(Content warnings: Nondescript implied mentions of violence)
I’ve had my fair share (and several more) of paranormal encounters before, but none quite like this. I expected the usual abandoned mansion with unexplained voices and ominous winds, but this place is basically normal. Low ceiling, inconveniently placed power outlets, even a half-open dishwasher with some grimy plates and cups still neatly stacked in rows inside. It’s not too far off from the apartment I used to live in back in Florida before I got this job. Feels lifetimes away now. It’s a cold night tonight, and I’m irritated with myself for not bringing my jumper. But the boss said this was a highly important mission, and that takes priority over my discomfort.
The place definitely feels haunted, though. I pull out my ectoplasmic sensor, or as we in the industry like to call them, “ghost-grabber,” and it reads 105.9. A few points above average, but nothing in the quadruple digits like you’d expect from a high-level spirit. I breathe a sigh of relief. Last time I went out to deal with one of those, the darn thing nearly scratched my eye out. Turns out more people than you’d expect try to illegally keep tigers as pets, and this one had a nasty temper and paranormal powers to boot. I was lucky to get out of there with my life.
I’m jolted from my reminiscing about the bad old days by an odd noise from the downstairs bathroom. Now, I’m no stranger to paranormal sounds, but this doesn’t sound supernatural. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it sounded like someone was playing hip-hop. Treading lightly is difficult with black janitor boots, but I try my hardest. As to be expected in a place this old, the wood creaks and moans pathetically at even the slightest touch.
Stepping carefully over the moss-coated floors (gross), I wince upon seeing the dark maroon liquid encrusting the sofa in the corner of the room, a puddle of the long-dried substance staining the carpet as well. Seems like there was quite a struggle here. I pray I won’t have to deal with another murder victim ghost—they’re the most temperamental and violent of all.
Eventually, I reach the door to the hallway. Jiggling the lock produces no results, and I let out a frustrated sigh upon realizing I don’t have my lockpick handy. Instead, I’m forced to walk back towards the kitchenette, where I find an elevator shaft.
Huh. This must’ve belonged to someone pretty rich if they could afford to have an elevator in their apartment block.
I look down the shaft and see that the car is predictably all the way at the bottom. The rails it would normally glide smoothly on are mottled brown by rust, and it only takes me a moment to realize what I need to do.
Climbing down onto the edge, my hands are shaking with exertion as I try to keep hold of the rough stone. My boots are built for trudging through muck, not rappelling down surfaces, but they work alright to help me slowly descend towards the lower floor.
Creak. I stop dead about halfway down the shaft. It’s clearly impossible, but when I hear steel begin to grind, my fight-or-flight instincts kick in.
Bracing myself for the drop, I let go and land only somewhat painfully on the elevator roof, which is slowly but surely beginning to rise. Sparks fly and my breath quickens as I realize my impending fate.
I’m now trapped above the roof. Assuming this elevator, which has inexplicably come back to life, continues to rise, I am going to get squished into a pancake against the top of the shaft.
Everything happens very fast. Before the machine can lift any further, I test my body’s limits for the second time today by ducking and rolling over the edge. I curl up into a ball,unfortunately resulting in my arms getting smashed against the ground instead of my head, but the pain is still so agonizing I can’t move for several minutes. As my adrenaline ebbs away and my heart rate slowly dulls, I’m grateful for one thing, at least—I am still alive.
“Alright, what’s the big idea?” I shout, shakily rising to my feet. Only a poltergeist could make a broken elevator operate again. For better or for worse, I’ve now gotten its attention. “My name is Tyler Wellington. I’m no threat to you.”
There’s no response. My surroundings look exactly like the room I entered from, clearly untouched for many decades.
But that music I heard before is now louder than ever. I see a thin sliver of light coming from underneath a nearby door, and with a sigh I push it open. The door of course makes a loud creaking noise (seriously, does nobody in the realm of the undead remember how to oil their hinges?) and I walk inside to perhaps the strangest scene I’ve ever seen in all my years of ghost-hunting.
A single specter is standing dead center on top of a disco dance floor, ball spinning above his head and everything. He keeps strutting around, seemingly not noticing me.
“Michael Jackson?” I say, which gets the ghost’s attention immediately. He has a poofy 80s style hairdo, but I don’t think this apartment is that old. He simply smiles and shakes his head, showing a mouth full of gleaming white teeth. I see no marks or wounds of any kind on his body, which is really unusual for any ghost, unless he died of old age. But seeing how young he looks, I’m guessing that’s not the case.
The man tilts his head forward and beckons me in an unmistakable “come on” gesture. Knowing it would be rude to refuse, I step onto the dance floor without complaint.
“Just so you know, I don’t really dance…” I say, but the ghost takes no notice. He spins in a circle, then does a star jump, before landing in a perfect split. Then the man eagerly waits.
Body still aching, I try my best to follow his lead, messing up the star jump horribly and nearly ripping my pants when I try to split. Unlike him, I’m not forever young and vigorous, and as my boss keeps saying, I’m getting far too old for this kind of thing.
“Oof!” I say with a wheeze. “Sir, I can’t keep this up for much longer!”
The ghost’s eyes blaze and I feel myself being forced back up. The ghost snaps his fingers and a boombox springs into existence. He still doesn’t speak, but when Queen music begins to blare out of the speakers, I realize what’s going on here. It’s a dance battle.
“Alright.” I say, putting my hands on my hips and pushing to straighten myself. “Let’s go.”
He starts first, a dazzlingly quick display of ground-spinning followed up with throwing a ghostly rose into a nonexistent crowd, before moonwalking several paces backward and tossing his hands in the air.
“I’m starting to get the sense that you don’t know where you are right now.” I mutter, then start on my own dance routine. If this sucker thinks he can outmove me, he’s got another thing coming.
I start with the Robot. Michael, as I’ve decided to call him (despite him confirming that wasn’t his name), stares at me with a dumbfounded expression, seemingly having not been aware of that move.
Then I go to a rapid pointe spin (my knees are screaming at me in protest) before actually managing to land a split.
“Don’t stop me now!” I yell in time with the singer on the boombox, getting back to my feet and leaping into the air. “I’m having such a good time—ack!” The colors of the disco ball change to a bright yellow, illuminating me landing on my heel badly and it twisting funnily. My entire left leg lights on fire, but I don’t stop. Doing the macarena with a twisted ankle takes some effort, but I manage it. Now for the grand finale: Ignoring every piece of advice my doctors have ever given me, I take a running jump at the disco ball and body slam it to the ground. The sphere, instead of winking out or shattering, begins to glow.
I have just enough time to say something unrepeatable under my breath before the disco ball explodes… into a shower of confetti.
The stunned ghost only stands there for a moment before giving me a satisfied nod and speaking for the first time. “Finally, I can be at peace. You are my superior.”
“You danced yourself to death.” I say, wheezing from the pain of my ankle, and Michael nods. “But now that you’ve—huff found a better dancer than yourself, you can finally rest. Gadzooks, this hurts.”
Michael extends his arms, and with one final rush of agony, my leg contorts itself back into a normal position. Then, with a smile, the man fades away to nothingness. Just to confirm he’s really gone and not hiding, I check my ghost-grabber. It reads a completely normal 104.5.
I just lay there for a moment, letting the pain leave me. When I can almost stand again, I grab a plank of wood to steady myself on and hobble out of the apartment building, through the hole I created to get inside in the first place.
I really need to remember to ask my boss for a vacation.
Artwork by Elias Schupmann on Imgur