Haunting Melody

Haunting Melody
by Flo Fitzpatrick

****

Published by Flo Fitzpatrick

Copyright © 2011 Flo Fitzpatrick

Smashwords Edition

Cover Design Copyright © 2011 Kim Van
Meter

Stock images from Dreamstime and fotolia.

All rights reserved. No part of this may be
used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission
except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical
articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places and incidents are either products of the
author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can
be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Flo
Fitzpatrick.

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Official website:
www.flofitzpatrick.com

****

“Hey! Wake up! We’ve got a ghost!”

A muffled snort was the response from my
sleeping companion. I shoved the pile of costume sketches off
Lucy’s head. She was drooling. She was also snoring. Put them
together and they spell ‘snooling.’ Not an attractive combination
and my pillow was now wet with dog slobber as well as tiny black
hairs.

I poked her. “You sorry mutt. You should be
whinin’, wailin’, and howlin’. Aren’t canines supposed to be
sensitive to spooks? What’s your problem?” I nudged the dog again.
“Lucy! Get the ghost, baby girl!”

Lucy yawned, flopped onto her back, batted
the air with her front paws and remained serenely unimpressed.

“Sheesh. Fine ghost hunter you turned out to
be. You’re fired.”

When the click sounded again, I stayed under
the covers. Why bother to get up? No one would be at that door. No
one was ever at that door. Nightly, for the three weeks since I
moved in, I’d been hearing someone locking and relocking the front
door. Nightly, for three weeks, I'd checked. No one was there. I
tried tiptoeing to the door, then flinging it open. No one. I
peered through the peephole ‘til my eyes hurt. No one.

I spent another three minutes under the quilt
listening to clicks, then threw off the cover and slid out of bed,
grabbing a sweatshirt to ward off the strange chill glazing the
night.

Lucy woofed, oozed to the floor, then padded
behind me as we crept down the hallway. A brave unit of two, we
gingerly peeked around the art deco screen that hid my office from
the den. Daily, I turned off that stupid desk lamp. Nightly,
someone or some thing turned it on. Last night, in desperation, I’d
yanked the plug from the socket.

The light blazed in cheerful defiance.

I exhaled. “Lights do not turn themselves on
automatically. There’s gotta be a scientific explanation.
Electrical whatzits. Energy surge whozits. Wait. I’ve got it! Con
Ed malfeasance. They cause black-outs; why not light-ins?”

The bathroom light was also burning,
admittedly through no fault of any outside entity. Sheer
forgetfulness on my part. I glimpsed my reflection under the raw
fluorescent bulbs, and immeditately wished I hadn’t. Bloodshot
eyes. Dark circles under the eyes. Adding a touch of drama was a
white streak slashing through my bushy red hair. On closer
inspection that turned out to be a toothpaste stain stuck to the
mirror. But still . . .

“Ouch. Not a pretty sight. I’m probably
scarin’ the ghost. What happened to the tall foxy chick who arrived
in New York four years ago rarin’ to tear up the town?”

Lucy’s tail swished enthusiastically in wild
circles, tapping against the bathroom door. I nodded. “Yep. You got
it. She’s gone. Poof.”

I tiptoed towards the front door, shuddering,
partly from cold and partly from fear, then peeked through the
keyhole. To no one’s surprise (particularly mine) there was nobody
there. Nothing. Nada. Zippo.

I sighed. “Mel Flynn. Do not make yourself
nuts. Just ‘cause there’s an extra entity in the apartment doesn’t
mean you’ve gone one seam short of a hemline. Ghosts live in every
old New York apartments. I’ll bet spirit soldiers from the
Revolutionary War are playin’ poker on a nightly basis in every
brownstone in Greenwich Village. Beatin’ the Redcoats with every
hand.”

I felt a draft. I could have sworn I shut the
windows earlier. Apparently I’d missed one.

I hurried to the window and started to slam
it shut, but instead leaned over the sill and inhaled the night
air. And the rain. There’d been three weeks of cold, gray rain - in
New York City in early June. Weird. The torrent had started the
same time the locks started turning and the lights started turning
on, which was the second night after I'd moved in. What was next?
Chains rattling? Shadows shrieking?

A clap of thunder shook the window. I backed
away but tripped over one of Lucy’s chew toys. I picked up the
rubber barbell then gave it to my begging dog.

“Luce, this whole ghost sightin’ thingee is
most likely latent insanity in the family. Hits all female Flynns
at age twenty- six. A sure sign of incipient lunacy. Or is that
insipid?”

I was saved from spouting forth further
incipient, insipid ramblings by sounds of cursing coming from the
street below. Lucy’s ears perked up. I stuck my head outside again,
shrugging off a possible lightning strike.

Two boys who looked like they were about
eleven were trying to break into a new Honda with a crowbar. I was
tempted to run downstairs and demonstrate my skills in breaking and
entering, courtesy of my best friend Savanna’s five older brothers,
but the car’s siren began emitting an ear-splitting scream. The
kids took off, shattering existing sprint records.

Three men in black leather came into view.
They were linked arm in arm, expertly skating down the street on
rollerblades. The man in the middle held an oversized red umbrella
high against the rain.

A late night jogger trotted by at a brisk
pace, his baseball cap flashing a rusty orange under the street
lamp. A soggy golden retriever, identical in color to the cap,
galloped happily at the runner’s heels, reveling in the freedom of
splashing through puddles. They seemed familiar. Maybe from
Washington Square Park where Lucy and I had started running?

A sharp whistle sounded, then a male voice
shouted, “Dee Gee. Come!” The dog stopped his less-than-graceful
choreographed version of “Singing in the Rain” and obediently
trotted towards his master. The pair disappeared around the corner.
I continued to gaze out at the dark, rain-slick streets, now empty
of activity, until a spate of cold water doused me full across my
chest. I slammed the window shut.

