Halloween is here again, so let’s have a few shorts about hauntings that aren’t typical—from funny to serious.

“The Other Side”
Ghost Humor
By David M. Fitzpatrick

“I’m here to help you cross over,” said the priest. “I know you have unfinished business here. You must cross over to the other side.”

The ghost stood looking at them, staring from a distance away over his own freshly killed body.

“Come,” said the priest. “Cross over.”

The ghost stepped forward, but suddenly a truck appeared over the hill and screamed past.

The ghost hid in the bushes and the priest sighed.

“This could take a while,” he said, adjusting his collar over his ruffled feathers.

In the middle of the road was the bloody body of the squashed chicken.

“Ghost in the House”
Ghost (haunted house)
By David M. Fitzpatrick

How long have I wandered these rooms? Days? A week? Two weeks? I don’t know. I don’t sleep, but my consciousness is interrupted occasionally when the bright light comes and sends me temporarily to oblivion.

The kitchen flooring of this old house is cracked, and it’s curling at the corners. The whole place is like an old New England farmhouse in need of sprucing and polishing, but there has been no one here for a very long time. The hardwood floors in the hallways are scuffed and fading, badly in need of refinishing. The walls are plastered with ugly wallpaper that featured garish patterns popular ages ago. It’s dismal and foreboding everywhere in here, always murky and gray and dark—until the light comes blazing.

When the light comes, it’s as if the house has been set afire, and forces me out—but to where? I don’t know. I only know that no sooner has the light flared up and blinded me I feel... gone, to somewhere else, floating in some endless oblivion for an unknown length of time. I am snapped suddenly back to the house as the light is quickly fading, and then murky darkness once again soaks every corner of the house like a midnight fog, and I return to haunt this place.

There is the barest of light through the house’s many windows—as dim and weak as a dying fluorescent bulb. But I can’t see through the glass; it’s as if it has been painted white on the outside, admitting just enough light to tease me about the outside world. The glass is unbreakable—God, how I’ve tried to smash the glass—and the doors, and the walls, and the floors. But the house is indestructible—at least to me. Someone wants me to haunt this place. Someone wants me to stay here and suffer in my loneliness forever.

But I’m not always alone. There is another ghost here, and she taunts me and haunts me from time to time. There will be nothing but the cold, still darkness of the house when suddenly I’ll hear her, elsewhere in the house, laughing that little-girl laugh that reminds me of happy, tinkling bells. I run through the house to find her, but by the time I get there, the sound is just the memory of an echo.

Sometimes, as I run to her, I think I catch the fleetest view of her in the dimness. I think I see a form running in the darkness ahead, and I think I hear her pattering footsteps. Sometimes I think I see a bouncing ponytail or the swish of her skirts, but when I get there, there’s nothing to see. Maybe my eyes are playing tricks on me.

The only thing I can be sure of is this old place. The carpets in some rooms are ancient, with faded colors and tattered edges. There are remnants of life here, but I don’t know if it was my life. The dining-room table is empty, with no dishes, no food, and nobody in the chairs. In the kitchen, the range is dark and cold, and the refrigerator doesn’t hum.

The usual silence is unbearable. The only sound is when that little girl laughs somewhere nearby. How strange that a ghost would feel fear—feel the hair on the back of his neck stand up—at the sound of the ghostly child laughing just rooms away!

I know I’m dead. I just don’t know how it happened. I am bound within the walls of this house, meant to haunt it forever. Or maybe I’m not haunting it; maybe it’s my personal hell. Maybe the little girl isn’t a ghost—perhaps she’s here to torture me.

So I wander endlessly, even though I’ve seen every square inch of the house more times than I can count. The upstairs hallway, empty and cold. Three bedrooms, decorated as you’d expect: beds and dressers, curtains and desks. But there’s no one in them. There’s no one anywhere. It’s just me.

