Ghost Hunters, Pt. 46

(Just joining us? You may want to start at the beginning.)

They inspected the pipe carefully, trying to assess how they'd get into it. The tiny ivory section of schedule 40 was probably about a foot long, and perhaps 2-1/2 or 3 inches in diameter. The ends were capped with bull-nosed PVC end caps, fitted over the outside of the pipe itself, and beneath those caps a tiny run of thread was visible.

"Hmm," JD muttered, turning his head over on its side as he lowered for a closer look. "It looks as if he had threads cut into it, and just screwed the end caps on."

"What're you, a plumber, dude?" Dillon snorted. "Hey, that means you're just like those guys on TV. They're plumbers, too. Maybe all ghost dudes are plumbers. Wouldn't that be funny?"

"Dillon," JD said patiently, "I'm not a plumber. I just have eyes. See the thread in the pipe?"

"Like for sewin' an' whatnot?"

"Nevermind."

"Okay then," Wendy interjected, "it should be no problem to get them off, right?"

"Well, I don't know about that. It's been 15 years. They could be frozen in place just from being sealed for so long. Besides, it was in the ground through a decade and a half of weather. It could be quite a chore to get them off. I don't know."

"Well, at least we won't have to cut the pipe, right? I mean, we can just unscrew the cap and take the stuff out, can't we?"

"Normal people can, yeah. JD makes everything harder though." Dillon chuckled. "He's the opposite o' the button in them commercials an' stuff."

"No, I don't. It's just that we may still not be able to open this like it's a bottle of soda pop. It may still require tools ... a vice, a pipe wrench or channel lock pliers, something like that. I just can't tell."

"Well, how y'gonna know 'less ya try it, studly?"

JD looked up at him, arching his brows. "Maybe YOU should try it, Dillon -- since it's so easy."

"Um ... nah, I'm good."

"Oh? What's the matter?"

"I ... well ... dude, you sure it ain't a bomb or nothin'?"

"Fairly sure, yes. I can't be positive, of course, but why let that stop you? Open away." He held his palms up with fingers pointing at the pipe on the table.

"Mmm ... Nah. I'll let you handle it. You're th' expert an' stuff."

"I thought as much. So ... I suppose it would be prudent to gather tools for this."

Wendy sighed in exasperation. "Why don't we just try unscrewing it first? If we can't, we can get the tools later."

"I don't think we should handle this any more than we have to. I think if we use tools to open it, we can preserve more of whatever may be --"

"Jaded, damn it, there's NOTHING on it already! Just open it!"

"But I --"

"OPEN IT!" Wendy and Dillon both shouted at him in unison, then they chuckled. JD shook his head.

"This isn't smart," he muttered as he picked the little section of pipe from the table by the caps on the ends.

He tried to twist them in opposite directions. They resisted. He glanced at the two of them as they stared intently at him, waiting. He drew a breath and tried again. The caps still wouldn't budge.

"I think they're frozen," he said softly.

"Why don'tcha let somebody with some GUTS and BALLS try it, homey -- give it a shot, Wen."

"Thank you, Dillon, I can manage by myself," JD sneered. "But they're stuck."

"Try using your sweatshirt to hold them, babe," Wendy suggested. He shrugged and tucked his hands into his pockets and held the end caps through the fabric.

He twisted again. Nothing. He redoubled his efforts and really turned them hard. They were still locked in place, unmoving. He exhaled sharply and relaxed, setting the pipe back on the table.

"Anyone else care to try?" he mocked, gesturing at the pipe.

Dillon wordlessly grabbed the pipe and grunted loud and long while he strained, his face turning red as he exerted himself against the plastic. For long seconds he kept the pressure on until he finally collapsed panting and face beet red onto the table. The pipe rolled away from him as he puffed through his deformed mouth, crushed from the weight of his head laying on his cheek.

"It's stuck," he raked out. "Real stuck. Like, forever stuck."

"I told you," JD taunted, self-satisfaction dripping from his words.

"Go Wen," Dillon huffed, "maybe you can do it."

"Dillon, don't be ridiculous, if WE can't do it, how can she --"

"GOT IT!" Wendy exclaimed, as one of the end caps ground free and spun on its thread.

JD's eyes bulged, staring at the open pipe and then at her as she stared into the pipe.

"Oh my God," she whispered, "there's more in there than the note."

"What?" JD said anxiously, jumping up from his seat. "What's inside?"

There was a moment of tension as they all tried to peer into the tiny opening. Their heads clunked off one another as they jostled to get a better look. Dillon strained in hard and the thunk! between his forehead and JD's made Wendy wince.

"OW! Okay, why don't we just empty the contents here on the table so we can all see?"

Wendy slowly and carefully tipped the pipe and there was the sound of something sliding down the length before a flashing, shiny jumble spilled out on the Formica surface.

"Dude! Bonus! Free stuff!"

"We can't keep this, dork," JD admonished, "these are stolen goods."

"Looks like a necklace and ring," Wendy said. "I wonder whose?"

"I don't know. Part of the stolen property obviously. Why would he put those in?"

"Dude, t'prove what th' note says ... DORK."

"All this proves is that Jenkins was part of it. There's nothing here to say Migo and Stanton were in on it."

"Where's the note?" Wendy said absently, staring into the pipe again. "Oh, it's stuck against the side of the pipe in here. Should I ... should I just -- grab it?"

"No," JD said quickly, "no, don't do that. Let's get something we can slide it out with."

Dillon slapped at his pockets half-heartedly. "I got nothin'."

JD shook his head. "Big surprise."

"I'll go look in the kitchen," Wendy said, moving away from the table.

"I'll go ... look at Wendy."

"Never mind, thank you," JD stopped him. "Go look in the basement."

"The basement?? Whaddaya mean, the basement??"

"Which word didn't you understand, brainiac?"

"Oh, dude ... ouch, man."

"Oh, don't like it when it's on you?"

"No. But I toldja that before, dude. I rip on you, you do nothin'."

