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Rated: 13+ · Fiction · Horror/Scary · #2142886
Two "ghost hunters" hunt for Martha, the ghost of a house slave.

         "Joe, we are forty years old. Don't you think we are a little old for this gig?"
         Joe looked at the pudgy man appraisingly as he tinkered around with his equipment. "You aren't chickening out are you Bob? Think of the money they are paying us 'professional ghost hunters.' You wouldn't want to deny people what they want now, would you?"
         "A scam?" Bob retorted.
         "I prefer to call it 'entertainment'."
         Bob gave a sigh of resignation. "And what 'entertainment' are we providing today?"
         "Martha, a young slave who was lynched for killing her owner's children. Legend has it that if you see her, she will kill you.
         "That's ridiculous."
         "Aren't they all?" Joe said. "This kitchen is huge! Do want to give me a hand setting up, or what?"
         The wind whispered through a crack in the window of the next room, unsettling the thick layer of dust. How could they have my story so wrong? Martha wondered. She was fearful of these white strangers, and what they might do to her. She carefully peered around the corner to watch what the men were doing. It did not comfort her. Each odd piece of machinery only fanned the flames of her discomfort.
         "OK, I think we're ready," Joe said.
         Ready for what? What are they after me for now? Martha felt a lump in her throat. She hurried into the dining room, a sad, faded affair from the past.
         I was only trying to stay a house slave. I couldn't have survived in the fields--I just couldn't! And the Missus was threatening to have me put back. I had to prove that I was useful. Martha was growing more uneasy with each passing moment. Why wouldn't they just go away?
         "Camera ready, Bob?"
         "Ready as ever. Let's get this over with."
         "Your enthusiasm is contagious. Now let's start with the intro." Joe took a drink of water and adjusted his headset. "Today we are here at the famous Martha Murder House in Savannah, Georgia..."
         Martha didn't understand why they kept sending people to chase her. She quaked with apprehension. She still remembered being dragged up that Magnolia tree with the rope around her neck. Why couldn't it have ended there? I swear to God it was an accident! I'd take it back if there was anything I could do..." She wrung her unseen hands in dismay.
         "Do you feel that, Bob? I think we found our first cold spot. Barometer says the temperature just dropped twenty degrees."
         "Sure do. It's gotten really chilly in here!" Bob winked from behind the camera.
         "Martha? Are you here? If you are, show us a sign," Joe called. Martha began to panic as glasses rattled in the kitchen. She was in the dining room...where could she hide?
         "Did you get that?" asked Joe, looking confused.
         These men have it all wrong, just like they had it all wrong. The master was tired of me in his bed. The Missus didn't want me there. If I could nurse them back to health I knew they would keep me! My grandmother taught me what special herbs ought to make someone ill and someone better. I didn't mean to use too much! Oh, those two poor little girls. How I prayed and howled with grief when they died. They won't listen to me. They just keep sending others to punish me again.
         "Martha? Give us another sign if you want to talk to us," Joe called. The chandelier started shaking to her dismay. The men moved to the dining room, and Martha scurried to the cabinet.
         Desperate, Martha whispered "leave me alone!" Joe stood there in shock as he played back the tape. Suddenly, all hell broke loose.
         The cabinets flew open and fine china started flying everywhere. Bob dropped the camera as he flung himself to the floor, covering his head. Chairs raised themselves and hurtled towards the two cowering men.
         With a great crash, the chandelier landed on Joe and his tape recorder. Bob ran towards Joe through the broken glass as the silverware started flying. A knife hit him straight through his heart, killing him instantly.
         Horrified, Martha took her skirts in hand and ran as fast as she could away from the scene. Two little girls giggled in the background.


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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2142886