One bedroom is a girl’s, and I’m drawn to it. It’s decorated in pink and lace, with dolls everywhere. I think it’s my ghostly comrade’s room, because every time I visit it, the dolls have moved. But I never find her there.

I can’t take this much longer. There has to be a way out. There has to be a way to escape this. I must solve this before madness overtakes me. When I think I cannot endure another moment, the laughter returns. It chills my spine but gives me hope, and I run through the house, calling out to her, begging her to come to me—to no avail.

And now the light is coming again. As much as I want to leave, the light terrifies me, and I don’t want to go to that oblivion, that endless nothingness, because—what if one day I don’t return? As the white fire overwhelms the darkness and the colors of the carpets and wallpaper become distinct, my eyes burn and I cry out, begging to stay in this hell, even as the little girl’s laughter, like tinkling bells, echoes through the house...

*   *   *

“She seems so content,” the father said.

Wrapped in each other’s arms, the mother and father watched their daughter.

“I hope three appointments a week with the therapist will be enough,” the mother said, wiping away trickling tears.

“I can’t believe he died,” said the father. “I mean, I’m glad he’s dead, but... I wanted to kill him myself. How the hell could he do that to such an innocent little girl?”

“She’s all right now,” the mother said. “And I just know that bastard is paying for what he did.”

They watched through the bedroom doorway. Their daughter, with her bowed ponytail, played on the floor, her antique dollhouse opened wide.

“Ghost Virgin”
Ghost (possession)
By David M. Fitzpatrick

It wasn’t usual for Dr. Stephen Ballentine to work on weekends. He was a Monday-through-Friday man, with Wednesday afternoons off for golf if the weather cooperated. Then again, his weekends were usually spent home alone, staring at the TV. It wasn’t like he had a family; his wife had left him three years before, believing he’d been having sex with his patients. He really hadn’t been, but considering Melinda had been the coldest fish in the sea for years of their marriage, he never knew why she cared.

It wasn’t even Trisha Daly’s impassioned pleas to see her alone, outside office hours, or even her offer to pay him $2,000 for the visit.  Well, maybe it was the money. But it was the other guest she insisted be there, and the strange symptoms she was claiming.

The lights were off in his office, but there was plenty of sunlight through the windows, when Trisha Daly arrived with her guest. He unlocked the door to admit them, and shook hands with Mr. Dell, a pale older man with sunken eyes. After locking the door he led them back to an exam room.

“Right in here, Miss Daly,” he said. “We’ll give you a few minutes to disrobe.”

“It’s okay—I’m not shy, given the circumstances,” she said, gesturing them in. She was tall and young, twenty-four years old, a beautiful post-college blonde like he’d seen on fashion runways.

They followed, and Ballentine felt a twang of discomfort at watching her disrobe without having a female nurse present. But as she slid her clothing off, it was evident that the young lady was not only stunningly beautiful but had a body like a porn star. He and Dell watched as she finished stripping, hopped up onto the exam table, and dutifully placed her feet in the stirrups.

Ballentine advanced with a speculum. “All right, Miss Carlisle, we’ll see what’s going on.”

“You’ll hear it, not see it,” she said.

He lubed up the speculum, inserted it, and carefully spread her open. It was slow going; she was as tight as a young teenager, and her hymen was intact. Twenty-four years old, and this blonde bombshell with a body that should be screwing any night of the week, was a virgin. She didn’t strike him as being some kind of puritanical religious sort—not the kind to hold on to her virginity like some cherished gift until marriage. Ballentine’s ex-wife Melinda had been that way—a virgin on their wedding night, then once a month after that for a few years, until they barely screwed once or twice a year. He didn’t miss her.

He was lost in those thoughts as he had her spread wide when he realized he could hear something coming from inside her vagina. He froze—his face was just inches from the gaping hole—and listened intently. Without a doubt, he heard voices. Whispering voices, and lots of them.

He recoiled in alarm, rolling his chair back. “What the hell?”