"Hmm. See if there's something in the duffel bag there that can help."

JD rummaged around the wires and items on the table, looking for anything he could use to extract the note. Dillon sighed a moment later, and stood upright.

"Nothin'," he said heavily. "I wish somethin' would go our way for a change."

"You and me both, bud," JD said, just as Wendy came back in the room.

"I found some silverware. Here's a fork. That should do it."

"Fork yeah, it will. Heh."

"Nice, thanks," JD smiled and pecked her forehead. He took the fork and pressed lightly on the paper, then began to pull it out.

The note slowly emerged from its casing with the hissing sound of paper on plastic.

It dropped free of the pipe, and lay in a curled tube on the table in front of them. They all stared at it, JD setting the fork carefully down, as if the movement might damage the artifact like it were an ancient papyrus.

"Well?" Dillon's voice almost startled JD with its suddenness. "Ain'tcha gonna read it, dude?"

"Uh ... yeah. Yeah."

JD tried to reach for the letter but his hand froze in mid-air. He drew it back quickly, as if it were poisonous to the touch.

"What's the matter?" Wendy spoke, seeing him.

"It ain't gonna bite ya, dude."

"No, I know ... I know. But ... well, I'll have to ... to touch it to read it. Maybe you could get another fork, Wen? So we don't ... you know?"

She sighed, and paced impatiently out of the room.

"You're ridiculous, dude."

"What? I just don't want to damage the only evidence we have. I think it's critical that we keep this note as preserved as we can. That's all."

"Yeah. I think you're scared of it."

"What do you mean?"

"Forget it."

"No, what's that supposed to mean?"

Dillon sighed. "Let's just ... just read the note, dude."

Wendy came back in and handed a second fork to JD. "Here. Now read it."

JD drew a deep breath. Taking the forks in his hands again, he gingerly opened the roll of paper and lay the forks over the edges to hold it open. He stared at the words, his brows drawn low over his eyes.

"What?" Wendy said at last. "What does it say, JD??"

"Oh! Sorry," he cleared his throat. "It's ... it's the note."

"We know that, dumb-ass," Dillon spat, "what's the note SAY?"

JD stepped back and gestured for them to read it for themselves.

They eagerly moved in, trying to hover over the page, jostling and bending low.

The room was dead silent while they read it.

The scrawling print was crude and legible, with tight, small lettering made with a pen.

I'm leaving this note to tell whoever finds it what happened in the disappearance of Officer Robin Brown. I am Darren Jenkins. I was Robin Brown's partner for 2 years before he was killed.

Robbie was a good cop. He never had anything to do with the burglaries. The primary people involved were me, Rick Stanton and Stan Migo. All of us were doing the robberies. Migo made sure the paperwork filed was destroyed. When Robbie found out what was going on, he was going to blow the whistle on the whole ring. But the brass didn't want the dirty cops to embarrass them, so they wanted to keep it under wraps. It was easy at first, but Robbie was going to do it. He was going to bust the people involved.

It's my fault he got killed. I tried to bring him in so he wouldn't get killed. I figured if he was involved he'd have to stay quiet and he'd make a few bucks. But he didn't want to get dirty. So he was going to try and catch the ones doing it. I tried to talk him out of it. He told me he wouldn't go. He promised. But he went ahead and volunteered for patrol up there that night and he caught Migo and Stanton red-handed. I was already there. It happened at the house where I've hidden this confession. I was in the basement. I had the stolen items. I've put some of them in with this note to prove what I'm writing.

Robbie was killed by Migo and Stanton. I didn't do anything to save him. I was too scared. I was scared for me and for my sister. My sister was married to Stan Migo. I didn't know what would happen if I came forward, to her or the kids, so I stayed quiet. For 20 years, I stayed quiet. I tried to get elected as mayor a few years ago to try and clean everything up, to try and clear Robbie's name. But I lost, and spent all the money from the robberies doing it. After that, I just left. I didn't know if the mob was involved or what. I didn't know how high up in the brass it went. I didn't know who was left. I was safe for a while after I came out and said Robbie did the robberies. I didn't want Bea or the kids to get hurt. I lied against my partner. He was clean.

I couldn't say anything publicly. While Bea and Migo were still married, it was harder than hell not to say something to her. But I couldn't tell her her husband was a killer. What if he did something to her? What if the mob WAS involved? I couldn't take a chance. And with the kids? There wasn't anything I could do.

I think Migo and Stanton died because Robbie's getting revenge on us. The accident that killed Stanton happened on October 29. That's the same day they killed Robbie. He was driving just fine, and then he went off the road, like he was trying to go around something. I think it was Robbie. It happened right at the quarry, where they buried his body. I drew a map. I followed them and know where they hid his body. The map shows the highway and the quarry access road. Follow the map and you'll find the body.

Migo shot himself. It was October 29 when he died too. I think he was trying to shoot someone else. I think Robbie's getting even for them killing him. And he knows I was there. I think I'm next. I can't live with this guilt. Find his body. Give him a hero's burial.

I just hope Bea will be okay. I hope there's no one else involved that will hurt her.

Robbie, I'm sorry.

Darren Jenkins.

They stood slowly away from the note.

"Wow," Wendy breathed. "We were right. We were right about it all."

"It wasn't as ... coherent as I'd hoped. Not as detailed. But, I never suspected he believed that Robin Brown's ghost was murdering the people involved."

"He was about to shoot himself, JD. I bet he didn't have a great self-image at that time, either. The guilt, the fear, feeling like a coward. He probably just wrote stuff down as it came to him. It's not a thesis, it's a suicide note."

"I ... yeah, I guess so. I don't know what I expected. A more organized, detailed account from a cop, I suppose."

"Dude ... that's super-creepy. He even whacked himself 'cause of it. He figgered he was next. Creepy."

JD nodded.

"Well ... I guess we'd better ... figure out some way of getting this to the police."

Technorati Tags: fiction

Ready to go on to Part 47 - THE END??