Lucy yawned. I yawned. She had the right
idea. Sleep.

After exchanging the soggy sweats for dry, I
plopped back on the bed. Lucy joined me. I patted her soft furry
head and stared at my ceiling.

I loved my new apartment. The décor was all
mine, even if much of it smacked of that period called Early Great
Aunt. Matisse and Erte prints hung securely above my new drafting
table. Renaissance colors of ruby and jade complemented the
antiques graciously donated by my personal Early Great Aunt, Teresa
Flynn, painter and collector of fine objects d’art. The den held
the Baby Grand (another Aunt Teresa donation) that solidly occupied
an entire corner. Huge windows in every room. Wood floors. The park
four blocks away. Not terribly far from my day job, which was
designing sewing patterns, but also right in the center of a lot of
Village theatres and clubs. Chinese take-out three doors down.

There had not been a ghost clause included in
the lease.

I tucked the soft comforter close around me.
Lucy snuggled by my side.

The rain buffeted the air-conditioner.
Suddenly, I could hear a voice along with the sounds of water
tapping. A voice that cried in the night: "Briley. I’m here! Come
quickly!"

“Wake up! Hey, Mel! Wake up.”

“Savanna?”

“Yep. Girl, were you really asleep?”

I shifted the phone from right hand to left
and glanced at the digital clock. “Duh. Yes, Sarah Leah, I was.
You’re supposed to be busy choreographing your show, not waking me
up in the middle of the damn night. It’s - oh sweet saffron, it’s
two! Are you nuts or merely doin’ your best to annoy the hell out
of me?”

“Sorry,” was the far too cheery response.
“I’m hyped. I’m outside that new club on Delancey. Great band and
serious hunks everywhere. Last Midnight. That’s the name of the
club, but come to think of it, it's also when I got here. And quit
callin’ me Sarah Leah. I’m not a flippin’ cupcake.”

“Fine. Savanna. Don’t call me after hours and
I’ll keep your real name secret. Like either or us has met anyone
in New York who'd really care? So. Is there a real reason you
called?”

“Mel. You sound testy. Too much time spent
indoors. Not to mention you’re in serious need of male
companionship. You should be out partyin’ with me. Hell, when’s the
last time you were even near a man?”

“Listen, you sex-crazed wench - I saw at
least five just last night. Or an hour ago. Whichever came
first.”

I told Savanna about the inept pre-pubescent
car thieves, the leather-clad skaters, and the jogger with the wet
dog.

She howled. “Melody! Mel. What is wrong with
you? None of the above qualifies. I mean, really! Eleven-year-old
boys are not even right for eleven-year-old girls. And three guys
in leather together in Greenwich Village? Give me a break. Now the
jogger’s a possible, but be wary of guys so intent on being buff
they slog through rain after midnight.”

“Savanna? Focus! You called me? Why?” I
yelled.

“Chill. I just get pissed that you’re
frettin’ over that bozo who dumped you last summer and that’s why
you won’t put on your dancing shoes and join me and let gorgeous
men drink champagne from your shoes and tell you how much they
adore red-haired chicks who can stitch like Betsy Ross and tango
like an Argentine pro.”

I growled, “Savanna! I am not cryin’ about
that idiot. Swear. I just moved into a new apartment, remember? I
am trying to get settled while also creatin’ gorgeous little
costumes for your -may I repeat - your - show. Now. You almost got
back on track for two seconds. Would you like to lead the train
into the station and explain why you’re buggin’ me at this hour?
Please?”

“Gripe. Gripe. Okay. Here ‘tis. We’re stalled
on Frolic for about a month. So, my procrastinating buddy, you’ve
got a reprieve on finishing the sketches.” She paused. “How they
comin’, anywho?”

Sarah Leah Epstein, aka Savanna, who’s been
my best friend since we fought for space at the barré in her
family’s dance academy, is choreographing Frolic. At twenty-eight,
she’s two years older than I, working on her Masters in Fine Arts
in Dance at New York University and driving me loony trying to put
together a Way, Way, Faraway Off-Off-Broadway show. And while,
yeah, she’s a serious party girl, she’s also a phenomenal
choreographer. I didn’t want her worrying about costumes since
she’d been fantastic to get me this gig. Who wants a nobody
sketching designs for a show? Even if it’s Way-Way-Faraway-Off
-Whatever.

Savanna didn’t need to hear that I was in the
middle of an occult crisis that was slowly destroying my creative
processes and sleep cycle. If I told her I had a ghost she’d be so
thrilled she’d haul over here leading the band from Last Midnight
to conduct all-night séances.

I shuddered. Then I lied. “Goin’ beautifully.
Although I am havin' a problem or two with the fairies. I’ve tried
pastels. I’ve tried sheers and lace robes. How does naked grab
you?”

Another snort. “Have you seen the fairies?
Not exactly a chorus line of beauties. We’re talkin’ 5’2” and 180.
Sumo wrestlers are prettier. Where were Jason’s brains - or eyes -
when he cast ’em?”

“Good point. I will clothe the ladies in
splendor. Or tents. Eventually. Actually, fairies are first up on
the program for tomorrow’s designs. Assuming someone -who shall
remain nameless - lets me get some sleep.”

“Damn, but you’re cranky. Guess there’s no
point in trying to coax you into joining me at Last Midnight for
some serious hound-doggin’?”

“Savanna. I’m hangin’ up now. Call me past
midnight again and you die. Got it? Bye.”

“Bye, Mel. Brunch Sunday?”

“Yep.”

I replaced the receiver.

Visions of fairies, thankfully clad, began
dancing through my head. I could hear strains of music as the
sprites cavorted in my dreams.