She smiled from her reclined position. “Yes, you’re hearing whispers. It started with my first period at fourteen. Just one voice at first. More came later. In the last year, it’s been getting pretty noisy down there.” She nodded at the surprised Mr. Dell. “Go ahead,” she coaxed him. “Both of you, get down there.”

Ballentine rolled back in as Dell leaned over his shoulder, listening intently at Trish’s open vagina. The whispers were unmistakable—like dozens of people talking over each other, in the most hushed tones, the sound coming as if wafting in from a distant room in the house. Ballentine couldn’t understand what they were saying. He looked at Dell, who appeared to know what he was thinking.

“Long-dead languages,” Dell said. “Maybe Babylonian, Assyrian... ancient.”

Ballentine rolled back and stood up. “What kind of trick is this? Did you stick a speaker up there?”

“Why would I do that and offer you two thousand bucks?” she asked. “I work at a coffee shop for minimum wage. That’s half of everything I have saved. Mr. Dell gets the other half. I can’t afford that kind of joke. I’m telling you, doctor, my vagina is haunted. There’s a ghost in there—or maybe lots of them.”

“This is a first for me,” Dell said.

“So you see,” she continued, “I spent my teenage years skipping sleepovers. I didn’t play sports because I didn’t want anyone in the locker room to hear. And I’ve never had sex—never been intimate with any boyfriend. How could I? How would anyone react when they hear ghosts whispering out of my crotch? And it’s getting worse: The more voices, the louder it’s getting. If it’s quiet in a room, I can hear it. How long before anyone near me can?”

Ballentine loved the cosmic irony of the situation: Here was a young woman desperate to have sex, while Melinda was still all by herself, living off her alimony, vagina tighter than a steel trap. She had tried to entice him into sex “for old time’s sake” about a year before, in a rare moment of hormonal imbalance and mental weakness, but he’d wisely avoided it. It might have been the only time this decade the frigid bitch would be willing to spread her legs for anyone.

Ballentine turned to Dell. “And you’re a paranormal investigator—which makes sense now.”

“I usually chase down spooks in old houses,” Dell said. “To be honest, this is outside my usual element. It’s... my first haunted... body part.”

“A haunted vagina,” Ballentine said. “It sounds like the plot to an amateur self-published book.”

“Maybe, but it’s ruined my life for ten years,” Trish said. “What can you two do about it?”

Ballentine looked at Dell, helpless. Dell shrugged.

“Well, we could get a priest in here to bless some KY jelly, and you could prescribe a dildo,” he said.

Ballentine brayed with laughter. Trish glared at him from the exam table.

“Sorry,” he said.

They discussed possible options, and finally Dell said he needed to do some research—on hauntings, possessions, exorcisms, and the like.

“I know this is bizarre,” Dell said, “but once I do a bit of reading, I think we’ll find that the solution will be fairly simple.”

They agreed to return to Ballentine’s office the following Saturday for a follow-up. Ballentine left Trish in the room to get dressed while he showed Dell out, but when he returned she was still naked and in the stirrups.

“I’m sorry, Miss Daly, but I meant for you to get dressed,” he said.

“It’s Trish, doctor,” she said. “But I need one more thing. I’ve never been with a man because I’m afraid of what a man would think about my vagina being haunted.”

“Oh... Miss Daly...” he said, backing away with his hands up.

“Doctor—there are ghosts up my pussy,” she said, throwing her hands up as if in exasperation. “I’m a twenty-four-year-old virgin with a haunted cooch. Normally, I’d think the horny virgin alone would be enough to persuade a guy, but... well, are you going to pass up the chance to screw the only woman you’ll ever meet who has ghosts in her virgin twat?”

It had been over three years since he’d been laid, and he sure couldn’t argue with her logic. He unbuckled and dropped his pants, and with his young patient with her feet in the stirrups, he put it to her like Melinda always believed he’d been.