Writing Software Reviews

It should be noted, before I begin, that I really should be writing something.  This doesn't count, and makes me feel even more unproductive than I am in reality ... maybe.  For the purpose of this review, I'm going to give my impressions of a couple of software packages, rather than actually giving you an indepth review of the functionality of the various packages presented.  After all, you can Google as well as I can, and everyone has a different way that they work.

The second thing I should tell you is that this is a long post, so you may want to find a time and place when you're comfy and have lots of nothing to do before proceeding.

That being said, I should point out that I'm a software junkie.  I love software.  I like it most when it's free, but if it's affordable -- and I'm working -- I won't let price stop me from fully immersing myself in the software.  I like to move from one software package to another and play with each of them.  I've provided a couple of tips for folks, but haven't done this in a while.  While my previous reviews were about blogging software (like Windows Live Writer).  Today, however, I'm going to try and tackle writing-specific software.

Once again, I reiterate, I will give you my impressions of the packages and not much more.  There's a reason for that, and I'll make that clear as I review (not really reviewing) the software.

Okay, disclaimer finished.  On with what we're doing.

yWriter

One of the best writer's tools out there right now is Simon Haynes' yWriter.  Simon is a published author who's putting the final touches on his fourth book.  He's also a computer programmer, and has combined these talents into a nicely functional, very capable and extremely consumer-friendly program called yWriter, now in its fourth version.

The program is free, and can be downloaded here.  You can donate to Simon to help improve the software.  I just found it impressive that he could update yWriter and do NaNoWriMo at the same time.  Incredible job, Simon!  Bravo!

The program allows you to handle books in discreet files called projects.  Within each project, you can add things like characters, locations, items.  The manuscript is broken into chapters, and the chapters are broken further into scenes.  (I wonder if it will ever be able to have chapters fit within scenes?  I don't know if that's just wrong, but I wonder.)  It's really cool, because you can then edit the scenes and add the actual content of your book in the scene editor.  Change the font if that floats your boat.  It's very cool, and one of the best things about it is that it will not only allow you to set a word count goal, it will also give you a running total on the words in the book.  It exports in a couple of different ways, and it will take your scene descriptions and other items you've entered and export them to text files, RTF files, an outline, a synopsis, or even as NaNoWriMo obfuscated  text.

Not only does it export, but it imports too.  I was finding myself spread pretty thin between updating my blogs with the new chapters, writing them in one software, having to copy them to a standard Word processor and then feed them to Live Writer to post them.  With yWriter, I can import scenes from TXT or RTF files with ease.  All I need to do then is fill in any gaps in the portions of the file you haven't filled in yet -- like the scene description, long and short, elements and characters, etc.   Very cool.

Overall, it's a really nifty piece of work.  I don't know about version 4, but previous versions (I've tried both 2 and 3) ran portably.  That is, they could be run from a USB flash drive and taken from PC to PC.  I would, for instance, create a new project at home, do some work on it, and then at lunch at work the next day I'd edit it and make changes if I had time.  I carried the project around with me on my flash drive, so it never left anything behind on my employer's equipment.  Cool.  It's a little slow running that way, but it did work.

Simon's website is SpaceJock.com; give him a look-see.  He's got a lot of other programs you can try out too.  (I'm fond of his yBook software, which lets me look over my text documents or RTF docs in a tiny little book-like format that I can adjust and play with.  It's like an eBook reader without the cost and hassle.)

Did I mention that this is free software?  You ain't gonna get a better deal than that, friend.  Try it.  If you don't like it, you're out nothing, and it's not like we all don't experiment with stories and ideas, right?  You'll like it, I think.

PageFour

 PageFour (or is it Page Four?  I can't remember) is one of the coolest writers programs I've ever used.  It's got a lot of terrific features, and it can do things I really, really like.  It's a blend of all of my favorite elements from a lot of other software packages out there, in some ways.  I used this one a lot in constructing my online novel.  It's a nice text editor, it's got a flexible environment (you can change the colors and fonts in your editor screen and such), and it allows for a nice, clean GUI that makes writing pleasant.

Like other writers' software, you can import and export to and from the file in a pretty straight-forward manner.  It's nice not to have to copy and paste everything around from one place to another.  And you can export entire notebooks, too.  Really cool.

I didn't really understand the whole "snapshot" vs. "backup" explanation, but that's not because the developer and company aren't helpful.  It's because I'm kind of slow like that.  Basically, you can take a snapshot, which is a fall-back position you can revert to if something goes wrong, or you change your mind, or you just don't like it for some reason.  The backup just ... backs up the project file, I guess.  See the website for more information on this topic.

The system is set up in little nodes called "Notebooks".  You can have any number of notebooks (once you register the software -- i.e., pay for the license), and any number of pages within the notebook.  I used the pages as chapters and the notebook was the manuscript.  Then, you can have folders within the notebook, too.  Within those folders I stored different things about the book.  For instance, I have one called "Scraps", which is where I store everything that I wasn't too sure about or wasn't going to use.

The software can do full-text searches through an entire notebook, and gives you repetitive word view capabilities.  It also allows you to get a word count for the entire notebook, which I really liked.  It's not quite as cool as Simon's package though, for one simple reason ... it's not free.  But it is cheap, and like I said, I love it.  It was worth the money to me, and I'm a junkie.

Liquid Story Binder XE

This one's tough, and the next one is too.  Here's why:

LSBXE, by Black Obelisk Software, is a nifty, all-encompassing work environment for writers.  It's not just a program to help you write, it's a program that tries to set up an environment for you to write in.  There are so many features and aspects to it, it's almost dizzying.  There are places to create outlines, checklists, chapters, notes and more.  There are associations so that you can associate files with one another.  You can even embed mood music for the portion of the piece you're working on, and you can download or import galleries of images for use with your story, poem or whatever you're writing.

