Freshly Ghost by Chuck Heintzelman - Read Online
Freshly Ghost
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Being dead was unlike anything Chance Phillips had expected. For one thing, he's forced to change his name. For another, he discovers he can move through time.

When Chance learns a friend, an alive friend, is in danger will he and his Ghost friend Jeremy be able to save her in time?

Published: Kydala Publishing, Inc. on
ISBN: 9781524288181
List price: $2.99
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Freshly Ghost - Chuck Heintzelman

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Chapter 1

Death ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.

For one thing, death’s harder. When alive you don’t have to think about what you’re doing every moment. Sure, life has struggles, and they seem so important at the time, but those struggles lose significance when you die. When dead you have to concentrate, focusing on the world around you, or you’ll drift along your life.

Death is weird that way.

My name’s Reo and I’m a baby ghost. No, I’m not an infant, crawling around with a poopy diaper, looking for my binky. I look the same as I did when alive, a seventeen year old, gangly boy. I hate to say that, but being dead gives you a better perspective and, yeah, I was a gawky, dorky looking dude. I’m a baby ghost because I’ve been dead for a short time. Three days dead to be precise.

Reo’s my ghost name. In life my name was Chance Pertwith Phillips. Yeah, Pertwith is horrible. It was Dad’s middle name, too. He said he was starting a family tradition. Guess the tradition died with me.

Don’t ask me why you get a new name when you die. Seems a bit pointless to me. I don’t have the foggiest who picks the names.

First thing I remember after dying was being in a white space. Like in the clouds. No walls, no ceiling, but there was a floor. I couldn’t distinguish anything around me. This short, heavy man with a grizzled, gray-stubbled face floated over to me. He had bare feet and wore dingy, denim overalls, with no shirt underneath and one strap undone. He reminded me of one of those black and white photos of poor kids back in the depression. You almost expected to see a wheat stalk between his teeth. Instead, he chewed on a cigar.

He stuck out his hand to me. Heya, I’m Marty. He clenched the cigar stub in his teeth as he spoke.

I stuck out my hand to shake and my hand passed right through his, our hands occupying the same space. It took a half a second for me to realized what happened and I jumped backward, falling, then scrambling back several feet. Ugghh, I said, involuntarily.

Marty bent over laughing, loud guffaws sounding like some asthmatic donkey. He stood there,