Haunter: Ghost-for-Hire (Chapter 02)

Read Chapter One Here

Chapter Two

There you have it, life of a Ghost-for-Hire. I’m Haunter, deader than a coffin nail or however that old saying goes. Now, I’m sure, dear reader, you’re dying to hear about the ins-and-outs of the afterlife and learn what it’s like after you close your mortal eyes for good. I mean, it’s the speculation of the millennium that philosophers and scholars, poets and writers, theologists and gurus have spent countless hours stewing over, so I’m going to share with you my afterlife story for the hell of it.

Though, there’s a few things you need to know, and we’ll start with the first rule of the afterlife: You never, and I repeat, never! ask a ghost about their mortal life or how they died. Of course, if they willingly divulge that info, that’s another thing entirely. While someone might have a glamorous tale of bleeding out saving eighty of his fallen comrades there might be another who passed on by, I don’t know, cracking their head against the counter when slipping on spilt beer. Some are proud of the way they went out, but for most it was painful or embarrassing. So again, do not ask!

That’s why I’m starting you with the Murdered Maiden of Shilbert Lane. She’s one who wanted to get rid of Mr. Clive and prevent his greedy fingers from capitalizing off the property in which she was murdered. She divulged some of the details, but not all. Again, tender spot. That’s why it’s a general taboo among the dead.

Second rule: well, there’s too many. To prevent this story from turning into a dusty handbook of the afterlife and keep it to the dark, gritty horror it’s intended, we’re going to carry on and I’m sure you’ll pick it up along the way.

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After the successful haunt with the Murdered Maiden of Shilbert Lane, I retired to the normal Ghost-for-Hire hang out. There's a nice little city down in Mississippi called Mirian City. It’s one of those towns that comes alive during oil drilling booms then pitters out to its sad factory and agricultural efforts when international import giants squash them. So, you get varied residents in the area. In the crummy part of Mirian near the factories and oil refinery plants is a grimy bar called Greg’s Pub. It’s not a pub, it’s a bar. It’s the sort of place meth-heads and drunks gather and soak in their sorrows, which is also the perfect place for ghosts to congregate. The place is dimly lit even in the summer muggy noontime hours. The neon lights of beer brands flicker at best and the grimy bar is at most washed over with a soddy towel.

Greg himself is actually dead, but his son or cousin or other relative took over and kept the thing running to more or less the same quality as he had. Greg hangs around on occasion and if you ever wonder why the kitchen feels a little chilly, it’s usually his brooding remorse on the things he never accomplished.

That’s at least my speculation. Never asked and never will.

In the room with the splintered pool tables, lopsided dart boards, and the split leather seating, there’s a corner booth always left unoccupied. It holds an unsettling air of malice. Any who sit there feels disdain for the mortal flesh. It goes unsaid, but even the burliest brutes of planet Earth leave it vacant.

And for good reason. On the usual weekday evening I sit here half dozing, half ruminating about the Murdered Maiden of Shilbert Lane. I found her thumb bone in the stairs. I wonder if any living person would ever care to unearth the mystery behind her murder, if the husband ever got arrested or discovered for his treachery. But like many murders in the past, many went unsolved.

“Sulking in your incompetence, Haunter?”

I’m pulled from my contemplation to find another Ghost-for-Hire has joined me at the Reverie Booth. That’s what I call it, as of now. She isn’t a ghost I like to encounter. She’s a tall woman with scarlet lips, nails, and highlights through her black hair. She has that perfect voluptuous body spoiled by her haughty attitude and the fact that she holds more successful haunts than I. Think succubus but modern and eviler. In competition for being the best Ghost-for-Hire there are three Lords of the Haunts: me, Spider, and…

“He’s probably just brain dead, Spider, I don’t think there’s much going on in that soul of his,” says a slightly shriller voice that runs your nerves through a mulcher. Screamer. She’s black, shorter, and even in death keeps her hair wiry and oily, similar to the girl in the well from that one Japanese horror film.

“I’m relaxing after a brief but highly successful haunt for the Murdered Maiden of Shilbert Lane,” I say. “Didn’t even call an exorcist. They just high-tailed and gunned it outta there.”

Spider raises an eyebrow. “Bloodshed?”

“Cut feet on broken glass.”

Spider scoffs, flicking back a glossy strand. “Soft as always.”

“Not all Spooks need to bleed their victims to elicit fear. It’s like puns, easy form of humor to resort to,” I say with a lazy shrug.

“And yet, takes the most delicacy to perform,” Spider says.

“He just can’t take the sight of blood. Gutless Spook, eh, Haunter?” Screamer chimes in.

“In one sense. I am without a body after all.”

“That may be all fun and games, but I haunted for that old sob story a few decades back. She’ll never learn to take care of it herself, so you may as well cut the gloat,” Spider taps her scarlet nails against the table and surveys the dingy bar. Late-afternoon and the only occupants are a few workers in the back restocking supply and a hefty trucker at the bar. “Your efforts aren’t going to last.”