It's incredible in it's complexity.  When you start the program, the example book is available to give you some idea of how to start.  You can set the workspace up to your needs and then save it so the program will look the way you want it to when you open it.  But, it is a bit intimidating at first.  When you launch LSBXE, it's a huge, blank space.  It can be hard to figure out where to start.  And if you want to try it first, you can do anything it will do, but you can't save anything.  That was sort of a problem when trying to do this review.  I don't really know how to test a piece of software that helps you create a manuscript if you can't save it and go back to it later.

Another big advantage is that this one runs pretty smoothly and quickly from a USB Flash drive.  I like that; I like that a lot.  I can carry it with me so that even if I'm not working at my computer I can work with my project.

It also exports files as RTF files, but I wasn't clear as to whether it will unify them into a single document or if you need to do that yourself.  Since the RTF format is a universal format, it can be exported to anything from MS Word to WordPad.

It's also nearly fifty dollars, which was a strong deterrent for me.  But if you really want something that you can't outgrow, at least as a writer, you owe it to yourself to check it out and see if it's something you see a use for in your work.  The rich features will enable you to accomplish a lot in one environment, and it will also let you do "in-line" notes, which are not counted in your word count and are not printed with your file.

Pretty cool.  Check it out.

WriteItNow

This one is really neat.  WriteItNow, a terrific all-in-one package, has most if not all the things you need a piece of software to do for a writer.  It has so much to it, I can't begin to tell you how useful it is.  You can do it all: create characters, write the manuscript, generate ideas and characters, track locations and events, take notes, and track submissions!  This one's amazing -- it's another complete environment, like LSBXE, but less intimidating and more user-friendly.  The GUI isn't as smooth and polished as others, but it's efficient and very easy to use.  The command set is great, and I thought the inspiration features were really helpful.

What do I mean by inspiration features?  Well, it's got these nifty little dice keys.  That is, they look like dice.  Press them, and the program offers you some random ideas from which you can generate a character, or an idea.   While you don't necessarily want to use it as it is, you can press the die key again and generate new stuff, so you can eventually either take what it's offered you or, better, you'll be inspired at least to create an idea or character or whatever of your own.

It's got a tabbed interface, so that you can go from tab to tab building on the project.  It will export to RTF, text or HTML formats, which is sweet.  And the help with tracking your submissions means you don't have to find an external software package to do that part.

Again, the 30-day, try-it-but-you-can't-save demo version is really hard to fully test.  You need to be able to save to see the whole thing in action, and the samples provided only go so far.

I love this one, and recommend it.  It's about $30, but worth every nickel.

Well, that's a lot of reviewed software; I'll stop it here.  When I have more time and come across some other stuff, I'll let you know.  Later this week, I'll review one that will help you build your novel slowly from the ground up.

Thanks for reading, and go write something.

-JDT-

Technorati Tags: software, reviews, writing

Ghost Hunters, Pt. 45

(Just joining us? You may want to start at the beginning.)

As they came down the driveway, laughing and joking, carrying bags of drinks and snacks in their hands, they knew right away something was wrong.

They slowed down when the sensation hit them. The junk was still piled outside and didn't look disturbed. It was as if nothing was done while they were gone. Wendy's sense of concern grew stronger.

JD was sitting on the back of the antediluvian riding mower, hands on his knees, looking down. He looked exhausted or distressed, and Wendy was mildly irritated that she wasn't able to tell which from his body language. She picked up the pace then.

"JD?" she called, worry seeping into her voice. "Are you all right, love? Are you hurt?"

He turned to face her then, and she saw the scrapes and tiny nicks in the side of his face, his eyes worn and a bit frightened.

He nodded at her, trying and failing to smile. "I'm okay," he said weakly. "Just ... I'm okay."

"What happened?" She came forward to see his face more clearly. "Oh, God, JD -- what happened, baby? What happened?"

"Dude," Dillon said, looking into the cabinet. "What'd you do, go all Hulk an' stuff in here?"

"I had company while you were gone," he said flatly. "HE went all 'Hulk and stuff' in here."

"Company?" Wendy arched her eyebrows. "Like who?"

"Like the same company that I had last night. The one with the dermatological problem and a propensity for screaming in my face about this damned note."

Wendy gasped. "Oh ... oh baby! He came back? What did he want??"

"Dude, you are SO haunted. Do I need t'move outta the house an' shit? I don't want no ghosts hangin' around."

"I don't either. And I definitely think you should move out."

"Good LORD, JD, look at you!" Wendy was fussing over his face until he took both her hands between his and pulled them down gently, staring into her eyes and smiling.

"I'm okay, babe. Really."

"What ... what happened?"

"I don't really know. I was sitting out there, going through the stuff in the driveway, and the clouds were coming in. I saw a shadow and thought it was you guys coming back for some reason. When I looked up ... " he trailed off. "I was -- well, for lack of a better term, I was picked up off the ground a bit and we came flying in here. I was ... well, this is kind of embarrassing, but ... I was slammed into the cabinet until the door broke open. Some lady saw me, but she ... I think she thought I was doing something ... lewd."

Wendy's brows drew together over her eyes. "Lewd?"

"Nevermind. I ... it's hard to explain. The ghost pulled me in here, and slammed me against the cabinet until the doors came off. Then it was gone. And," he pointed to the top shelf, "there's the damned note in the pipe. FINALLY. Maybe now he'll leave me alone."

"Aw, poor baby!" Wendy said, still inspecting his face. "Oh, look at you! He really beat you up!"

"It's not that hard t'do, Wen," Dillon sneered. "So, dude, you found it! Now we can give up all this crap an' go home."

"Not quite," JD corrected. "We have to get all THAT --" he pointed to the driveway, "-- back in HERE."

"Awwww," Dillon groaned. "This BLOWS."

"Yeah? Trying being in THIS role for a while instead."

Dillon gazed at JD's red and abrased face. "Mm ... nah. I'm good."

"So -- this is it. We found it. Now what do we do with it?"

"Well," JD sighed, "when you got back I was thinking about how to get it out."

"Uh -- are you dumb or somethin', dude? You reach in with your hand --"

"DON'T TOUCH IT, DILLON!"