*   *   *

It was the best lay of his life, even if they hadn’t yet solved the haunted-vagina part. In fact, all he could think about was the amazing sex he’d had with her—several times, all over the office. She’d been very satisfied, and so had he.

But as he lay in bed that night, touching himself while thinking about the encounter, he could swear he could hear whispering coming from his penis.

Of course. Dell had been right—the solution had been fairly simple.

He began thinking hard about how he could talk his ex-wife into that romp for old time’s sake. There was no doubt that Melinda hadn’t been having sex with anyone, and probably wouldn’t again. Leaving the ghosts inside her would be perfect.

He smiled, stroked, and listened to the whispers.

“Phantom of the Treetops”
Ghost (haunting)
By David M. Fitzpatrick

Jimmy hadn’t been excited about leaving all his friends in fourth grade and moving three states away until they arrived at the new house. It was much bigger than their old one, there was a two-car garage, and there were acres of back yard surrounded by trees. But the best part was the treehouse.

He saw it when he got out of the car. It was huge, looking as if someone had elevated a good-sized tool shed thirty feet up and stuck it onto the tree. Jimmy hollered in excitement, jumping up and down. With his mother nervous and his father totally understanding his enthusiasm, Jimmy dashed for the back yard and scrambled up the dangling rope ladder. He was inside in seconds, and it was the best treehouse he could have ever imagined. The floor was finished with water-resistant carpet, and there were windows overlooking the property. There was a table and benches, and at the other end was even a bunk above a desk. He could practically live up in the treehouse!

*   *   *

Jimmy unpacked his bedroom, setting aside things for the treehouse. The next day, he hauled it all up there and decorated the walls with posters of Star Wars and Doctor Who and Harry Potter. He was just tacking up a poster of Miley Cyrus and her wrecking ball—being just at the age where he was noticing Miley and not the wrecking ball—when he suddenly realized there was another boy in there with him.

He hollered in surprise, falling back away from the table and landing on the floor. Above him, on the bunk, a boy his age stared at him with blank eyes.

“Who are you?” he cried.

“Chad,” the boy replied.

“How’d you get up here?” Jimmy said.

“This is my treehouse,” Chad said.

“No it isn’t. We just bought this property.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s yours.” Chad’s feet dangled off the bunk, above the desk. His hands were on his knees, and he seemed blank and emotionless. He was sitting on several of Jimmy’s unhung posters.

“It does so,” Jimmy retorted.

“My dad built this treehouse.”

“Well, that doesn’t mean you own it.”

“You need to leave,” Chad said.

Jimmy clambered to his feet, angry now. He turned and headed to the open trap door where the ladder came up, pointing and yelling, “Listen, kid, this is MY treehouse now, so you can just—”

But when he turned back, Chad was gone.

Jimmy froze. He knew the treehouse was buttoned up tight; the trap door was the only way in or out. He moved cautiously to the bunk, and could see that the posters Chad had been sitting on didn’t have a single wrinkle.

That’s when he felt the prickly feeling on the back of his neck.

*   *   *

At dinner, his parents were talking about his father’s impending new job in two weeks. Jimmy interrupted them to ask who had lived here before, and whether they’d had a son named Chad.

His parents exchanged uneasy glances. “Well, they did have a son,” his mother replied.

“Why’d they move?”

More uneasy glances. “They had a tragedy and went to California,” his father said. “But let’s change the subject now.”

“He died, didn’t he?”

They fell silent, returning to eating.

“Did you meet a neighborhood kid?” his mother asked. “Did someone tell you that?”

“Yeah,” he lied.

“It was a car accident,” his father said. “They lost control of their car and their son died. They don’t know what happened to cause it.”

“Okay,” Jimmy said, acting calm but feeling the prickles on his neck again.

*   *   *

He went back up to the treehouse the next day and sat at the table. He waited, hoping Chad would appear, but there was nothing for an hour. He decided to try something else.

“Chad... it’s Jimmy,” he said, shutting his eyes so tight that they hurt.