“Well aware.”

“You probably guaranteed her at least two decades?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Ol’ Grounder had to rehaunt one of the bayou shacks. Second time in five years. Some ferry proprietors tried to restore it or something of the likes. Can’t remember what he said.”

“Ol’ Grounder needs to rehaunt everything. His problem is after-presence.”

“So is yours, Haunter. Blood stains are a helpful after-presence.”

I shrug, but we all know that isn’t entirely the true problem. Truth is, people are becoming, as upstairs calls it, “secular,” and with secularism, atheism, agnosticism, we all encounter the same issue: a general degradation of good ol’ superstition. However, there is a nice lack of exorcisms, the whole priests waving incense and chanting uselessly, so that’s nice. We still get other lame attempts. A few years ago I haunted a hippie couple out of a house south of here. They attempted a seance to reconcile my (or rather, the Butchered Hapless One’s) afterlife woes. I had fun with that.

“She’ll need another Spook. I’d give it two maybe three years before some other idiot soul decides to buy it. Who was it this time?”

“Some guy, big as a couch.”

Spider shivers and mimics a gag. “Screamer and I just got back from Virginia, we talked with a Spook over there who’s thinking about jumping the pond. We might see what we can do in Europe. Lots of castle ruins, old inns, and forests.”

I stick my tongue out in disgust. “I’m okay hanging around locally.”

“Figured. Typical complacent man syndrome. But I guess that’s why you’re here first, sulking and probably hoping to be the one to skin-slip today, eh?”

“Nah, I’m passing the time. Here to grace people with my presence. I’ll pass on the skin-slipping for now,” I say, emphasizing my defiance by leaning back and resting my head in my hands.

Spider narrows her eyes. Screamer, however, keeps at it. As always, she can’t read the air. “If anyone deserves the skin-slip tonight it’s gonna be someone who actually does legit haunting. You should’ve been there. I lifted a guy in the air, bent his leg like a chicken’s.”

“How is that bleeding?”

“Compound fracture,” she says, eye’s cold behind the wiry hair. A thirsty sneer spread across her face.

You have to hand it to her, she can give even a ghost the creeps.

“Dead?”

“Nah, I kept the artery intact, but his girlfriend didn’t have the stomach for it.”

Spider and Screamer chuckle.

“Come to think of it,” Spider says, “You finished a haunt just two weeks ago over in that office space, yeah? The one near Jackson?”

“Ah, heard of that one, eh? Who knew a copy machine could be an effective tool.”

“You didn’t shed blood then, either.”

I shrug and glance up placidly at the ceiling.

“No blood on Shilbert Lane. Won’t skin-slip? A copy machine when you had miles of outdated electrical and exposed wiring. You have an angel appointment, don’t you? Admit it.” Spider leans forward, her piercing glare staring (kinda literally) through me. “You're on your best behavior. Sucking up to them?”

I raise an eyebrow. I almost lie, but it’s true.

“You would too if you had my angel.”

“You just give them the sob story and they move on,” Spider says.

“Easy for you. Yours is some easy-going Buddhist monk-guru or whatever. All he does is teach you about achieving Nirvana, shows you some yoga moves, then leaves you alone. My dude… nah, this guy is full on Christian soldier type. Missionary. Convert the nonbelievers. He spends days on me if I’ve done anything uncouth in at least the last month or so. So, if I’m on mildly good behavior I can get him off my back in a day or so.”

“So, he’s succeeding,” she says, sneering.

“No.” I shake my head. “I go back to the bloodies right after he’s gone. It’s just how I have to play the game with Paradise. While you do a quick sob story and you’re done in a few hours, I have a multi-day performance.”

“So that’s why no skin-slip? Usually, you soddy men want the kick,” Screamer says. She leans in, elbows on the table. “What if there’s a hammered couple tonight?”

If ghosts could wretch I would have. Spider sneers.

“Come on, Haunter. Jump the pond with us. See what Europe has to offer, maybe it will make it harder for your angel to find you. When’s your appointment?” Spider asks.

“Next month, or whenever he manages to corner me. He’s relentless. Didn’t your guru miss your last appointment?” Spider doesn’t answer, but judging by the gleam in her eye, I’m right. Man, it’s not fair. Life wasn’t fair, neither is the afterlife. Spider leans back against the sofa. Her weightlessness makes no indent in the leather.

“Haunter,” she continues. “I can read you like an open book. You’re going soft. You always say you wanna beat me, but I’ve been at it longer and you're just a kid playing around.”

I don’t respond but look at the bar. The only other living soul here besides the booze delivery is a huge trucker-looking fellow, almost as big as Mr. Clive. He nurses a half-downed beer. His trucker hat is drawn over his face, and he’s definitely using the beer to dim his thoughts.

I’m not going soft. Spider doesn’t get it. If she got assigned the angel I had, she’d be tip-toeing just the same. That’s the afterlife for you: never ending torture. You get shafted in your mortal life, you get shafted in your afterlife. They both don’t matter.