A Ghost Story

I thumbed through my new issue of Spooky Magazine and spotted an ad titled "Professional Ghost."

The ads in Spooky were getting weirder all the time. Last month's ran one titled, "Professional Hangman." The guy hung wallpaper. I figured this would be just as illusive.

I read the ad. "Professional Ghost. If you want me to scare the crap out of someone, I'll give them diarrhea for weeks! Guaranteed. 917-555-2BOO."

Huh, I thought, and went on checking out the magazine. But my thoughts kept going back to the ad.

I picked up the phone and dialed 1-917-555-2BOO.

"Hello?" A soothing voice calmed my nerves.

"Are you the ghost?" I asked.

"Heavens, no." The voice eased out of the phone.

"Sorry, I must have the wrong number." I reached for the receiver button.

"You have the right number. Your name, sir?"

"Peter Dorfman," I answered. I had no intentions of giving my real name. But it was too late. It came out of my mouth before I knew it. "Who are you?"

"John Smith."

"And what is your connection with the ghost?"

"I'm his channeler, Mr. Dorfman."

This ought to be a real hoot, I thought. "So what's the deal?"

"A hundred dollars a day and a guarantee that the job will get done without killing anybody."

This guy's boat isn't afloat. "What I meant was, why did you decide to run the ad?"

"That's what he wanted."

"Yeah?" I leaned back in my chair. "He talks to you?"

"No. He talks through me." The voice never lost its soothing power. "Now would you like to receive his service, Mr. Dorfman?"

"Why doesn't he scare people at random like most ghosts do?" I questioned.

"Too boring. Besides he wants to help people."

"A ghost with merit." I mumbled.

"Pardon?"

" I said, 'Of course, that's it.'"

"It is, Mr. Dorfman. Would you like his service."

I thought, Sure, I want to throw a hundred bucks a day down the drain just so this crackpot can get rich. "How do I know I'm getting the 'bang,' or should I say, the 'boo' for my buck?"

"I can arrange a 'presentation.'"

"And what will that cost?"

"Absolutely nothing. Would you like me to sign you up, Mr. Dorfman?"

"I've got to go, but, whatever." I said and hung up.

He'll probably run by my window some night wearing one of those ugly masks going, "W-o-o-o," and think I'm scared senseless, I thought, as I wandered into the kitchen, and realized I had to go grocery shopping. I slipped into the bathroom and ran a comb through my black hair. I had to look handsome for Amanda, the knock-out clerk at Huff's Grocery. I splashed musk on, trimmed my beard and headed out the door.

My red Corvette roared to life with a turn of the key and I pointed it down the country road for town. The drive would take fifteen minutes, just enough time to get there and do my shopping before Amanda got off work. Then I could invite her back to my place, again, and hope this time she'd say, "Oh, yes, you hunk of a man," instead of, "Hell no."

I turned the last corner before the long stretch into town and couldn't believe what stood along side the road. A woman. I don't mean just any woman. A magnificent woman. And she had her thumb out!

I dynamited the brakes. The Vette skidded to a stop.

She leaned in the window, golden hair dangling around her stunning face. Her revealing neckline showed off her cleavage. "Where are you headed?" she asked. Her piercing blue eyes mesmerized me.

"Ah ba blah ba." My tongue licked the polish off my shoes.

"I love a man who gets tongue tied." She slipped into my Vette and slid onto the console with her legs straddling the gear shift. "Is this comfortable for you?" She stroked my hair.

"Tha va com bo." My tongue hadn't made it home.

"Good," she stated. "Let's see what this tuna boat will do." She grabbed the gear shift, yanked it into drive and stomped my foot resting on the gas pedal to the floor.

Tires squealed as they scratched for pavement.

I fought her foot, but it pinned mine down like it had been super glued to the floor. Beads of sweat rolled down my face as I worked to keep the car from veering off the road.

"Seeing a man sweat really turns me on." She kissed me on the lips.

I tried to push her away so I could see the road, but she didn't budge.

"Are you nuts?" I yelled when she released my lips. I glanced at the speedometer. The needle inched past 120. I looked back up. A semi roared towards me.

"Let's play chicken." The woman seized the wheel and turn the Vette into the oncoming lane. The semi's horn howled.

I fought the wheel but she overpowered me. "Let go, you stupid broad," I shouted.

"Don't be such a chicken." She cackled.

The "Peterbilt" on top of the silver grill loomed over me! I closed my eyes. Braced myself for the impact.

I didn't hear the crash nor did I feel the pain of ripping metal tearing me apart. But I had to be dead. Nobody lived through a 120 miles per hour crash with a semi. I opened my eyes. My hands clinched the steering wheel, knuckles white as an albino. My elbows locked my arms stiff. The car, parked along side the road, didn't have a scratch on it. And there was no beautiful woman.

What had just happened? I must have gotten tired, pulled over, nodded off and had a nightmare. That had to be it.

I fired up the Vette and grabbed the gear shift. A powder covered it. I smelled my hand. The powder smelled like the woman's perfume. I glanced around. It covered the console, down the sides of the seats and my right foot.

Then I knew what happened. After I fell asleep, someone came along, saw me, decided to have a little fun and dumped talcum powder in my car. The fragrance induced a dream about a beautiful women. Where the rest came from, hey, dreams are always weird.

It didn't make me happy someone embalmed my car with talcum power, but there was nothing I could do about it now. I glanced at my watch. Five minutes before Amanda got off work. I crammed the Vette into gear and peeled out. I might make it before she went home.

