GHOST OF A CHANCE, a paranormal short story Read Free Page A

young writer would be the one to solve the mystery.  Months earlier, he had heard her give a workshop at a local library and had been impressed.  Something about her determination had reminded him of what little he remembered about his grandmother.
    The smile on his son’s face brightened and spread up into his eyes at the mention of the young writer.  “Yeah, I think she might have what it takes.”
    Frank suspected that comment wasn’t solely about the contest, and inside of him something lightened, releasing the vicious hold illness had on his heart.
    “Go.  Visit,” he prompted with a strong squeeze of Peter’s hand.
    His son chuckled.  “Playing matchmaker?  Really, Dad?”
    “Want babies.”  He wished to see his son happily married and with children before he died.  For some inexplicable reason, Tracy Gomez seemed like the kind of woman who could handle his sometimes obstinate and work-a-holic son.  There had been something about her that Frank had connected with from the moment he had first laid eyes on her.
    “Ms. Gomez is pretty, I’ll give you that.”
    “Smart,” Frank added.
    Peter shrugged and rose from the chair beside Frank’s bed.  “Get some rest, Dad.  And let me have the laptop while you’re at it.  I’d hate for you to get all worked up watching the séance.”
    Caught red-handed, he thought, but reached out and feebly passed the computer in his son’s direction.  In reality, he was feeling too tired to imagine staying up for the outcome of the séance anyhow.  Plus, he didn’t think it would accomplish much.
    He’d been in the mansion for well on a week now already, thanks to the strings he’d pulled, and in all that time, there had been nothing to support the idea that the mansion was haunted.  Well, nothing except what had happened just moments before.  That alone wasn’t enough to convince him, however.
    “No ghosts,” he said, but Peter only shook his head and chuckled once more.
    “Finally something we can agree on.”
     

Chapter 4
    Tracy could safely say that she had never seen anything quite like the bedlam that had overwhelmed the gracefully elegant parlor room.
    Tommy Smith darted from one piece of equipment to the next to make sure everything was in order to film the big metaphysical event.  Cables and wires slithered along the floor like snakes as his crew connected them to a number of different cameras and monitors.
    “This new puppy here is a tri-axial EMF meter to record any disruptions in the electromagnetic forces in the room,” he said as he shot a glance at her over his shoulder.
    “I suppose you’ll take baseline readings,” Tracy replied, creating an instant flurry of activity in Tommy who rushed over to one of his three technicians to give a spate of orders, including one for a reference point.
    “Cruel,” Peter said from beside her, causing her heartbeat to jump in both surprise and awareness of the non-existent distance between them.
    “Just being analytical,” she answered, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.
    He had changed out of the formal suit and tie into a pale blue polo shirt and faded denim.  The color only intensified his eyes and brought out blue-black highlights in his dark hair.  The short sleeves on the shirt exposed wickedly ripped arms that he crossed, shifting her attention to the equally sculpted muscles of his broad chest.  She couldn’t avoid the temptation to look downward past his flat midsection to where the soft fabric of his jeans hugged long, lean legs.
    “Done analyzing?” he said with a sinful chuckle and arch of his brow.
    She was spared from answering as Nancy Fitch chose that moment to make her entrance, the diaphanous fabric of her low-cut gown floating around her.  Trailing her like little lapdogs were Hank Jenkins, Detective Daly, and John Markovic.
    It surprised Tracy that during the course of their earlier dinner the men seemed to have become so taken with the psychic, especially