by Morgan Griffith

The temperature dropped dramatically.  Sasha spun, flashlight beam bobbing along gravestones. She froze, heart pulsing in her throat. Disembodied hands moved in the darkness.

It was the opportunity of a lifetime. One photo could make up for all the ghost hunting teams that had denied her membership. Struggling with her camera she tripped, falling headlong into a ditch. Her neck snapped. As her camera clicked off a series of images her soul rose, blue ectoplasm floating on the night air.

Awaiting fame she watched over her body until raccoons came, unravelling film and dragging it off to line their burrow.

About Russ Thompson

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