it's halloween, y'all. let's get into it.
ghost contacts you, a local medium, to come rid his house of the souls that still linger. "the voices," he says, "the screamin'. they're too loud." the lives far, so normally you'd say no. it's not worth it to waste the gas on a 2 hour drive outside of manchester, but he said he'd pay, and his "half now, half later" was more than you made in a month.
you record new voices to make the job extra spectacular. creepy sounds, even music, and you pack a little fake blood just to make it believable in case you need something more physical to change his mind.
when you do a walkthrough of his house, the only ghost you find is its owner. he lingers as you walk, always appearing behind doorways or poking his head around corners. you're wary of him, but his money is burning a hole in your pocket, so you keep going, the little machine in your hand crackling as you walk through a dark hallway.
"where do you hear them? the screaming?" you ask, turning. he's where you expect him to be; big brute of a man standing as he watches you from down the hall. he nods to the door on your right, rusted door closed shut, and you open it warily, stepping inside.
it's a quaint room. neatly kept. the odd thing about it that you note is its lack of windows. there's a twin-sized bed in the corner with an array of fluffy blankets, and there's clothing folded neatly on the bed. you run your fingers over the wall, noticing the squares of padded foam hung in a perfect pattern across all four sides of the room. you step a little further into the room, turning again, and you swallow hard when you see him standing at the doorway, hand on the doorknob, his eyes scrunching in a way that you assume he must be smiling under the mask.
you make eye contact with him just as his fingers squeeze the doorknob tight. you pause, the hair on your arms and along the back of your neck standing on end. something isn't right. something is wrong. you're frozen as you stare at him, the dread filling your insides too fast. your heart drops into your stomach, and just as you make a quick break for the door, it slams shut in your face.
ghost hums as he closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. it works now, it works this time, he doesn't have to deal with it. it's bliss; quiet in the hallway, just as he prefers it.
he can't hear the screaming anymore.