He listened to the silence for several moments, and then he opened his eyes.

Chad sat on the bunk, hands on his knees, looking down at him with his blank face. Terror crept up Jimmy’s spine, but he swallowed hard and stayed with it.

“Hi,” he said.

“This is my treehouse,” Chad said.

“I know, but I thought we could share it,” Jimmy said. “I know you died. Can’t we use it together?”

Chad seemed to consider this. “Why?”

“Well, you’re dead. I’m not. And... well, I guess it would be cool to have a dead friend. I mean, when you were alive, you must have brought your friends up here to play.”

Chad’s expressionless face faltered a bit. “I didn’t have friends.”

“You can have one now.”

Chad said, “I’ll think about it,” and abruptly faded away like mist on a sudden breeze.

Jimmy felt his heart pounding, but he whispered to himself, “Cool.”

*   *   *

He didn’t see Chad for three days. Then, suddenly, the boy was back, sitting in his spot up on the bunk. Jimmy was playing a video game on his tablet and almost toppled over in surprise.

“You scared me,” he said.

“I’m a ghost. Shouldn’t I scare people?”

Jimmy laughed. “I guess so.”

“I thought about sharing the treehouse,” Chad said.

“Okay.”

“Do you know how I died?”

“Car accident. They didn’t know what happened.”

“I do.”

Chad suddenly slid off the bunk and dropped to the floor. He stood, clasping his hands before him. “I didn’t have friends. Everybody thought I was weird. But that’s okay, because I hated them. And I hated my parents.”

Jimmy’s blood cooled.

“I was fighting with my parents in the car,” Chad went on, stepping towards Jimmy. “My dad built this treehouse, but they were mad at me. He said he’d tear it down. So I undid my seat belt and choked him until he lost control of the car.”

Terror washed over Jimmy.

“I killed myself for this treehouse,” Chad said, moving towards him, “and nobody else will ever use it.”

Jimmy leaped from his bench, backing away. “But why can’t you share it?”

“Because I don’t want to,” Chad said, and lunged at him. Jimmy felt himself going through the hole in the floor and heard himself screaming as he fell.

He flailed as he went, and his arm hooked into one of the ladder’s rope rungs. It jerked him in mid-air, snapping him back before his arm wrenched free and he continued falling—but by then only half the distance. He hit the grass on his side, felt his left arm snap, and felt the wind get knocked out of him. He gasped frantically for breath, feeling his arm burning in pain.

Through tears, he looked up at the ghostly face in the trap door thirty feet above. Chad was angry, his eyes blazing red.

“Anyone who comes into my treehouse will die!” Chad roared, and suddenly he vanished in a flash of light and the trap door slammed shut.

Jimmy stared, wide-eyed, clenching his arm with his good hand. He knew he could never go up there again, and he knew he could never let any other kid go up there. But what if a neighborhood kid sneaked up there, or Jimmy’s parents sold the house? What if another kid moved in and wasn’t so lucky?

He knew what he had to do.

Minutes later, his parents came out of the house, screaming and crying, even as the treehouse burned. They hugged their son, who was crying with blood and bruises and a broken arm, the gas can on its side in the grass.

*   *   *

Jimmy knew he was probably grounded for the rest of his life, but it was worth it. Nobody believed his ghost story, but he knew he’d done the right thing. The fire department had extinguished the fire before the whole tree had burned up and toppled over, but Jimmy’s dad would have to take what was left down.

He got into bed that night, one arm in a cast, content in his actions. He was about to snap off the light when he saw it. He sucked in his breath and his eyes grew wide.

Chad sat at the end of his bed, hands on his knees, and turned to look at him with his expressionless face.

“This is my bedroom,” he said.

David M. Fitzpatrick is a fiction writer in Maine, USA. His many short stories have appeared in print magazines and anthologies around the world. He writes for a newspaper, writes fiction, edits anthologies, and teaches creative writing. Visit him at www.fitz42.net/writer to learn more.