Dillon recoiled like a snake had struck him and stepped back. "Ooohhh-kayyyy," he said slowly, "we DON'T reach in an' grab it, I guess."

"No, we don't," JD said. "We don't want to take a chance on destroying anything in it or on it that may be evidence."

"Oh," Wendy started, "are you sure there's anything even left on it, baby? It's been 35 years."

"I know, but we still shouldn't take a chance."

"How're we going to open it, then?"

"Open it? We can't open it, Wen. That's evidence in a murder case. Opening it is for the police to do."

"JD, you must've been knocked sillier than you think, babe," Wendy giggled and brushed his cheek so lightly he got goose pimples. "If we don't open it, we have to have some explanation for how we found it and how we know what it is. We HAVE to open it."

He sighed, staring at the old coffee can and the pipe top poking out of it.

"She's right, dude," Dillon said, staring at it also. "If we don't open it, we can't get the stuff out. We don't get the stuff out, we got no reason t'go t'the cops, y'know? We got nothin'."

"I guess you're right. I thought maybe we could just mail it to the police."

"MAIL it? Aw, no WAY dude! Cops'll think you sent 'em a pipe bomb an' shit and put yo' ass away for a LONG time!"

"Yes, baby," Wendy cooed gently, "the police don't like receiving pipes in the mail. We have to get the note out."

He nodded slowly, seeing the flaw in his thinking.

"So, do I grab it or not?" Dillon asked.

"No. Not yet. We should still try to minimize how much we handle it. It could end up looking like we fabricated it if our prints are all over it."

"Dude, don'tcha think whoever put it in here from th' yard touched it an' shit? I mean, there's prints on it already."

"I know but ... maybe, just maybe, even after we salvage it they'll be able to find Jenkins' finger prints on it too. If they do that will tie him to the pipe, and give the police reason to re-open the case ... maybe."

"Yeah. An' maybe if we jus' open it an' say we found it an' stuff they'll read what's in it and do the same thing, 'cause ol' pus-mouth wrote down some shit 'bout Robbie an' them guys in his note. Y'know? If we jus' act like we didn't know what was in it, we're okay. Can't fake the note inside, right? Paper's all old an' stuff."

"That can be EASILY faked, Dillon. The ink too."

"Yes, but not the signature on the note, JD," Wendy chimed in. "And that will be proof enough. All we can do is try, but nothing is going to work unless we open it up."

"All right ... all right. Let's get one of those bags emptied out so we can put in there."

He walked to the cabinet, and looked inside again. Then he found something.

Taking the barbeque tongs, covered in rust and weathered badly, out of the cabinet, he used them to grab the pipe. A moment later, Wendy held open one of the gas station bags just below the pipe. JD dropped it in carefully.

"Hopefully it's really NOT a bomb," JD joked, and Wendy tied the bag off.

"We can open it after we get everything inside," she said, putting the bag down outside the wide barn doors. "Let's get going on that before it rains."

"Ugh," Dillon grunted. "This sucks so much donkey co--"

"That's enough, thanks," JD cut him off. "Let's just ... get to work, okay?"

Dillon nodded, and the three of them worked feverishly to put everything away. While they tried to be neat, they raced the darkening sky, and they weren't sure how much the homeowners would notice if things weren't exactly as they were. There was no apparent order to the chaos before, but they did their best to make some semblance of sense out of the clutter as they put it back inside the dark garage. JD wasn't sure what to do about the once-locked cabinet, mangled and open now. He tried to bend the catch on the doors so they'd close again, but couldn't get the doors back to their original shape. While Wendy and Dillon worked to get the dusty junk back inside, he worked to get the doors to close. Eventually, they were almost there. He tied them with an old rag from one of the boxes and hoped that would be sufficient. He'd have to buy a replacement for the homeowners before they returned.

He turned his attention to the driveway, and within half an hour of the three of them working to get it all inside, they were finished. The sky was dark and threatening, but the rain didn't start. When they were finally finished, the outbuilding looked much neater and more organized. It wasn't perfect, but it was a huge improvement. JD smiled and Wendy pecked him lightly on the lips.

"Nice job, handsome."

"You too ... uh ... gorgeous." He blushed. She hugged him.

"Yeah, yeah -- who's gonna kiss ME? Huh? Who's gonna hug ol' Dilly? Anyone?"

"I'll kiss you," JD said, puckering up and heading Dillon's way with arms outstreteched.

"Dude -- 'bout TIME," Dillon puckered and went for JD with HIS arms outstretched.

JD lost his nerve first and turned away. "Eww! NO! Quit it!"

"Ha! Knew ya didn't have it in ya."

"Do you?"

"Uh ... no. But I didn't chicken out! I win!"

"We weren't playing chicken."

"You weren't. I was."

"Guys? It's going to rain soon. Let's lock up."

The sun, somewhere behind the thick, billowy black clouds, was sinking fast. They were dusty, covered in grime and age-old filth. JD's face stung, but showed no signs of bruising. He took the keys out of his pocket.

"Before I lock up, I need the shovel," he said. He wove his way through the neater stacks of junk and easily reached the garden tools, taking the shovel and coming back out. Dillon and Wendy pushed the swing-out doors together after him when he was clear, and in a few moments JD had the lock back in place and secured.

He watched the sky carefully. "Get the pipe inside before it rains, guys," he said, holding a key out to Dillon. "I have to go fill up the holes I made in the yard yesterday. Hopefully before it rains again."

They parted company, Dillon and Wendy heading for the front door, JD going around the back of the house and up the side to the series of divots he'd turned looking for that elusive little pipe.

For a moment, he panicked. He was alone. Every time he'd been alone over the last two days, a ghost did something that either frightened him, or hurt him. He stopped, looking all around him.

The yard was empty and quiet. The entire neighborhood was deserted. He turned toward the river, watching for the tell-tale fog.

There was no sign of anything.

