Tag: haunted houses

The Nakamura Letters

Professor Emma Nakamura doesn’t believe in ghosts. So it doesn’t bother her (much) when she learns of a long-ago suicide in her remote upcountry rental house. She’s sure there’s a logical explanation for the disappearing items and the strange sounds in the night.
Fortunately (?), Emma’s best friend Molly has news shocking enough to take Emma’s mind off the hauntings. Now Emma and Molly have to rely on their strong reasoning skills and a weak internet connection to figure out how a body ended up in Molly’s backyard.

Excerpt

Emma Kano’opomaika’i Nakamura <[email protected]>
to: Molly

By the way, not like you asked for my advice, but unless you’re going for sainthood (that’s a thing Catholics do, right?) I don’t think you should have to keep teaching your classes while you’re on maternity leave. If your department doesn’t have the money to run the classes your students need, that’s the administration’s problem, not yours. If you keep doing unpaid work for them, they’ll just keep expecting it.
Of course I’m one to talk, look where I am. For sure no one’s paying me extra to spend my sabbatical up here on the set of Friday the 13th:The Wilderness Years.
I was wondering whether I should tell you this or not so here goes: Last night when it was raining I thought I heard someone crying outside.
I’m sure it was a feral cat or something, but it kind of freaked me out. Just goes to show how your mind can go all weird on you when you’re isolated.
OK, time for me to go to bed in complete darkness, and try not to think about all the people who died in this house. I’ll write again as soon as I can cause I don’t want you to go crazy bored at home and end up sticking your head in the oven. I don’t need you haunting me on top of everything else I have to deal with.
Emma Nakamura, PhD
Professor of Biology
Mahina State University
mahina.edu
—————–
A ship in port is safe, but that’s not what ships are built for.
Grace Hopper (1906-1992)

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The Black Thumb

When a violent death disrupts the monthly meeting of the Pua Kala Garden society, Professor Molly Barda has no intention of playing amateur detective. But Molly’s not just a witness–the victim is Molly’s house guest and grad-school frenemy. And Molly quickly finds to her dismay that her interest in the murder of the stylish and self-centered Melanie Polewski is more than just…academic.

Excerpt

At first, I had been glad to hear from Melanie Polewski. I hadn’t seen her since we had both graduated with our doctorates from one of the top ten literature and creative writing programs in the country. I don’t mean to brag. I’m putting it here as a warning to anyone thinking about getting a degree in literature and creative writing. My dissertation advisor had been devastated when I told him I had accepted a position in the Mahina State College of Commerce. I had pointed out the last full-time English department job I’d applied for had over a thousand applicants, and after a year of fruitless job-hunting, I needed to start earning a living wage. I was lucky to get this job, even if it was just “teaching a room full of slack-jawed baseball caps how to pad their resumes,” as my advisor put it.
Melanie had been less fortunate than I. She had floated around after graduation doing freelance editing and, rumor had it, working for one of those villainous websites with a name like wedoyourhomework-dot-com. Using me as a reference, Melanie had managed to land a one-year visiting professorship in the Mahina State English department, and was staying with me until she could find a place of her own.
“You were right,” she whispered. “This is a nice house. Hey, I could buy it, and rent it to you. And then I could stay over whenever.”
She nudged me as she stood up. “Maybe I could take care of Donnie when you’re too tired. Oh, come on, I’m just kidding. Now where did you say the bathroom was?”
I watched her stride back to the house on long, tanned legs, her tawny hair shimmering in the hot sun. This was going to be a long year, I thought.
I had little to contribute to the Garden Society’s discussion of rose-arranging, so I sat and listened, enjoying the lovely garden. We were invisible from the main road, tucked away amidst fragrant roses and well-tended palms and ground cover sprouting vivid green patches on the black lava rock.
There was no scream of anguish. The impact of soft flesh landing on the hard lava made no sound, at least nothing loud enough to be heard over the roar of the river below us. It took the assembled members of the Pua Kala Garden Society a few long seconds to register a young woman lying face-down on the lava in front of us. We sat frozen in place, staring at the earthly remains of Melanie Polewski.