For a Ghost Free Time, Call

by Sean Kelly

  “That is exactly what I thought after I did some research on the web. That type of history often results in a poltergeist manifesting. That Ghost Chasers show said the same thing, too!”

  It’s always hard to keep a straight face when dealing with these fretful housewives. Most of these dumb, older broads don’t realize that I Wikipedia’d the same bullshit information they did. “What sort of manifestations have you witnessed?”

  “Well, whenever I leave a room, things seem to get moved around. I’ll set down a glass of wine or a novella, and when I come back into the room, it’ll be on the floor or on a different table.”

  “Mmhmm. Makes sense. It does sound like poltergeist behavior.” No, it sounds like you’re forgetful and clumsy. Dumbass. Her parents probably never taught her to avoid setting things on the edge of a table; things tend to fall off when that happens. “I would be happy to help you with this. Did Josephina inform you of my fee?”

  “Five thousand, plus expenses. Right?”

  “Right. That is the going rate for standard ghost expulsion. A poltergeist, however, that could be a more costly venture.” I could smell the excess cash dripping from her purse, squeezing a little extra out of her wouldn’t hurt anyone.

  “What do you think will get the job done? I can double your fee if that helps.”

  Shit yes, that helps! “I think that should accommodate my…needs. Anything further, I’ll handle on my own.” This gets easier and easier every time. I handed her a stained legal pad and a Bic pen. “Go ahead and write down your address for me and I’ll swing by in the morning. We’ll clear up this ‘geist business right away.”

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Lamronarap.”

  I know, the fake name’s a little weird, but it helps with the lie. People think it sounds exotic. “Happy to help, Miss…?”

  “Turner. Misses.”

  “Mrs. Turner. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  She held out her hand towards me, waiting for me to help her up. I reluctantly obliged and escorted her out of my apartment. After locking the door behind her, I returned to my seat on the couch next to Toby. I reached for my bagel and noticed a small bite was missing. Did I…? I looked over at Toby, still sitting there, silently staring. “Did you touch my bagel?”

  He slowly looked over at the bagel, then returned his gaze to me.

  I waited for him to say something, even though he never would. “Of course you didn’t, you can’t touch anything.” Can you?

  II

  THE NEXT MORNING, I climbed into my orange 1976 Gremlin with three different types of rims and drove to the neighborhood where Mrs. Turner lived in the ritzy area of Eugene, up in the hills. Two houses down from the widow Josephina’s place was an enormous, two-story home nearly the size of my entire apartment building, with “Turner” on the mailbox. The neighborhood kind of disgusted me. Not because it was disgusting like, well, my neighborhood, but a disgusting waste of money and over-extravagance. Maybe me living in a shithole would explain why I enjoy taking their money so damn much. I rolled up the long, paved driveway and parked behind a sleek, black BMW. Before making my way to the front door, I walked back to the trunk of the Gremlin and pulled out a bag hidden in the spare tire well. I took a deep breath, put on my “ghost whisperer” face, then walked up to the pseudo-mansion’s front door. I knocked three times and waited. A few seconds later I rang the doorbell, and a few seconds after that, the door was quickly opened. Instead of Mrs. Turner, a young, olive-skinned woman wearing a gray housekeeper’s uniform answered the door.

  “Yes?” she asked. Her black hair was pulled back into a bun and she gripped a damp cloth in one hand and a bottle of window cleaner in the other.

  “Hi, I’m here on business with Mrs. Turner. My last name is Lamronarap.”

  “Oh, right. The missus is expecting you. Please, follow me.” She turned around and led me through the heart of the house. The foyer was enormous and the walls were covered with old, expensive paintings. I recognized The Starry Night by Van Gogh that was hung prominently. The maid clearly didn’t want anything to do with me and I couldn’t help but try to break the tension.

  “I didn’t know real maids actually wore outfits like that.” I nearly ran into her as she stopped and spun around to glare at me. “You know, the gray suit with the apron…like maids wear in the movies…”

  “We prefer housekeeper.” Her snarl could cut glass.