He raced forward as fast as he could. His eyes constantly darting around him, he replaced the divots in the plant bed as quickly and carefully as he could. The rain yesterday made them muddy and hard to turn. He scraped and patted, trying not to dig a new divot as he filled the old ones. Before long, he was finished. The yard didn't look undisturbed, but it wasn't a mess, either. He patted the freshly-filled holes again with the back of the shovel, and pressed the soft earth down with his foot. He tried to move some of the moist mulch back over the newly buried spots, and when he was satisfied he'd not left a mess for the homeowners, he listened.

He strained his ears into the yard.

The air was still and quiet. No birds singing, no cars passing ... nothing. Not even a dog barking or skittering, chattering squirrels.

He shuddered. He ran as fast as he could toward the garage, and pulled open the service access door. He danced through the aisles between the new islands of debris and put the shovel back, and did the same ballet in reverse, then stood at the door. He listened.

Silence. It was almost unnatural. It was definitely unnerving.

He made sure the padlock was ready, and pulled the door closed behind him. Securing the lock as quickly as his shaking hands would let him, he sprinted at full-tilt toward the front door, bounding up the porch stairs in two easy strides, and spun quickly to face the yard.

There was nothing but the yard. The street was empty, as it often was in the quiet little neighborhood. There was no sound. He thumped his boots on the porch to knock whatever mud remained on them off, then opened the door.

With one last furtive glance through the door, he finally closed it behind him.

He leaned against it, and exhaled long and hard, eyes shut. In a moment he was collected enough to go into the house.

It was time to open the pipe.

Technorati Tags: fiction

Ready to go on to Part 46?

This is a Traffic Whore's Nightmare

Yes, I said "traffic whore."  Don't like it?  Quit while  you're ahead.  It's not going to get anymore pleasant.

So, here I am, working my ass off on a manuscript that, if I can just blow my own horn for a moment, is pretty dang good.  I pour it out for this stupid thing, right?  And about three times a week I'm publishing the fruits of my labor online for the ungrateful and undeserving masses on the Internet 2.0 to read and enjoy.

Mind you, I get some hits.  I have three loyal readers, as far as I can tell.  On the other hand, every once in a while I get huge spikes in traffic and the numbers get all discombobulated, leading me to believe that I've suddenly been "discovered" and soon will have major publishing houses throwing offers at me left and right.  Then things settle back down and I'm back to my more normal 10-12 hits per day, tapering to a lulling 3, or sometimes just 1.  When those days come, I know that the three hits are either my wife, or the three faithful readers aforementioned.

I took the advice of a Stranger and tried not to worry too much about traffic.  I figure, the writing was for me mostly.  Blogging is a hobby for me, not an obsession, and it certainly ain't payin' the bills. So, I figured, chillax, dude.  Settle.  Don't freak about the amount of traffic you get, or you're going to go nuts.  The Internets are a crazy group of peeps, and who knows what they want?

So, I looked into SEO and what that might do to assist me with driving traffic to my site, but learned quickly that, unless you're selling something, it's not worth the amount of effort and potential cost it takes.  It's not worth the amount of junk mail I'd get as a result of registering with all the teeny-tiny little search engines that don't charge for indexing your page, either.  So ... meh.

No problem.  I just frenetically watch my numbers fluctuate from week to week and day to day, and pull my hair out wondering what the hell these people want from me.

Then I come home from work -- back in the days when I had work -- and my wife says, "I got 43 hits on my page today!"

I beamed. I was proud as a proverbial peacock with my peahen.  (I have a different word I like to use in that spot, but LOML won't let me.  She says it offends her.  Pff.)  "Wow!" I respond as a supportive husband should, "that's great, love!  Was that your football page?"

See, a while back, I posted something about football and my blog got really good traffic.  I knew I couldn't do that all the time, though, because I have a full-time job and don't like the amount of research and effort that has to go into posting a real sports-column type of piece.  So I patted myself on the back and went about my business of writing the fiction piece my wife just wouldn't let die.

Sometime after that, my wife started making football picks on her blogs.  She'd pick which team she thought would win the week's games and why, and she had a lot of fun with it.  But it didn't drive her traffic up.  Later, she decided to dedicate one of her three blogs to the football picks and leave the others for non-sports related items, like this post.

So, anyway -- back to the story.  So I asked if it was her football blog that was so busy and she excitedly ejaculated -- not in a good way, either -- "NO!  It was my Wordpress page!"

I was stunned.  We looked at her numbers ... from several different sources.  All we found was a consistently high number of hits from all the site counters she has going.  (Yeah, she's a traffic whore too.)

I was flabbergasted, and thought maybe her new bud Sherri had done something to send people her way.  Or maybe it was the aforementioned Stranger, who's done that for me more than once.  But we couldn't determine the cause.  And laughing, we figured it would probably pass.

It didn't.

She's getting about 30-40 hits per day on her blog now.  Everyday.  Even on weekends.  From all over the world.  And given that her blog profiles all profess her Christianity, she's getting hits from places in the Muslim world too (today had Jordan among its listings).  None of them are commenting on the posts, but she's got one busy little blog now for someone that says she's not trying to get traffic and doesn't have anything interesting to say.  She also is as giddy as a spoiled li'l rich bitch just getting her first Ferrari on her sweet 16 about this, and her smile is as broad as my ass.

She's saying now that the word "wallpaper" is the search term drawing people to her site.  I don't even think she's ever used the word "wallpaper" on her blog.  What the hell would she write about wallpaper?  We don't have wallpaper in our home.  We don't do a lot of searching for Windows wallpaper.  We don't create Windows wallpaper.  We don't use wallpaper in any of our posts.

So WHISKEY TANGO FOXTROT with that??

Meanwhile, I slave away, pouring heart, soul, blood, sweat, tears, spit, urine and a couple of other bodily fluids I won't mention here into the fiction work -- and it's work, bitches! -- and get my standard spikes of almost 30 hits every few days before settling back into my single-digit count again.

Wallpaper.  Fucking wallpaper.  Wallpaper wallpaper wallpaper!  I feel like Jan Brady, for God's sake.

