Free The Black Chronicle by Oldrich Stibor

“I know, baby. I know it is. But we can come back and see your folks. They won't be happy at first but they will get used to the idea in time and then we can visit.”
                  “Jacob. This is... just so sudden,” she repeated.
                  “Look baby, I'm leaving this place. I'm leaving tonight. And I hope more than anything else in the world that you will come with me. I love you.”
                  She bit her lip and stared up at the myriad stars, her face tight and serious as she deliberated for just a moment; it felt like hours to Jacob. 
                  “Okay,” she finally said. “Okay. I'll come with you.”
                  He scooped her up in his arms and was about to give her the biggest kiss he had ever given her but then remembered the state of his mouth.
                  “Go get your things. Pack what you can.”
                  “Okay!” she said, the excitement of the situation getting the better of her. She turned and hurried back towards the house.
                  “Hey Becky?”
                  “Yeah?”
                  “That old truck next to the barn. Your Pa don't use that all too much, right?”
     

CHAPTER 8
     
                  Last night’s reheated pasta had long since gone cold. Mary absently forked at the tendrils of her linguine searching for a cremini or, if she got really lucky, a piece of sun-dried tomato. The hunt failed and with a sigh she set her fork down, leaned back deeply on her sofa and tried to convince herself that she had the motivation to continue working.
                  Running the magazine had proven to be a non-stop job. A job which started to feel more and more like proper work. An acclimation to which she had skipped over entirely on her youth. 
                  But it was all she had now and for the most part, she was happy with her life, despite how hectic things got. Truth be told it was the only thing keeping her from feeling more alone than she already did. How had a women like her ended up so staggeringly single anyway? Did the whole ‘scream queen’ thing scare away the good ones? She thought of Ryan at home in his parent’s basement, thinking of her and thrusting furiously at his Avatar Fleshlight.
                  She picked up the stack of papers and envelopes and a query letter she’d had Erin print out because staring at a computer screen for too long gave her a headache, and began to organize them into piles.
                  Every issue featured two short stories usually from unpublished or new writers. It made her feel good to provide a little boost to amateur writers if she could and, of course, if they deserved it. Mary knew how difficult it was. She’d once said, writing was a lot like sex—everyone thinks they are good at it, but the people you share it with are usually too biased or too kind to tell if you’re awful. And while most of the stories they received made awful seem like a compliment, choosing amongst them was still one of her favourite parts of the job. She was tired, emotionally as much as physically, and felt like a good scare, so decided to tackle that job first.
    She got no farther than the first page into several of the stories before finally coming across one that held her attention. It was a very sad twelve-pager about a man who may or may not have been haunted by the ghost of his dead wife. She had died in a car accident and he wasn't sure if the tragedy had simply unhinged him psychologically or if the sightings were in fact real. But being broken and lost without her he refused to seek medical attention because it didn't matter to him if it was real or not; he just wanted to see her again. The question of the ghost’s existence was never answered and Mary found the ambiguity of the story heartbreaking and beautiful. She