeter of the house. There was no way any ghost was getting in tonight. They would just have to come back next Christmas eve.

©2010 Melissa L. Webb