Ghost Tales: So now I’M the asshole? Pt 1
I remember once, fresh faced and in college, I was fairly dejected at being unable to find a specific source to cite. This involving my favorite quote, for a final paper, about the paranormal.
“During the day, I do not believe in ghosts. At night…well, I’m a little more open-minded.”
The professor let me use the quote, anyway, because he had a happy hour to make with the blonde co-ed he was [tutoring].
If you could see me, currently, you would witness my aggressive use of air-quotes.
I was fascinated with death since the day Timmy, my dachshund, left us for the amazing, butt-sniffing orgy in the sky.
I was nine and unfortunately, my dad was the type that insisted I clean my own messes. This included a fourteen pound dachshund, a shovel, a trash bag, and an offering, to Charon, to pay my best friend’s fare to the afterlife.
My dad was livid when he found out Timmy had two, 1834 Proof Capped Bust Quarters, to pay his way into heaven. He was an avid, coin collector and recently bought the two in the various auctions he frequented.
Being the loyal friend I was, I never let dad know where Timmy was buried. Timmy was in VIP, with whatever dog Jesus had growing up, as far as I was concerned at that age.
Mother was far too inebriated, as usual, to get involved in our squabbles.
Dry your tears for my father’s wallet, good madams and sirs.
My wonderful dad, being a gentleman of genuine magnanimity, claimed the loss of coin as theft and made substantially more back than he invested.
He enjoyed quite the [business] trip with his secretary on a secluded island further tucked away in a three-person bungalow. I guess the butler/chef was discussing investments as his mistress…AHEM, I mean SECRETARY, took detailed notes in business, write-off-appropriate lingerie.
Even my stocking was made of coal that Christmas.
I guess I wasn’t considered an [equitable partner] for my side of that transaction with the insurance payout? Maybe the vacation stretched him a bit thin? That and he DID buy his secretary a new Mercedes.
Middle finger raised, on the way out of my father’s 800k ranch home, I ran off to college. Even before I finished my first degree, I joined several paranormal groups and bankrolled many of them with allowance given to me by my loving dad.
He really loved the photos I sent of him, via e-mail, with his secretary doing yoga, nude, on top of him EQUALLY nude.
I believe the position is called, reverse cowgirl.
I wonder if she put that on her listed set of skills when she first applied?
He seemed to get my point when I asked if I should CC the high-definition shots to my mother’s, lawyer brother.
Went the whole nine with full-spectrum cameras, FLIR cams, laser grids, EMF detectors, [spirit] boxes, and so on due to the generous wire transfers from my loving father.
Thanks dad.
Many of the groups were fatuous at best, though.
Just inebriated [BRO!] types or women all convinced they were [Gifted] in some, inconsistent way.
In the end, I became a solo hunter of ghouls who seemingly enjoyed knocking little trinkets to the ground. The occasional picture frame adjustment that failed, obviously due to not having a ghostly-leveler.
I even pondered if every ghost gains a feline gene, upon death, and has declared war on anything that is not stable enough to withstand the power proportional to a drained, AA battery.
If it isn’t obvious, I’m being VERY sarcastic right now.
Yes. I was pretty, damn bitter that I squandered over forty-thousand dollars in search for life after death…and end up finding a pair of scissors was all that was needed to disprove many of the [hauntings]. Anything else was clever editing and equally clever engineering.
Of course that all changed…when I died.
The irony is not lost on me that I died tripping over a cat.
Calico cat, if you must know. Not the black cat, as one would assume, that would be linked to tragic luck.
I was in a supposedly haunted castle, for an investigation, in Newport, Rhode Island.
The unfortunate thing about castles are their stone steps.
“SO MANY GODDAMN STEPS!” I gasped out after the strenuous climb involving 30 lbs of equipment.
Seemingly, there was a bit of luck at play. I died before I hit the half way point.
I was privy to that fact, due to watching my body as it tumbled to the bottom of the stairs…and made a bloody, spectacular splat.
I was obviously just a fleshy, blood balloon that happened to be sentient enough to have a terrible childhood.
Funny enough, I grieved in probably the most bizarre order imaginable.
First I laughed!
How could I NOT. There IS life after death! I laughed as I rushed down the stairs.