  “Sorry. Do you know why I’m here?”

  “Yes, the missus explained you were here to investigate the…hauntings.”

  “You don’t sound very convinced.”

  “Look, she’s not the most…logical person. She’s always wasting her money on psychics and ghost hunters—no offense.”

  “None taken. Lots of them are lying hacks.”

  “But she wastes all this money on your kind and I don’t even get sick days or paid holidays.”

  I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be here. Usually, housewives have me over while their husbands are at work or away on business, but this angry housekeeper could really throw a kink in my plans. “Well, tell you what. Ghost or not, if you have my back and keep your skepticism to yourself, I’ll see if I can’t help you out. What was your name?”

  She gave me a cynical smirk and led me out onto the back patio, where Mrs. Turner was laid out by the pool, tanning in a skimpy, purple bikini—ignoring the somewhat gloomy weather—and drinking a glass of white wine.

  “Mrs. Turner?” said the housekeeper. “Mr. Lam—the psychic is here.”

  “Ah, Mr. Lamronarap! Thank you so much for coming by.” Mrs. Turner sat up and spun her feet off the chair.

  “Please, call me Jared.” I walked over to her and helped her to her feet. For an older gal, she had quite the set on her—perky and firm. No jiggle…

  “Do you like them?”

  “I-I’m sorry?”

  “My tits, you were admiring them. Do you like them?” She grabbed her chest and squeezed them a bit.

  “Y-yeah, they’re great…I guess.”

  “My husband just bought them for me. I think they’re magnificent!”

  “I…I couldn’t agree more.” It was hard to hold back my amusement. I’ve done a lot of these, but I gotta say, that was a first. “So, as much as I love admiring your rack, I should probably get started. Could you show me where the majority of activity takes place?”

  “Certainly, follow me.” Although she was in a bikini, she still wore low heels and led me back into the house. She brought me to a wide living room with two parallel couches, both a light cream color. “It happens all over the house, but most often it occurs in the sitting room.”

  There’s a faint wine stain near the end of the glass coffee table. “If I may, I am starting to feel something.” I walked over to the nearest couch and held my hand in the air. Waving it around as if possessed by some otherworldly power, I walked towards the fireplace near the back wall where I spun around with my hand hovering in the airspace above the old stain. “Is this about where it takes place? The occurrences? I sense some energy near this side of the room.”

  “Yes, that’s absolutely correct!” She covered her mouth in shock and looked over at the housekeeper, then back to me. “I like to sit on the end nearest the fireplace and read. I set things on the coffee or end table and something keeps knocking them to the floor.”

  “I sensed that.” I set down my bag on the coffee table and opened it. I removed a jar of kosher salt, two ornate crosses—one big and one small—and I set everything on the table before pulling out a large vial of “holy” water. “If you don’t mind, I need just a couple minutes to prepare.”

  “Certainly, darling.” Mrs. Turner scurried out of the sitting room, her hands held outwards in the air—I’m guessing for balance—and made her way up the curved staircase in the foyer.

  I removed four small candles from my bag and placed them on each corner of the coffee table before lighting them. With the jar of salt, I made a line in the
entryway and on each of the windows. You might be asking “Why would I only salt the doors and windows? Ghosts can walk through walls.” You and I know that, but people who think they’re being haunted don’t put much thought into it. The last thing I needed to do was place a tiny speaker behind a picture frame on the mantle to add to the ambiance.

  Mrs. Turner walked down the stairs, now wearing a short, silk robe.

  “Careful of the salt, we don’t want to break the barriers,” I said as she cautiously stepped over the line.

  She walked over and placed a glass of dark red wine on the end table nearest the couch on the right.

  “Are you ready to rid this house of paranormal activity?” I asked her.

  “Yes, I am.”

  I handed her the large cross and motioned to hold it close to her chest. I pressed the smaller one close to mine. “To the spir—”

  “Hey!” the housekeeper shouted as she entered the sitting room.

