I glance behind me again, down the quiet darkness of the road, and my feet slowly turn me around, directing me back the way I had come. An almost involuntary action that I don’t fight. Because at this point, I have nothing left to lose. I can only hope that whatever I find is worth the struggles I sense are waiting for me.
“Here goes nothing,” I mutter to myself as my feet start moving. What I’ll find down this road is unclear. I only know I’m heading toward some mysterious unknown...fate.
My life, or lack-thereof, is a total shit-show at the moment. I am neither here nor there. Stuck somewhere in between life and death. I ramble around this monstrosity of a house with its beautiful wood floors, winding staircase, antique fixtures, and covered furnishings with no real reason for being. Nothing about this place seems familiar, yet here I am. I can’t leave the property. Trust me, I’ve tried. I wander day in and day out because – let’s face it – ghost girls don’t exactly sleep, hold jobs, or have active social lives. I’m assuming I’m a ghost because...what else could I possibly be?
Walk through walls? Check. Slam random doors? Check. Make lights and other electronics go bat-shit crazy, scaring the crap out of unsuspecting people? Check and check.
I guess I’m just your average, everyday poltergeist. I can manipulate my environment but little else. No one can see me or hear me. I can’t touch anyone either, much to my very real disappointment. It gets lonely being a ghost girl.
My penchant for putting on a show - aka my boredom - has made this place a revolving door for the paranormal community. The Most Haunted Home in the Midwest. Yup. That’s right. I turned this otherwise normal home in the middle of Nowhereville, Illinois, into a regular circus sideshow. It’s been on the market since the day I appeared, and my performances have scared off every potential buyer or renter that has stepped through those double front doors, with their gorgeous, antique iron scrollwork and frosted glass.
What can I say? I’m a badass. Albeit one that doesn’t seem to know much about who she is, where she came from, or what she did that could have resulted in her current predicament.
So what do I know? I know that my name is Fate. Ironic, right? How I know that, I can’t be sure. Just like I can’t be sure how I know that there are three things I miss more than life itself. Yes, I mean that quite literally.
First – coffee. Just the sight of it alone practically sends me into an immediate orgasm these days - if ghost girls could have orgasms, that is. Every time a real estate agent sets up for an open house with a pot of the steaming, yummy goodness, my mouth waters, figuratively, of course, because ghost girls do not drool.
Second – wine. Something tells me that wine and I used to have an ongoing love-hate relationship. I bet it was my kryptonite. Cheap, expensive, dry, sweet. I don’t even care. If I concentrate hard enough, I swear I can taste the bountiful flavor rolling around on my tongue. Again, immediate almost-orgasm.
Which leads me to the third – sex. I know, obvious, right? I’ll admit that there have been a few times throughout the years where thrill-seeking couples have broken in and gotten down and dirty right in the front living room or shagged it up in one of the upstairs bedrooms that still has a dusty ass bed…and…I may have stayed to watch with unabashed longing, wishing I could at least touch myself to take care of the ache that seems to be perpetually present.
What? There’s nothing wrong with a little voyeurism when your life is no longer yours to live. Instead, you live vicariously through those around you. If there’s anything I’ve learned in my time here, it’s that I must have been a very sexual being in my past life as every fiber of my phantom body aches for the touch of another.
Life – or rather death – just isn’t fair, dammit!
Pouting over all of the things I’ll never get to experience again is pointless, but what else do I have to do? Dramatically draping my wrist across my forehead, I sip from an imaginary wine glass with the other. Anything to give some depth to my little self-indulgent pity party. Just when I’m really getting into my spectral sobfest, the sound of approaching cars hits my ears. I roll my eyes, cross my arms over my chest like a stubborn toddler, and refuse to give in to my curiosity. Considering the randy locals prefer the dark when they want to sneak in and defile the property, it’s either a real estate agent bringing yet another client that will inevitably piss themselves when they get a taste of my renowned paranormal experience, or another group of those pesky ghost hunters that think they can get rid of me. I simply do not like to share what I perceive as my own personal space. I may be lonely, but I’m not stupid. The living do not like to co-exist with the dead, and ain’t nobody got time to deal with cleansings or exorcisms to rid the home of my presence. This place is mine, and it’s going to stay that way.
The slamming of car doors is my signal that it’s time to get off my ass and evaluate my next move. With a huff of annoyance, I lift my head from the covered arm of the chair I’m sprawled across and fling my legs to the ground. How my transparent self doesn’t sink right through the furniture or floors is a mystery, but one simply does not look a gift horse in the mouth. As I amble over to the nearest window, I try to remember the last time I felt a plush cushion sinking beneath my weight or the velvety softness of it beneath my fingertips, and I come up empty. Always empty.
Spotting the black convertible Mustang of my nemesis – the current agent who handles the listing for the property − I fake a gag with one finger down my throat. Immature? Maybe. Let’s blame it on my rusty social skills considering it’s been just me, myself, and I for way too damn long.
She steps out, her long blonde hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail. Black stiletto heels add another four inches to her already tall figure. Her red dress is excessively tight over her slender body, while her fake boobs are almost popping out of the low-cut neckline.
Oh, I’m not judging. Just stating facts. Trust me when I say she’s not at all shy about the work she’s had done. I can’t even begin to count the number of phone conversations I’ve had to listen to where she gushed about how awesome they looked post-recovery and how she likes to fondle them herself.
Ugh. TMI, am I right?
She and her whole outfit are just a little too inappropriate to be considered professional, but that doesn’t matter to Agent Barbie. No, that is not her real name, and no, I've never really cared enough to figure out what it is. Why would I when she’ll be just another in a long line of fools that have attempted to sell this property - and failed.
I scan the driveway, trying to seek out the poor souls unlucky enough to stumble into my lair – insert evil villain laugh here - but my eyes snag on the logo-covered doors of the two black SUVs parked in the circular drive. The company name stands out in large, white lettering outlined with silver.
V.I.P.S. Valley Investigations & Paranormal Society.
“Oh my ghost! Really?” I groan aloud while also giving in to another eye roll because - ego, much?
These groups always fall into one of two categories. First, the fame whores who want to make a name for themselves at the Most Haunted Home in the Midwest, hoping to earn their own TV show. Like there aren’t already a million other YouTube and TikTok users out there looking for their fifteen minutes in the spotlight.