GHOST OF A CHANCE, a paranormal short story Read Free

They should have therefore washed ashore fairly quickly.
    Which meant that it was possible that Anna and baby Francesca might have not died that night. And if they had survived, it was conceivable that Peter Angelo’s father might be Skippy’s grandson.
    Another chill skittered across her body, and for a moment, it almost seemed to wrap itself around her in an embrace.  She shuddered, tossing off her apprehension and thought, Craziness.
    She walked to the French doors and threw them open, allowing the warm spring breeze into the room.  It was just a case of a drafty old house, much like her family’s inn.  She lingered by the doors, lifting her face up to the bright sunshine until the chill in her body had disappeared.  Then she returned to her suitcase and unpacked her notes and assorted research materials.  She took them to the simple mahogany desk at one side of the room and laid them out.  As she did so, she quickly reviewed the notes. She remained convinced that she was on the right trail to prove what had actually happened that night.
    She hoped that over the weekend she’d find the last little bits of information she needed to realize the truth about Francis Ryan, determine if Peter’s dad could be his descendant, and, of course, win the prize.
    #
    His lawyer son would definitely not approve, but Frank could not resist watching his assorted guests on the laptop in his bedroom.  Although as Nancy Finch began to undress, he quickly flipped away.
    Frank Angelo was more a student of human nature than an actual voyeur.  It was why he had decided to assemble such a diverse cast of characters to solve the mystery of the Ryan family.
    His family , he reminded himself as he laid his hand on the old leather journal beside him on the bed. Its cover had the rich patina of having been held often, but was warped from the water that had damaged it.  A goodly portion of the pages were curled and hopelessly stuck together, but those that remained hinted at quite a different story than the one that was publicly known about Skippy Ryan.
    In fact, if the writer of the diary was to be believed, Anna Dolan Ryan and baby Francesca had left the mansion alive and well that night and gone into hiding to await a reunion with Skippy.  A reunion that, sadly, had never occurred.
    Anna had assumed another name to protect her family and eventually remarried a local Italian laborer who had adopted little Francesca as his own.
    Frank had been named after her, his mother Francesca, Peter’s grandmother.  Francesca Angelo was long since gone and if she had known her history, she’d never said a word, but Frank was determined to find out the truth if it was the last thing he did.
    Which it might be, he thought as pressure gripped his chest and made breathing difficult.  The congestive heart failure grew worse each day and none of his medicines were working to stem its progress.
    The pressure increased, worrying him that he would not last to see the results of the contest. But then a gentle hand passed over his face and down to the center of his chest.  “Rest, my child,” he heard a voice say, and as if by magic, the weight stifling his life lifted slightly.
    When the knock came at the door, he was able to muster a “Come in”, but fumbled with clumsy hands to close the laptop.
    His son entered and was immediately at his side, concern obvious on his handsome face.  From his initial investigations, Frank had discovered that his son’s features bore a striking resemblance to Skippy Ryan’s.
    “Are you okay, Dad?”  Peter grasped his hand.
    “Fine.  Excited,” he said, unable to manage more than single words as his breath failed him and his heart drummed rapidly in his chest.  Once again a gentle pass of an invisible hand across his face brought calm and some relief.
    Peter smiled indulgently and nodded.  “I know, Dad.  I hope you’re not disappointed.”
    “Tracy.  Win,” he said, more convinced than ever that the