The Haunting (Or: Ghost Is Literally A Ghost)

Night Five (II)

The screen went dark when you locked your phone, your reflection staring back at you making you feel a little stupid. This conversation didn't help.

You shook your head violently, eyes squeezing shut.

Yes, it did help. Nobody died in this house, so where would a ghost even come from?

"I need to fucking relax", you commanded yourself while clearing the last bites from your plate, before cleaning the kitchen a little too well. Anything to switch off your brain.

Your phone vibrated on the counter. A message from Sheila.

Did you take a picture of the writing on the mirror?

Biting the inside of your cheek, you opened the chat to send it to her, but when it popped up on the screen in a bigger size, your throat squeezed shut, eyes open so wide that they almost dried out.

Behind the bloody looking plea for help, two letters stood out against the rest. Right after finding the message, you had been so shocked that you didn't pay them any mind, but now that you thought about the missing dog tag, everything fell into place.

Well, it was barely everything, but two of the countless pieces fit together perfectly, and you felt like a child solving a puzzle.

SR must have been the initials of Simon Riley, the Lieutenant who lost his dog tag in front of your door.

Unfortunately, the joy in your chest didn't last long, because you realised that you now had even more questions than before.

Who was Simon Riley? Why was he here? And most importantly, was he just some sick fuck playing games with you or an actual... You didn't even dare thinking about it.

With a long, drawn out sigh, you boiled up some water for a calming herbal tea. That would help you gain the strength to play Ghostbusters.

"Fucking hell", you scoffed, "what am I even doing here?"

While the tea brewed, you fiddled with your phone and went back and forth in the kitchen. Your nails tapped on the screen impatiently.

I'm gonna speak to the ghost tonight. If I don't get an answer I'll just look stupid.

You deleted the text to Sheila before your thumb could hit send, because nothing would answer you tonight and she would just say something along the lines of 'told you so!'

But as long as nobody knew what you were considering, nobody could judge you, so you might as well try getting in touch with the dead.

Determined, you grabbed the tea and sat down in front of your laptop in the living room.

How do you get in touch with them anyways?

There were plenty of tips on the internet, and they ranged from absolutely surreal and idiotic to somewhat realistic, with many people claiming that they actually worked and that they turned from sceptics to 'believers'.

With furrowed brows, you scrolled through a forum on a website that looked like a bunch of teenagers designed it, because despite its appearance the procedure sounded doable and not too far fetched.

"I hope you're not Aunty...", you whispered into the empty room. If the ghost was her, she would probably scold you for being so gullible, while being a ghost in front of your eyes.

But it couldn't be her, because the people in the forum all agreed on one thing, one circumstance that had to be fulfilled: The subject (as they called it) must have died in the house or on the property, or there had to be an important personal item that it clung to.

You felt very relieved when you read a couple posts mentioning that there didn't even have to be a body, because a rotting corpse would be the last thing you wanted to find somewhere in your walls.

Ten minutes later, you had gathered a few thick, white candles which were now placed all around the downstairs area. No ouija board needed, and no object that belonged to the dead person either.

If it was Simon Riley, then you had lost the only earthy belonging he had left behind anyways.

According to that forum, calling a ghost seemed like the easiest task in the world, something fun, a bonding activity for the entire family, grandmas and children included.

You didn't know if the way they described it made it less or more believable to you.

Nobody had mentioned a specific time, but you still decided to wait until midnight came around. That was the witching hour, right?

Absentmindedly, you used the search bar above the forum to look for the word 'time', because you had plenty of that anyways until midnight.

A reply to someone by a guy named Eddy Z. sparked your interest. According to him, midnight wasn't the actual witching hour. He followed up with a lot of specific 'facts' about the history of haunting, so you skimmed over that to click on read more.

It didn't even take a second for you to realise that you wished you didn't.

"Shut up...", you chuckled nervously, your eyes glued to the screen.

"Many people believe that the witching hour begins at midnight, but actually, ghosts, demons and devils are most active between 3:00 and 4:00 am. The number three is mocking the Holy Trinity, and some people even say that 3:33 sharp is the creepiest time of the night", you read the passage out loud, voice rushed.

You plucked your eyes from the screen and let them wander around the room, along the few lamps that were switched on and the flickering, warm flames of the candles.

They casted grotesque shadows on the walls and the ceiling, and suddenly calling out for a ghost didn't seem like a fun family activity anymore.

You watched the shadows dance in disrupted movements before you slowly stood up to switch on the ceiling light.

"Breathe, [name]", you reminded yourself, the candles looking a lot less creepy now.

Of course the frequent disruptions of your sleep at exactly the same time would have some deeper meaning, and it made the whole situation worse.

A ragged breath left your mouth as you remembered the night before, accidentally experiencing the time you usually woke up in a clear state of mind.

That sudden drop in temperature and the crushing sense of uncertainty and dread that had pulled you down as if gravity had tripled had felt very real, it was like you were turned inside out, much more vulnerable.

Bile rose in your throat and you swallowed it quickly, turning around so your back wouldn't face the uninviting gloominess of the living room.

You hated to admit it, but having a ghost as a roommate didn't seem so stupid anymore.

Frankly speaking, it became an actual possibility, and it was starting to get into your head so badly that you had to fight it, somehow and with whatever solution you could find.

And so far, your brain screamed confrontation. It, or Simon Riley most likely, had asked for your help. The ghost wouldn't hurt you, your gut feeling told you that, although you hoped it wasn't just speaking from excitement.

Still, an absolutely unbelievable situation to find yourself in.

You glanced at your watch. One hour until midnight, and then you would start.