Well, I think I rushed. Time is not a construct that binds me as it once did.
Then was the frustration that I couldn’t document this. I tried time and again to lift equipment. Even power one device. I couldn’t even lift a damn pencil to use against paper to tell the world:
“HEY. I’M A GHOST.
WE EXIST! I WANT A NOBEL, POSTHUMOUSLY, DAMN IT!”
Then the pathetic, river of tears.
OH YES. Ghosts do indeed cry and it’s DISGUSTING.
Mucus is replaced by what I am assuming is ectoplasm. I covered every inch of that castle with ectoplasm. I made sure to cover that damned Calico, Biff Tanner, with layer after layer of glowing mucus.
He was about as amused as you would assume a cat would be with such a tragic name.
If there was a ghostly version of a black light, the castle would be visible from the moon. Much like a Motel 6 in the living realm.
My body and gear vanish in that time stretch of self-pity. Well, I’m assuming quite a bit of time passed in the living world.
Acceptance. I cried out everything…and I was PISSED.
I was pissed someone now has ten thousand dollars worth of free gear I slaved over via blackmail.
Pissed that I never was able to show the world the truth in a scientific capacity.
Not using idiot psychics and half-assed parapsychologists.
I had a REAL electrical engineering degree and finished my doctoral in physics! Minor in psychology.
Not to brag.
To keep up my ability to investigate, how many research jobs did I pass up?
Dozens? Tens of dozens? I could have had a cushy job at Yale, gaining tenure, while doing boring lectures for that DEEP retirement involving a remote island connected to whatever quantum internet we have in the future, somehow.
Didn’t take long to turn that anger into mechanical energy.
My rage became inertia for launching a few spoons and the occasional cup. I ignored the irony of doing what I once mocked no REAL ghost would do.
Biff seemed to emulate my feelings, sometimes beating me to the punch if an object was near the edge of a coffee table or counter.
“I respect this three-colored, meowing bastard.” I said after a few, coordinated attacks.
He wanted me to strive for BETTER.
Not go after the easy targets. I forgave him for my loss of vitality and soon had a partner involving nefarious activities.
I quickly graduated to levitating small objects, with Biff’s encouragement, and making creepy dolls blink and do the floss.
That castle had the goods I needed to vent towards any unlucky visitor to come our way.
The previous owners moved out and left the cat, with OUR encouragement via the art of creepy, shower-condensation calligraphy upon the bathroom mirror.
“What beautiful handwriting!” Mrs. Schulz shouted, before following on the heels of her husband, out of the castle upon reading, “Hey. Leave now; Biff and I will end you.”
Indeed, the seemingly passionate 70-somethings were in the shower together, if you really must know.
Both nude upon escaping, too.
Honestly, those images haunt me more than seeing my own death roll.
How can the human body be 80 percent grey and white fur?
After figuring out how to drain and manipulate electronics, I soon was able to witness my handy work on travel shows.
ICK. Reality tv plus terrible editing made my masterpieces, of haunting, look so…FAKE.
I knew it was the work of over-zealous producers that STILL thought my haunting was amateurish.
GREEDY ASS-HATS, ALL OF THEM.
Lame teams came and went. New owners settled in specifically for the haunting activity. I’m sure they made a healthy profit from their increased specials on the Travel Channel.
I was owed a cut, but pretty sure my father cleared out my bank accounts and closed them. Gotta love decedent, bank policies. Yay.
Am I considered a ghost hippie now or is that called being a hipster? Holistic guru? I can’t keep up with all these social trends and titles.
I realized I had to step it up to get some quality scientists to visit the castle.
My rage became hope…I will be the bridge to connect the living and the dead!
Biff would accompany me as I mastered my art as a [noisy ghost]. Sometimes I would move cat toys, at the joy of my furry friend.
At some point, he began bringing me tributes of dead mice, rats, and birds.
Did I somehow graduate to some sort of pack leader? I know nothing of cats, but they seem to be far more reasonable that I ever imagined when I was alive.
The tv made it easier to keep up with time as well as kept me more entangled with it.
Within two weeks, an interesting group finally arrived!
Biff and I watched through the large windows, from one of the upper floors. We just finished a rousing game of tag involving a levitating laser-pointer.