  “Jackie? What is it? You're interrupting the ceremony.” Mrs. Turner was clearly upset.

  “No, it’s alright, we haven’t begun yet.” I stepped closer to the housekeeper. “Jackie, right? What can I do for you?”

  “This is gonna work, right?” She put one hand on her hip and pointed to the salt I had poured around the room. “Because you’ve made a pretty big mess that I get to clean up.”

  “I promise, my part in this ceremony will work.” I gave her a “play along” look. “And it will all be worth it when it’s over.”

  Jackie grimaced and crossed her arms with great expectations.

  “Thank you,” I said to her before returning to the ceremony. “To the spirits infesting this house, we welcome you.”

  Mrs. Turner was confused. “Welcome them? We don’t want to welcome them, I want them out.”

  “Shut up,” I said calmly, shushing her. “We have to welcome them before we ask them to leave.” I continued with the ceremony. “We welcome you to make yourselves known to us.” I made sure to pause for effect, waiting for a response. “Do not be afraid, oh, spirits. Give us a sign of your presence.” I paused again.

  “Oh!” shouted Mrs. Turner. “I saw the candles flicker! That was the sign wasn’t it?”

  “You’re very good, ma’am. You seem to have a knack for the paranormal.”

  She donned an accomplished smile and smirked at Jackie, who stood behind her.

  I noticed a gust of wind blow through the room, causing the candles to flicker intensely. This is it. I always watch for a sign during expulsions, something that everyone can see that I can take full advantage of. Usually, it’s just an open window and the weather, but I wasn’t about to point that out to anyone. So, I clutched the cross to my chest and I pressed a small button on the back of it with my thumb. The hidden speaker let out an amplified sound of wind whistling through the room. “This it is. It’s here. I can feel the ghost within these walls, he’s entering the room.” Then, something unexpected happened. From upstairs, a ghostly figure drifted down the stairs and into the foyer, then slowly entered the living room. He passed through Jackie and the glass of wine on the table, stopping next to Mrs. Turner. The ghost was a black man wearing a fine tuxedo and a skinny bowtie. His glow was similar to Toby’s, but with a light green tint. “That…is…interesting,” I accidently said aloud.

  “What? What’s interesting?”

  Shit. “Um, he’s here. I can see him.”

  “Really!? What does he look like?”

  “A young, black man. Maybe twenty-two years old. His hair is tall and thick.” He was actually an older, bald man. “He’s wearing tattered overalls and no shoes.” I turned to Mrs. Turner trying to think of more stereotypes to drive home the illusion.

  The speaker let out a slight howl, which was unnoticeable at first, but grew louder and more ominous.

  “Mrs. Turner,” I said. “I think you were right. Your house was built on an old cotton plantation.”

  Her glass of wine slid off the table and spilled all over the floor.

  “Ah! You see that? That’s what keeps happening.”

  She would never know that I saw Jackie’s foot being pulled back after lightly kicking the glass end table. “I see.” I looked back at Jackie, whose irritated scowl had turned to an intrigued smirk, then returned my attention to Mrs. Turner. “Mrs. Turner, I think I know what to do.” I picked up the jar of salt and the “holy water” and splashed the area where the ghost was actually standing.

  His head slowly turned to look at me. No expression on his face as the droplets of water passed through him, but I thought I saw a glimpse of confused irritation.

  “Be gone, spirit!” I moved closer and held out my cross with intent. “And shepherds we shall be, for thee, my lord, for thee. Power hath descended forth from thy hand, that our feet may swiftly carry out thy commands. We shall flow a river forth to thee and teeming with souls shall it ever be. In nomini patri. et filii, et spritu scanti.”

  Mrs. Turner’s face was in disbelief. She was hooked—like a crack addict—enthralled with the “incantation.”

  I removed my finger from the button on the cross and the speaker grew silent.

  “Is…is that it? Is it done?” Mrs. Turner cautiously set her cross down on the table.

