I love, love, love the word phantom. I love it so much that I’ve included it in every story I’ve written in the past twenty years, and I will continue to include it in all future works.
Here’s an example of where I included ‘phantom’ in my western romance, The Comanchero’s Bride.
Isabel! Isabel! No! It cannot be!
The sheer force, the anguished desperation in the phantom words, pinned her to the back of the pew. Her heart pounded. Shivers coursed along her arms, down her back. There was no mistaking Mingo’s voice. Why didn’t he show himself? Leaping to her feet, she gripped the pew in front of her as she scanned the church for a tangible sign of him, anything to give substance to the disembodied voice. In her mind, she called to him.
I’m here, Mingo. Where are you? Come to me! From the depths of her soul, she poured out her love, her longing to be with him. A cool breath of air stirred, and she felt him at her side, his fingers lightly brushing her cheek. She lifted her hand to grasp his ethereal caress. But with another shimmer, he was gone. All that remained was a heavy melancholy weight hanging like death upon her heart.
What I really love about the word phantom, though, is the 2004 movie, The Phantom of the Opera.
Until next time,
writing through history one romance upon a time