Poltergeist

a writing by Paul Butters

“Come in,” smiled the kindly old gentleman.

The three young men were ushered into a cosy lounge and invited to sit on the settee and armchairs.

“I’m Nigel Senior,” went on the gent, seeing they were settled. “You say you are ‘The Ghostbusters’, or are you too young to remember such a film?”

“Well I was a little kid when it first came out, I must admit,” replied Dave, “But yes, in a way we are ghost busters I suppose. I’m Dave, this is Carl here, and that’s Bob. I gather you’ve been having a rough time of it recently with this ghost of yours.”

“Absolutely, it’s been sheer hell!” agreed Mr. Senior, “But I’m being rude, do you three want a cup of tea?”

“No thanks,” answered Dave gently, “We’ve got a tight schedule today. Better get straight down to business, if that’s okay with you.”

Mr. Senior nodded with a smile, got up quickly, and asked them to follow him into the kitchen. Soon they were confronted with a big pile of broken crockery.

“That’s just from this last week,” moaned Mr. Senior, “Every night it, whatever it is, just slings cutlery and God knows what else around the kitchen! Do you think I’ve got a poltergeist?”

“Sure looks like it,” affirmed Bob, “Are any other rooms affected?”

“Oh yes indeed!” nodded Mr. Senior, “Come and see for yourself.”

So Mr Senior showed them all around the house. It was a mess of broken furniture, torn curtains, many small items flung hither and thither. Presently they were re-directed to the lounge and invited to resume their seats.

“…And all those horrible wailings and howling!” continued Mr. Senior, “It must be such a tortured soul!”

Suddenly there was an ominous sound of footsteps from just outside the front of the house. Someone grated a key in the lock, which the lads knew was already open. A harrowing curse was shouted, probably by whoever held the key. Then there were loud bangs as the door clearly got stuck and refused to budge. With a howling of wind and sprays of rain, the front door finally swung open. In dashed a middle-aged man and woman. They were hooded and dripping wet. The three young men turned in astonishment to face these two, as they lowered their cowls.

“What are you three doing in here?” demanded the man.

“Mr. Senior here invited us in to tell us about his, err, issue,” replied Dave.

“Where’s he gone?” cried out Carl, “He was sitting just there a moment ago!”

“This is Mr. Senior love,” explained the lady, “I’m Sara Senior, his wife. Are you the ghost removal people?”

“Yes,” conceded Dave, with a gulp, and rather a reluctant look of admission on his face.

“Damn, he’s done it again!” sighed ‘Mr. Senior’, “I hate to say this son, but you’ve just met our ghost!”


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