Budget Ghost Hunting

Nobody believes you when you tell them there’s a ghost in the company basement.

And why would they? The one time the surveillance camera caught me, I was only a quick flash of light crossing the view.

“There! Right there!” Your voice cracked with fear as you pointed me out on the footage playback. I know because I was watching over your shoulder. Maybe my icy breath down the back of your neck had you that convinced.

But your coworkers just smiled, shook their heads, handwaved. Rationalized. Laughed. Like I said, no one believed you. 

So now you’re down here in my basement to prove a point. 

I can guess why you crept down those creaky steps after business hours. How embarrassing, if one of your coworkers caught you down here, what with your obsessive behavior this week. Your boss already had a talk with you about your productivity drop and the IT department had to report you for excessive internet searches relating to how to find a ghost. But that research paid off, because now you’ve got a top-of-the-line (free) EMF sensor app on your phone, even though cell phones are crap at detecting electromagnetic frequencies.

You wave the phone around, watching the readout on the screen with a frown. In your other hand, the flashlight beam shivers as you pass it over boxes full of junk from the ’90s. Don’t you know there’s a light switch right beside you?

To my surprise, no one else comes downstairs at your back. What, like you don’t even have a friend to back you up? Wow.

Irritated, I push over a stack of files. I swear you jump three feet as you swing your light around, illuminating the yellowing papers slithering across the concrete floor. But you don’t scream. That’s the impressive part. You don’t expect anyone to come help you, do you?

You’re going to be so fun. I let a little giggle bubble from my mouth. 

You whimper. “Who’s there?”

I roll my eyes. You and I both know there’s no one else down here.

Your voice echoes back at you from deep within the vast basement as you continue. “We’re closed.” 

“Closing time!” I sing out. My raspy voice mimics that popular song retailers like to play to get customers out of the store. I don’t quite remember all the words. “Duh duh duhduduh duh but you can’t. stay. here!” 

You whirl around, flashlight beam swinging crazily, until it lands on that creepy mannequin someone left down here ages ago. You freeze to the spot, your eyes growing huge and your mouth making an O shape when you see what I’ve written in red Sharpie on its bare, silicone chest. 


Into your ear, I whisper, “We’re closed.”

You swallow, gaze jumping to the EMF reader app. I’m right beside you, but it’s not detecting anything at all. Like I said, useless.

I let the silence grow heavy. Just your flighty breaths, in and out. In, out.



Then, I scream.


My chanting matches rhythm with the crash of your footsteps as you dash for the stairs. You’re making some kind of weird “aaahaaaahaaahaaa” noise as you go, but still no screaming. Of course you drop the flashlight and your phone. The bulb shatters on impact, plunging us into darkness, but the screen does not.

I let you go. This time. 

After you’re gone, I retrieve your cell phone. You’ve got a pattern lock on it, but that doesn’t stop me. I take a selfie, flashing a peace sign and a smile full of sharp teeth. Then I replace your phone back on the floor, knowing you’ll come looking for it tomorrow. 

But when you find my picture, all you’ll see is a quick flash of light in the dark. 

Image by Peter H from Pixabay.

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