An old woman rode a bicycle out of the ditch right in front of me. I stomped the brake pedal. Nothing. I jerked the steering wheel hard to the left. No response. POW! The bike twirled into the air. The old lady flew over my hood and planted her face in my windshield. I knew her. The old lady had lived in the haunted house down the block from where I lived when I was a kid.

I sat staring at the lady we nicknamed Prune Face. It was no wonder she haunted the house after she died. And believe me, I never went near it, no matter how big the double dares.

She opened her eyes!

"I'm going to get you, Petey!" She reached through the windshield and grabbed my shirt collar. "I'm going to eat you alive."

"No, Prune Face!" I screamed. I didn't mean to call her that. It just came out.

She opened her mouth wide enough to engulf my head. "No!" I shouted. No, no, no, echoed back. Darkness.

I hadn't thought of Prune Face in years. Why had I dreamed about her? Why couldn't I remember pulling over and falling asleep? And who kept dumping this stupid talcum powder everywhere? Somebody drenched me, the hood and my windshield.

I fired up the Vette, turned the windshield washer and wipers on, got the powder off the windshield and made an u-turn. I couldn't go to the store looking like this. Amanda would laugh me out of town.

No way would I fall asleep going home. These dreams were too weird. I drove the speed limit, easing around every corner in hopes nothing would pop out in front of me. I pulled into the drive, shut the car off and sighed.

Inside, I stripped and hopped into the shower. I just got toweled down when the doorbell rang. I slipped my bathrobe on and strolled to the door. "Who is it?" I called.

"Amanda."

I clicked the door unlocked. Threw it wide open. There she stood wearing a slinky black dress.

"I hope you don't mind me taking you up on your offer," she said.

I practically jerked her arm off pulling her into the house. I pulled her close. Kissed her square on the mouth.

When our lips parted she whispered, "Do you really love me?"

"Yes." I stroked her alligator rough face. I jump back. An alligator skinned creature with gray eyes and a long tail stood in front of me.

"What's a matter," a gravelly voice sprung out of the creature.

I shot into the bathroom, slammed the door and locked it.

"Don't hide from me," the creature cooed.

I glanced around the bathroom for something to club it with. The plunger sat next to the toilet. I drew it onto my shoulder like a baseball bat.

"Honey?" Amanda's voice penetrated through the door. "What's wrong? I came to have a good time. Now, come out of there."

I unlocked the door, eased it open a crack and peered out. Had the monster just been my imagination?

"I don't understand you." She stood with her hands on her luscious hips. "You're always trying to get me to come out here, and when I do, you act like I'm some sort of-of-monster."

"I'm sorry." I opened the door a little wider.

"Well, put that plunger down and come here." She held her arms out.

I inched the plunger to the edge of my shoulder.

"If you're going to act like that, I'm leaving." Her arms drooped to her sides.

"Don't go." I set the plunger down and stepped out of the bathroom. "I've been having weird dreams."

"Poor baby. Come and let Amanda make it all better."

I shuffled across the room into her waiting arms.

"Now isn't that nice," the gravelly voice roared.

"No." I squirmed, trying to escape the grip of the tightening alligator arms.

"You're not getting away this time." The creature squeezed me so tightly I thought my lungs would pop.

"Let me go." I tried to wrestle away.

The creature threw me on the couch and jumped on me. "Don't you think I'm beautiful?"

"No!" I shouted.

Tears rolled down Amanda's face. "I thought you liked me." She pushed herself away from me. "I don't understand." She jumped up. Raced out the door.

"Amanda." I chased after her. "Come back," I yelled as her car squealed out of the drive.

I lumbered back into the house just as the telephone rang. I yanked it up. "What?" I bellowed.

"Did you enjoy your 'presentation,' Mr. Dorfman?" the soothing voice asked.

"Drop dead!" I slammed the phone down.

It rang again. I jerked it up and blared, "Leave me alone."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Mr. Dorfman." The soothing voice sounded sickening. "You have committed yourself."

"To what?" I asked.

"When you agreed to the presentation, you also agreed to the service."

"Go spook yourself." I slammed the phone down again. It no more hit the cradle when it rang again.

I plucked it up. "Get lost."

"I'll see that Amanda forgets all about tonight's episode, Mr. Dorfman, if you utilize the service."

"Was that really Amanda?" I asked.

"Yes, Mr. Dorfman. The ghost made her look like a monster."

"How sweet."

"If you say so. Now who will receive our service? An old school teacher? Or perhaps an old boss? An ex-girlfriend?"

"What happens if I don't use your service?"

"Then we'll see that all your days turn out just like today. Would you like that, Mr. Dorfman?"

"Not particularly."

"Well, then?"

I couldn't think of any enemies so I opened the phone book, closed my eyes, and pointed. I read the name my finger landed on. "D.L. Wood, 1951 N. Thruston."

"Very well, Mr. Dorfman. That'll be a hundred dollars a day for fifteen days."

"What?"

"That's our minimum terms, Mr. Dorfman. Of course, we could continue the 'presentation.'"

"I'm writing out the check right now." I grabbed my checkbook. I didn't know how this guy did it, but he could sure make life miserable.

"Make it out to Professional Ghost, Mr. Dorfman. And by the way, if it bounces, or you stop payment on it, you can look for our services to be presented to you again."

"None of that will happen." I assured him.

"Good. The next time you call someone about their service, don't be so cocky. Have a nice day, Mr. Dorfman."

I hung up. "I'm really sorry, D.L. Wood, whoever you are," I said out loud.