My eyes must have been the size of dinner plates after the first batch of equipment was unloaded.
“MYLANTA!”
They had EVERYTHING.
Even a state of the art REM-pods and AI-enhanced Kinect SLS cameras!
“If I was still a human, I would be very aroused right now.”
The six [man] crew started to unload from two, black vans.
Felt very FBI-like, like this was going to investigation into my death, not my undeath. There were even two, burly men with matching beards. Reddish…remind me of FBI Vikings that were cloned? I was partially expecting the duo to be packing a pistol AND broad sword.
“FOR VALHALLA!”, I quipped at the amusement of Biff.
There were three women and one man that watched as the big guys did all of the heavy lifting.
The third man reminded me of a lawyer.
Odds are he was involved with legal or production, possibly a producer.
Slick back hair and iPods clogging up his ears as he yelled at a snoopy-shaped cloud above.
Never understood how people didn’t know stupid, Bluetooth arguments look…well stupid.
One woman looked to be the person that held the group together, like estrogen-enriched glue.
Even as a spirit, I feel a bit drawn to her demeanor and looks.
Beautiful black hair and her eyebrows were [on fleek.] I believe that was what young co-ed would say about another woman’s eyebrows before one night before the old man [tutored] her.
Her lips had a faint trace of lipstick, obviously too busy to reapply.
Her somewhat tan skin was perfect for her features, including the eyes that could cause men and women alike…to BEG to be dictated commands.
She looked possibly Persian? Indian or Pakistani descent?
She dressed fashionably, but also comfortable.
It fit her so perfectly that the definition of [powerful yet simple beauty] would be a photo of her driver’s license.
It felt as if the aura of a capable, born-leader permeated her very bones and muscle tissue.
Possibly soul?
Charismatic and quick to guide the others to their duties.
Respect was a default for the group when talking to her, even the producer.
“Seems like they would be in deep doo-doo with out that one around…” I mused, aloud.
Second woman. She…well she looks like a classic ditz.
As if she were made from the STERIOTYPICAL, 70’s blond trope mold. Then airbrushed with an unnatural tan.
Can a person be photoshopped real-time?
Is that even possible in these times?
With blonds like Amanda Seyfried, Mira Sorvino, Amy Poeler, and Lisa Kudro?
Don’t get me started on CEOs, scientists, and astronauts that would probably dry heave at the stereotype-in-motion.
She constantly looks at a piece of paper and regurgitates what is written. Tripping over the more complex, parapsychology buzz words.
Did the producer really bring in eye candy specifically for more views?
Is she a celebrity or something?
“The guy in the suit now pisses me off”, I growl.
Why not bring in an expert to do so?
Even a neuroscientist like Mayim Bialik would be an asset and still be attractive enough for shallow viewers!
Hell, there are SO many people in that field that would probably have aspirations to get exposure for future grants.
No offense to the blonde woman.
She seems to not have a terrible personality, but sticks out like a sore thumb amongst all the professionals she is surrounded by.
Even the two FBI Vikings seem capable when it comes to the gear transportation and assembly.
“Like a male, speedo model pretending to be a gynecologist…” I say with a sigh.
As I stewed, I finally rest my attention on the last one…an older woman. Wearing a simple outfit, but obviously has expensive jewelry on.
…She was looking right at me. Even Biff turned to look at me as if saying “Whoa dude, she sees you!”
“Yeah, no kidding Biff.” I say with a bit of apprehension.
I quickly flee.
Been awhile since I’ve been flustered. I am definitely not used to being seen. Also she didn’t even bat an eyelash…is she a true psychic??
Psychics are as fake as unicorns and political centrists.
Rhinos are exempt from this critique, of course.
At best her eyes can see into spectrums most others are unable to see. Like Canines and Felines. It’s not magic. I’m not magic. I saw no white light nor have I had a run in with the angel of death.
“Science will prevail! I will show you, my new nemesis!”
I start to laugh, admittedly, in a very creepy way. My voice traveled through the ancient castle.
The temperature dipping, causing the two men carrying gear to shiver.
Unbeknownst to me…the psychic lady was smiling back, from the doorway, as if able to hear my nefarious cackling.
Stay tuned for part 2!