Wallpaper.  Breasts.  Wallpaper.  Nude.   Porn.  SEX.  Hardcore.

There.  THAT oughtta get me some eff'ing hits.

-JDT-

Technorati Tags: wallpaper, pagehits, blogging

Ghost Hunters, Pt. 44

(Just joining us? You may want to start at the beginning.)

JD started for the mass of junk, a intimidating wall of littered items densely packed over the ancient concrete slab of the garage floor. He set his hands on his hips, and sighed. He had no idea where to start.

It occurred to him then that there really was no starting point. Everything had to come out until they found what they were looking for.

He grabbed a box from the top of the loosely assembled stack, and lifted it to look inside. Immediately the bottom of the box disintegrated under the weight of its contents and they scattered and rolled everywhere, into the garage to be lost among the other sundries, and outside, to scuttle away across the crumbling driveway. He tried to watch everything at once, to see if the pipe was among the falling rubbish, but couldn't keep up. He sighed heavily again.

"Dude," Dillon said heavily from behind him, "this is gonna take a while."

"Yep," he intoned, and Wendy giggled.

"It'll go faster than you think, guys. C'mon, let's get going."

She waded in as well, picking items up one by one and checking them to see if they could house anything inside. When she was convinced it couldn't, she'd set it aside on the driveway. When she checked those items that held others, she also set those aside. Bit by bit they moved down the first of the large layers in front of them, chatting to keep the time moving. It was only when they started stepping on and over things they'd removed that they paused.

"You know what?" she said, stopping and inspecting the debris around them, "this is not only going to take a long time, it's going to need some planning. Organization. We have to do better than this or we'll break our necks trying to empty the garage."

JD looked around him, his hands covered with dust from untold years of collection over everything.

"Hmm. You're right."

"So whattaya wanna do, Wen?" Dillon seemed intensely interested for someone so easily bored.

"Well," she said, looking around. "I wonder if we should take everything out and then look it over. Get everything out here in the driveway first. Check all the stuff one at a time and then figure out how we can put it back so no one gets hurt. Now OR later."

"I didn't know bein' a ghost guy meant cleanin' out garages, dudes," Dillon chuckled. "Hell, I don't even do this for my mom 'n dad."

"I didn't either," JD grumbled, staring at the palling array still in front of them. "We're not even an eighth of the way through this crap."

"Who keeps all this shit anyway? I mean, c'MON, people -- toss somethin', y'know?"

Wendy giggled again. "I know. It's not like any of this is precious or anything. Look at the shape it's in."

JD shook his head. "Well, the garage IS the storage place of last resort, usually. I guess, since they obviously don't keep their cars in it, they just dump everything they don't know what to do with out here."

"So, how about that idea, crew? We empty the garage first, and look through all the stuff after that."

"That actually doesn't sound like a bad idea," JD agreed. "Maybe Dillon and I can bring the stuff out here and you can sort through it all, Wen?"

"Dude," Dillon said, "what 'bout the stuff we can't move?"

"Like what?"

Dillon dipped his chin to gesture to the riding mower.

"Oh," JD said, realizing there were probably other things like that inside. "Uh ... well, we can worry about those things when we have everything else sorted through."

"Yeah, okay," she said, "I'll go through the stuff you bring out here. Then we can all work together when you're finished."

"IF we finish," Dillon spat. "There's only so much daylight during fall-time, y'all. And it ain't gettin' any lighter." He squinted up at the heavy, black clouds rolling in from the west.

"Good point," JD nodded at him. "We're going to have to get all this stuff inside before dark, so we'll have to work quick."

Wendy sighed. "I forgot about that. We'll have to work fast."

"Awwwww," Dillon groaned, "this SUCKS."

JD nodded. "Yes."

"Why're we doin' this again?"

"Because the ghost wants us to."

"Oh. Well, why the hell ain't HE helpin'?"

JD shrugged. "Considering all the trouble we've been through, it's the LEAST he could do."

"Complaining won't get it done, gang," Wendy reminded them gently. "Let's get what we can out and I'll start going through it."

The task actually seemed a bit easier with some sort of plan decided. They all three carried things out, as much as they could gather, and set it farther down the driveway to one side. When there was enough of a pile, Wendy began to sift through it all, checking everything. Dillon and JD continued to work inward, moving things to carry them out as bit by bit the front of the garage cleared. Wendy was working quickly, but tried to be thorough as well. She was able to keep pace with the two of them for a bit, but the items started piling up.

JD set another few things down and looked at her as she dug about in a box. "You okay, hon?" he asked.

She looked up, and blew a lock of her hair out of her eyes. That simple gesture was so incredibly sexy to him that he actually froze, eyes glossed over as he watched her. She smiled, seeming to read his mind, and traced her lips with the tip of her tongue.

"You like it dirty, lover?" she teased. He blushed. "I'm doing okay. I'm falling behind, though."

"It's okay, we can stop and let you catch up if you want."

"No, better keep going. We need the bulk of the time to go through it all and put it back. I guess it really won't matter if we're neat in putting it all away, but it'd be nice for the homeowners if we could clean things up a little."

He nodded. "If you want one of us to help you instead of unloading, just say the word."

She grimaced and shuddered, brushing away the dried carcass of a spider from a dusty, withered web. "UGH. Okay, I will. Thanks, baby."

He returned to his work. Dillon was remarkably quiet, just shuffling along with arms full of junk. They were dusty, dirty and occasionally sneezed as billowing clouds of grayish brown powder puffed from the debris as they shifted it. Fanning the air in front of their faces and blowing through tightly puckered lips to get it away from them, they both finally stepped out into the open air for a moment. Dillon froze, posing with hands held out from his body, eyes partially closed, then convulsed wildly and sneezed, all four limbs doing something different during the seizure. JD laughed, and rubbed his nostrils quickly, violently as a sudden itch attacked him.

