3.Ghost of Salem
J. Bannerman (8/24)
Todd wasn’t new to ghost hunts, though he knew damn well no spirits lurked in the shadows. He didn’t buy the supernatural horseshit, but a story was a story, and any reporter worth their salt chased the scent of blood. The Ghost Geeks were local gods now, their piddling podcast and YouTube racket clawing its way to a Netflix deal.
That’s why Todd stood in a rotting house two towns from his office, disgusted by twisting his sun-scorched face into a grimace. The air reeked of stale dust and mildew, a rancid fist that slammed his nostrils with every step into another forsaken room.
The ghost hunters strutted ahead, flashlights slicing through the murk of hallways and chambers, bellowing at dead things they swore raged in the century-old ruin. The basement hit a different John Carpenter dread oozing from its bones the second Todd’s boots crunched the warped, whining stairs.
They rounded a corner, and the hunters’ toys screamed like gutted pigs. Todd stayed mute as a shape human, maybe slunk across the far end of the basement, a flicker in the black. Before the others could blink, he ripped the concealed pistol from his hip and fired. The shot cracked the air, a thunderclap of judgment.
The scream that answered wasn’t right it tore backward, a shredded howl from some unholy throat. It clawed on time, seconds stretching into jagged eternities, until a wet thump slapped the floor. Ethan’s voice slithered out, a hushed thrill: “The gear’s losing its shit.” Silence choked the group, a single bulb swaying overhead like a hanged man. “Told you we needed film lights! But nooo, someone had to flex their infrared goggles! Bro, the stream’s live Gideon’s got it locked, so chill the fuck out.”
The hunters erupted, a snarling pit of stock-exchange chaos. Todd barely heard them over the hot piss flooding his jeans, fear’s humiliating baptism. He watched the nerd’s claw at each other over gear, then roared with every shred of his shredded guts: “HEY! What the hell do we do? I just shot something or someone!”
Melissa, the goth queen of the crew, smacked her pink gum, the bubble bursting in a black pink sneer. “What’s that mean? It was a ghost, dipshit. You know, the crap you don’t believe in.” Todd gaped, dumbfounded how could something that hot be that brain-dead? “I shot it! It screamed! It hit the damn floor!”
Laughter exploded, a cruel, barking chorus. “Funny little bastard,” one spat. “I fired ‘because it scared the shit outta me!” Todd’s voice shook, piss soaked denim clinging to his thighs. “We gotta get outta here!”
They stared at the wall, dust-cloaked and pocked with his bullet hole. “Lay off the gummies, man!”
“No! I saw blood rivers of it down the body! I heard the scream! I’m not insane!”
Theresa’s laugh boomed, a cannon of mockery. “Grab a beer, freak. We’ll roll the footage upstairs and prove you’re nuts.”
“Fine, but I’m gone after,” Todd growled. Melissa twirled her dark hair, smirking. “Shame. I’ve got something way better than beer to settle you.”
He bolted upstairs, shocked a live wire in his veins. Tucker, the ringleader, grinned. “Gotta be real messed up to ditch that offer.”
“In your dreams, asshole,” Melissa snapped.
“Every night, my goth rose,” Tucker purred. She flipped the bird with him.
Upstairs, Todd clutched a Bible like a lifeline. Melissa sauntered in. “That’s for demons, not ghosts, dumbass.” They hauled out four laptops: audio, heat signatures, four-screen room view, and the fancy-ass 4D infrared rig.
“100% proof you’re hallucinating,” Tucker said, eyeing Todd’s white-knuckled grip on the Bible. “Play it,” Todd rasped, throat raw.
The screens flickered alive four minutes of creaking wood, a gunshot, and jack shit else.
“Bruh, your head’s screwing you. A gun? Ghosts don’t bleed,” Tucker said, laughter slicing the air again.
“No!” Todd bellowed. “I saw it! I’m done with this Salem witch crap, ghost garbage, haunted bullshit. I’m outta here.”
“Wave at my Porsche on the way out—Netflix eats this Salem shit up,” Tucker sneered.
The door slammed as Todd staggered to his news van, Bible still crushed in his fist.
“Pissed his pants, poor bastard,” the crew cackled, packing up and scattering to their holes.
Todd dumped his gear at the station, the news director’s disappointment already a sour echo in his skull. Another night.
He rolled in near midnight, but the lot was a circus everyone outside, faces twitching with glee and dread. He stepped out, voice steady but loud: “Nothing happened. Total bust.”
His work buddy grabbed his arm, yanking him inside. “C’mon!” They hit an edit bay, and the guy punched up Todd’s live-stream footage. There it was—blood spraying from the shot, pooling on the floor, that backwards screamed shredding the speakers.
Cops had heard the blast, rolled up, traced the blood trail—and found a body. A six-year-old girl, missing since 1804.
“You’re the king of journalists, man! You shot a ghost, it bled, and they found her! New paranormal gold!”
Todd’s head spun. “What about the Ghost Geeks?!”
“Next week’s scoop!”
Faith his only anchor, he cracked the Bible for his favorite verse. Blank pages stared back.
