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The Ghost
START
The fucking plates are floating again. My keys have been moved to god knows where. All the damn toilet paper is shredded and on the floor.
It's been two years to the day that I've been living like this. I can't take it.
Turns out, it's pretty isolating being haunted by a ghost.
People love ghost stories and horror movies and mere whiffs of paranormal activity until it’s right in front of their face. I have yet to meet anybody who wants to be around someone living with floating pillows, a radio that plays local broadcasts from 1931, and knives that chase him around the kitchen.
I can barely hold down a steady job. I’ve tried moving, six different times in fact, to different, houses, apartments, different floors, under the bridge by Fourth street, and this fucking ghost will not leave me alone. The place I currently reside is a small one room windowless apartment in the basement. It was a last ditch effort. Maybe ghosts can't go through concrete, I had naïvely thought.
Trying to adapt my life to being haunted was miserable. All these plastic plates, forks, spoons, and cups make me feel like a fucking five year old. The things that aren't plastic remain a constant hazard. I was able to mitigate some of the damage by putting cinder blocks in front of the cabinets that are close to the ground, keeping them shut so the damage the contents would cause is localized. Everything even slightly breakable had been moved to either the ground or those cabinets.
The stack of plates that were floating clattered to the ground and bounced a little.
“I wont pick up the plates you stupid fucking ghost,” I yelled into the emptiness of my concrete cage.
Then, to my dismay, all the drawers and cabinets that were not blockaded, opened in unison. One single white plastic fork jumped from the drawer it was in and fell to the floor, immediately followed by the rest of the contents of the drawer.
“I still won't pick it up,” I snapped.
The fridge door slowly started to open, dragging the cinder block along with it.
I slammed it shut, slid the block back in place, grabbed another two blocks that had been previously unused, and put them in front of the fridge.
“Have you had your fun yet?” I yelled to my tormentor.
Apparently not, because a grocery bag full of empty beer cans came flying at me and hit my right shoulder, the cans came clattering out of the bag and onto the floor.
“I hope god smites you right into the first ring of the seventh circle of hell!” I screamed with anguish.
I took a deep breath and sat on the last chair that hadn't been covered in trash with a sigh. The radio was my last hope, maybe then I could get a slight reprieve from my harassment. It crackled as I turned it on.
“Two days ago, on July 17th, there was a horrible accident on the set of Scarface injuring five-”
I picked up the radio and threw it at the wall. The power cord ripped from the outlet and the radio shattered as it hit the cold concrete. I slumped down into the dilapidated armchair. How much more can I take? I'm honestly amazed I've lasted this long.
Shreds of yellowed printer paper floated down from above me like snow. I didn't bother to brush them off.
A few minutes passed as I sat there in silence. It seemed the paranormal attack had subsided for now. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.
The silence was soon ruined by a deck of cards falling from ceiling height onto my head.
“I can't take it!” I yelled. As I stood up, paper and cards scattered over the trash covered floor. I started pacing around the piles of trash punching the air as if that would get rid of the ghost.
Tripping over a broom handle that was concealed in the garbage was the last straw. My fall was cushioned somewhat by my arms and the layer of garbage on the floor, but my rage could no longer be suppressed.
“COME OUT FROM BEHIND YOUR CURTAIN O’ WIZARD OF OZ!” I yelled, my anguished screams muffled by the trash.
Suddenly, I felt a cold gust of air rush over the back of my neck. I rolled over to face the ceiling where I saw the slowly appearing apparition of the horrible ghost. He was an old man of about seventy with a beard that reached his fat beer belly. He was stark naked and wrinkled beyond anything I could have imagined.
“After two years you finally show yourself,” I spat.
He grinned at me as I got up off the floor and out of the trash. As I was getting up, I grabbed two nearby cans and hurled them at his pale, translucent form. They passed right through him, of course. I next threw punches and kicks at him. They passed through much the same. His grin widened.
“You think you’re so fucking funny?” I yelled, trying to strangle him to no avail.
I stormed off to the kitchen, moved four cinder blocks from a cabinet rarely opened, and brought out a kitchen knife. Slashing through him proved useless as well, his disgusting wrinkled body had no weakness I could ascertain.
“Oh, you think you're invincible then?” My voice was starting to get hoarse. “Ill fucking kill you again!”
He cocked his head at me in amused confusion.
“I'll join you in your own world! Purgatory! Hell! Wherever you are!”
I gripped the knife as hard as I could and plunged it into my gut. My rage made the pain exhilarating. My blood poured onto the floor as I removed the knife, coloring my clothes dark red. I collapsed back into the trash heap. The ghost looked right back at me, his grin stretching the width of his face.
I felt cold, and a wave of shock rushed over me at the realization of what I had done. The expanding pool of blood was now seeping into the piles of take-out containers and old newspapers. My vision started to tunnel and blur, fading quickly. My last sight was the ghost, taunting me. Eyes closed, I prayed for revenge.
END