I don’t believe in ghosts. I sell them to people who need something to fear. Tonight’s job was light work. I’m going to get that TV show contract. It’s getting closer; I can hear the money calling. People are puppets; people are naively gullible. The YouTube channel is blowing up, down to my editing, of course. Nightjar is good and her camera work is on a different plane of existence, but she’s not me. She’s so clever, self-assured, attractive. Just like me. Time to drop her off. She finishes her conversation with the dudes, turns to me and says, “Tomorrow, bright and early.” I see what she’s doing. Trying to subtly shift some control in a well-meaning way. Her way of being helpful. “The amount I’m drinking tonight after that performance. I won’t rise until tomorrow evening, Nightjar,” I joke, with an undertone of truth behind it. She smiles, then signifies she’ll have to start the production editing early as we need a head start. Nightjar says her goodbyes and exits the Pro Paranormal UK van.
One last stop before I can race home and get shit-faced. I need to drop off EMF and Static at the lock-up to deal with the investigation equipment. “What if the activity was real this time?” Static tries to convince us with his scepticism of my core ghost belief ideology. Not this again, I think, as the van hits a pothole. British roads. You pay all of that tax and all you get is Roman ruins. I set him straight with my usual talk on how this is a money-making racket we are experts in. EMF has a stupid smile on his face, as usual. We brand, we artificially manufacture at each job. Clients already believe; they just need some counterfeit supernatural escalation. My life’s savings went into this start-up. Ten-plus years and I’m starting to reap what I sow. I pull up at the lock-up. After the guys are out of the van, ready to go handle the equipment, I start the engine, then push forward home. The private road is scenic but creepy in the moonlight, in the dead of night. Dense wooded areas on each side. We are truly in the middle of nowhere.
As I approach the road’s exit junction, I begin to slow down. All of a sudden, a cold chill runs over my shoulders. Brief, slight and icy. I glance in the rear-view mirror and clock a shadow back down the road. Faint, ghostly and distant. It can’t be? I doubt my belief system for a second, then reaffirm my stance mentally. Once at my ghost king palace, I crack a bottle of chilled, crisp white wine, then sit at my iMac. I begin to relax and prep footage for editing with Nightjar. The suckers I mock as the old couple from the supposed haunted lodge show up on the footage. They’re nice, but I could sell them a broken spoon.
The heating was on full. I was making clips when a cold breeze crossed my shoulders. Precise, brief. I didn’t turn around. I convinced myself it was nothing and carried on working. After several glasses of the good stuff, I decided to retire to my bedroom chambers. I check the doors, windows and turn out the lights. I head upstairs, debating with myself. How shall I inspire myself tonight? A found footage horror or research ancient demon mythos? A brief moment before I enter my bedroom, the light flickers. I stop dead before entering through the doorway. It’s dark again. My cocky arrogance evaporates. Dread creeps over me. I feel the cold emitting from the room, despite the heating being blasted. I rationalise my irrationality. I choose demon mythos. The documentary was just getting interesting, then I doze off.
A knock and creak awaken me. I first glance at my phone, stationed next to me on the pillow. 03:39 am. Creak. Hiss. I sit up, drenched in sweat. The shock. That cold feeling again. And there it was. A shadow. No features. A dark silhouette in the corner of the room. I freeze in terror. My world comes crashing down to an unreal reality. The figure flickers. It ever so slowly begins to drift from the corner. Every time it draws closer, visibility becomes clearer. A tall figure, floating, dressed in a dark robe. Hood up, but I begin to fear for my life when its expression becomes more visible. Dark, demonic eyes void of this reality and a sinister smirk. That instantly intensifies my fear and I begin to shake. It stops at the foot of the bed. It’s floating and flickering. Silence. More arms begin to stem from the shadow. Faint, twisted limbs branch off it. I shield my eyes and begin mumbling. When I remove them, tepidly, I come to the realisation it has vanished. Relief washes over me as the chill fades. My arrogance reasserts itself. I must be hallucinating again, I assume. I breathe deeply and let out uncontrollable laughter. I look down and it can’t be. Gradually but slowly, I begin to fade. What is happening? My feet had already vanished. The creeping invisible eraser moves slowly up my body. I cannot move. What’s left of me feels like I’m floating. My lower half has vanished. Tears stream down my cheeks. My neck and head are the only remaining parts of me. It’s over. Where am I going? I begin to laugh hysterically as my entire essence of being fades away.