“There was once a young girl, engaged to be married. She was beautiful, with raven-black hair and ivory silky-smooth skin. Before she was engaged, she was often surrounded with men, all wanted nothing but to be given the time of day by her but after dating just five men, she settled.
The night before the wedding, she was part hiding, part isolating herself in a room of her parents’ mansions, trying on her wedding dress and preparing for her big day but somehow, she couldn’t do that for every time she tried to rehearse her vows, there would be clinging and clattering downstairs as the house maids was getting ready for another party. ‘That is it!’ She shrieked, had enough of the noise, and marched to the door.
Just as she reached for the door handle, one of her ex-boyfriend barged into the room, pointing a pistol at her head. Her hands raised. She could smell the alcohol on him. He’s drunk. ‘Give me one more chance.’ He said.
‘I’m s-sorry. I’m getting marry.’ He hated those that word, marry. She swallowed hard as his hand trembled. ‘Please,’ she begged, ‘don’t shoot.’ Still he shot her and to this day, house maids still say that when they visit her room, they can feel her presence and that they would hear her sob, ‘I had been waiting to hear those words my entire life, I do, but let’s face it, I will never hear it.'”
“That’s it?” Colby asks, slightly disappointed. “That’s the lamest ghost story I have ever heard.”
“So now you can go to bed?” Kelsey asks.
“Not a chance, one more!” The twin, Cody, says. Kelsey leans against the wall. She now has a headache. How will she get these boys to bed?
This is a response for Roger Shipp’s new flash fiction challenge, Flash Fiction For the Purposeful Practitioner. We are given the beginning of the sentence and we are to finish the story.