Finally, there was nothing left but a few larger boxes against the walls, a duet of locked metal cabinets, and the riding mower, layered heavily with the dust it collected over the years and the fallout of what they'd disturbed.

"Well," JD said, "that's pretty much it. There's really not a lot else we can take out."

"Wendy came up behind him, wrapping her arms around his middle. "Good job, guys. And I've gone through a good chunk of the crap already. So far nothing, but we've only got about a third more of it to check."

"Dudes," Dillon said, making his voice that of a man dying of thirst in the desert, "need ... fluids ... too ... much ... duuuuuuuuuuuusssttt --- ack! ack!"

"Oh, stop it," JD said, rolling his eyes.

"Actually, I'm thirsty too," Wendy said, squeezing JD's waist. "Should we make a drink run?"

"Yes," Dillon croaked, "for the love of God, yes."

"Drama queen," JD teased.

"Okay, I'll go get something at a gas station or whatever. You guys want to keep working here?"

"No," Dillon shot quickly.

"Yes," JD corrected, glaring at him.

"No, I don't," Dillon adjusted.

"Why don't you come with me, then, Dilly. You want a break, sweetie? We can all go. It'll only be a minute."

"No, it's okay," he said, staring into the garage. "There's only a little left. I'll just keep working here while you go. You and wimpy there."

"All right," she said and pecked him on the lips. "Miss me while I'm gone."

"I will."

"Good boy."

Dillon made a whip-cracking sound behind them, and Wendy laughed her lilting, jovial, viral laugh that made JD lose focus. He had a silly smile on his face as the two of them walked away. In a moment, her car raced past the low, pad-locked gate across the driveway entrance and Wendy beeped the horn, waving and smiling at him. Dillon stuck his tongue out and wiggled his fingers with his thumbs in his ears.

Shaking his head and still grinning, JD turned back to the work at hand. Sighing heavily again, he looked over everything around him. The love-struck expression faded quickly from his face. In front of him, the driveway was cluttered with materials. Behind him, the nearly empty garage had only a few things to look through. It didn't matter; both would have to be addressed. He knelt down to go through the piles where Wendy left off.

He was turning things over in his hands, putting them back in the containers and checking everything when a shadow fell dimly over him in the quickly-softening light.

"You guys back already? Sheesh, THAT was quick."

There was no answer.

"Wen?" JD grabbed another box and fished through it. "Dillon?"

No answer.

He froze. He looked more carefully at the faint shadow over him.

A man.

He turned quickly. He saw the black, wet eyes set in the sunken sockets, the ashen, blue-veined skin writhing with worms and maggots, the pus-encrusted mouth and matted hair, the yellowish-green teeth and purple-black tongue ...

He opened his mouth to scream but it was far too late. The ghost seized him by the jacket at the chest and near the waist, hefting him in one swift smooth motion and pulling his face within inches of that decomposed visage, the clammy breath on his skin. He reached up to push the phantom away, but the vice-like grip held him fast.

"THE NOTE!! FIND THE NOTE!! IN THE GARAGE!!!"

JD wailed in terror, turning his face away, his body flying into the garage, the toes of his shoes dragging roughly along the pebbly, cracked concrete. He pushed with all his might uselessly against the apparition, but was propelled quickly toward the back of the garage. He saw it coming from the corner of his eye, and tried to brace, grabbing the ghostly arms with his hands and trying to break the iron grip. The ghost backed full-speed into one of the cabinets and slammed JD's body against it, the loud BANG! of the sheet metal drowning out the sound of his grunt as the sudden impact jarred him violently.

The two hands still held him, and he tried again to grab them, to break their unearthly grasp on his jacket, but it was like trying to bend solid metal rods. JD was pushed back a few inches then yanked forward hard, slamming him into the cabinet again, the door crumpling and his face spreading softly over the hard metal surface. Back again, and forward fast -- BANG! BLAM! CLANG! Again and again JD was smashed against the doors of the rattling cabinet, trying to turn his head so that his nose wouldn't be crushed, one hand on each of the specter's arms as it tossed him about like a dog with a chew toy.

He tried to put his leg up to stop himself but the force was too great and the distance too small for him to raise his knee.

BANG!
SLAM!
BLAM!
CLANG!

Each blow made him grunt in pain as the wind was pushed from his lungs.

He turned away again, tossing his head back in resistance, and saw someone at the gate of the driveway.

A woman, a dog on a leash in tow, was watching with wide eyes, hand over her mouth as if in shock.

He reached toward her, his body jactitated again and again.

"Help *ugh!* me! Please! I *hhnnh!* need *unnhh!* --"

He couldn't finish the sentence, his hand still wrapped around the wrist at his waist, the other reaching back in plea for the woman to help him. He realized in horror that his grunts sounded almost carnal, and with him convulsing spasmodically against the cabinet it must look like he was --

She turned quickly and dragged the dog away, muttering something, the last word of which he could hear: "... disgusting!"

BAM! “Ugh!”
BLAM! “Hnngh!!”
CLANG!! “Hnnfff!!”

He collapsed suddenly as the hands clutching him disappeared. He tried to catch himself as he fell back and his shoulder scraped hard against the old riding mower, knocking him onto his side as he landed.

Dazed and panting, he tried to brace and scramble away, but what he saw froze him in his tracks.

The doors to the cabinet, under the beating, had been so badly mangled the cheap catch holding them closed had bent. They’d fallen open, sagging and creaking, twisted on their hinges, contents exposed.

He took another moment to quickly look around, making sure the shade was gone. He fumbled to his feet and dusted himself off, stepping gingerly toward the cabinet.

Cans of paint, old rags, paint brushes, roller trays, insecticides and gardening chemicals, hoses and nozzles, tent spikes, an old and mangled set of barbeque utensils and other things all stared back from the shelves. On the top shelf, near the rear of the cabinet, was a rusty, corroded old metal coffee can.

From its top stuck a single, capped piece of age-yellowed PVC pipe.

The note.

Technorati Tags: fiction

Ready to go on to Part 45?