  I pressed my fingers to my temple and wandered around the room. “It’s done.” I let out a deep, exhausted breath. “Your home is clean. Well, clean-ish.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Well, there are a few things you must be aware of before I leave. Firstly, there is always residual energy after exorcising a ghost. The leftover energies might attempt to act out in the same way the original ghost did. You said that things were constantly being knocked off tables, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “The way we combat this is by making their job as difficult as possible.” I walked over and picked up the wine glass on the floor. “If you make sure to put whatever object you’re using in the exact center of the table, what little energy they have left might not be able to push an object that far.” I set the glass down as an example, then moved it closer to the edge so that it was nearly falling off. “However, if you forget and place it near the edge”—I showed her what I meant and lightly tapped the top of the glass, knocking it back to the floor— “it hardly requires any effort to knock over.”

  “Wow.” At first, I thought Mrs. Turner was about to call me on my bullshit. “That is amazing. I had no idea expelled spirits left behind energy. You are brilliant, Mr. Lam—Jared.”

  You have no idea, lady. “Thank you, really. But there is one more thing and it might sound a little strange.”

  “Go on, I’m listening.” Mrs. Turner took a seat on the couch and I sat down next to her.

  “That spirit, he was haunting you for a reason.”

  “But me? What did I do?”

  “It’s not necessarily what you did, it may be something you’re not doing. That ghost was clearly a slave. Beaten, tortured, poorly paid—if at all—and given no respect or kindness in any form.” I shot a look towards Jackie that said you’re welcome. “The ghost may have witnessed a moment between you and your housekeeper that upset him. Or possibly felt that those in your employ were being ill-treated.”

  “Wh—what can I do?”

  “If the spirit senses something that bothers it before it has a chance to dissipate, it may come back even stronger. Treat your mai—housekeepers, cooks, and staff with respect. Prove to them, and the spirit, how much you care for them. Throw a few sick or vacation days their way, slap on a few bonuses on top of a nice, high wage. The spirit will feel it’s completed its unfinished business and move on to the afterlife.” I grabbed her hand. “Does that make sense?”

  “Yes, I guess, but I don’t mistreat my staff. Jackie, I don’t mistreat you do I? I’m a good boss.”

  Jackie stepped closer, ready to lie her ass off like any good employee would do. “Of course you don’t. I don’t know what this ghost is thinking.” Her eyes
pierced mine.

  “See? You’re a great boss,” I said to Mrs. Turner. “But just to be on the safe side, do something extraordinary. That’s what these types of situations require to expedite them and ensure they’re fully resolved.”

  “Yes, I’ll do that! I’ll show that poor, negro spirit!”

  I couldn’t help but look up at the well-dressed ghost still standing in the room. His facial expression still hadn’t changed, still expressionless. I though the word “negro” might have gotten some reaction out of him. “Excellent. I think we’re finished here.”

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Lamronarap. Thank you so much. Let me go and get your fee. It’s in cash, I hope you don’t mind. I’d rather keep this quiet.”

  “Not at all.”

  Mrs. Turner walked out of the room and scurried up the stairs to her bedroom.

  Jackie sauntered towards me, smiling deviously with her arms still crossed. “That was…interesting, to say the least.”

  “You liked that, did you?”

  “Oh, yeah.” She checked behind her to make sure Mrs. Turner wasn’t within earshot. “I especially liked the prayer.”

  “Prayer?”

  “At the end of your little sermon, ‘asking’ the spirit to leave with some Latin mumbo jumbo. That was from The Boondock Saints, wasn’t it?”

  “Good flick.” I knew she’d catch on to me. “Huh?”

  “Yeah, it was pretty great.”

  Knowing she suspected something, I walked over to the picture frame on the mantle and retrieved my tiny speaker. I quickly crammed my things into the duffle bag on the table. After packing, I looked back up to find Jackie within a few inches of my face.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “You’re we—” I was interrupted by her soft lips pressing against mine.

  She pulled away and smiled. She’d slipped a small sheet of paper with her number on it into my hand. Without another word, she knelt down and started cleaning up the knocked over glass of wine.