Spirited away

The world bound by spirit and form, transcends into a terror. The trees quiver, the woods shuttle in a strange demeanor, and the zephyr in the night sounds like an owl. I feel death drawing near but not that of one I know, for all those known to me are beyond my compass of approach.

I can not touch though my hands do stretch, foul enough to call what I have hands. I laugh because I cannot fathom nor contort the main idea that I exist in the world yet outside it. My spirit - wait, I am a spirit- is a force not to be reckoned with. I am bound within the bounds of terror. Not the terror of the living, but the terror I bring to the living. Please do understand, that it is neither a matter of want that I haunt nor a matter of need that I taunt but a sincere uncontrollable compulsion that I do so. It is not a thought but an instinct, not a choice but a subconscious act, and not a will but reluctancy, that I bring horror to you all.

My hope for freedom is to not spook but look, I am a spirit spirited away from the desire to share rather than to scare. Humans I send away, for my purpose is to spirit away. Day of rest, night of mortal torture, my work hours are eight to five. I am unconventional from the normal system of work for my work is unconventional in itself. What a world I live in!

Ever heard of the word boo? They say it's "scary", yet to me it makes me merry. Why, you ask? It's that word that makes my world. The world I haunt is a curious place boundless mix of gloom, shadow, and a surprising amount of jest. Yes, I know it sounds grim, well- as grim as death- my task as a spirit of terror, but I assure you, there’s a twisted humor in haunting. Imagine it: my daily toil isn’t office-bound or mundane but steeped in twilight and the uncanny (encounters).

It’s an eight-to-five job, different from the fairies time of work, and my co-workers are shades of odd. There’s Sam, for instance, a spirit assigned to the local library. His task is to rearrange books in cryptic orders, swapping romance novels with horror tales or alphabetizing by first line according to the spelling of "Halloween" Get it, they all start with H like Halloween. He likes to watch mortals scratching their heads in pure confusion when they come across "Hamlet" lounging next to "Harry Potter." And then, there’s Myrtle, an old Victorian ghost who’s given up on scaring humans entirely; instead, she floats around mumbling Shakespearean sonnets to dusty portraits in the city’s abandoned estate. But I? I am a classic, a ghost who scares. A spirit spirited away. Oh, that reminds me! my name. Of course I have a name; I know I am spirit but even Sam has a name. The good thing is my name also starts with the letter H. 

My nights are busier than your average human being might expect. Guess what, as dusk slips into night, I find myself drawn to where shadows gather, mist clings close to the ground, and a deafening silence fills the air like an old friend. I call it “bringing the supernatural to the natural” (I know it's a bad joke but it's a classic) —that delicious shiver down their spines, the whisper of leaves shifting where there is no breeze. Ah, how they clutch their coats a little tighter, glancing around with wide, fearful eyes. What they don’t know is I’m likely floating just inches behind, trying to keep from chuckling. My laugh, you see, isn’t the sort you’d want echoing down a lonely path; it’s got a touch of thunder and mischief—a sound that can curdle the blood if you’re already on edge.

Now, to be perfectly transparent, I’d be happy to engage in some less…harrowing pastimes. Cloud-watching, for instance, sounds like a charming pursuit. Perhaps I could even take up harmonizing with the evening wind—simple, peaceful. But alas, I am “spiritually contracted” to scare. I signed up centuries ago, back when I was but a new specter, eager and impressionable. This isn’t just a job; it’s more like a calling, an instinct that rises within me every time a human steps into my realm. I tried fighting it once, back in the early days. Picture it: me, counting to ten, holding my breath, focusing on “just letting them be.” Naturally, that went about as well as a thunderstorm in a library—uncontrollable chaos. The more I resisted, the louder the whispers around me grew, the stronger the urge became. It was then that I perfected my signature “BOO.”

Oh yes, *boo*—that little word has more power than you might imagine. A three-letter burst that, in the right setting, sends grown humans sprawling, screaming, tripping over themselves. There’s an art to it, though. Too soon, and it’s a mere startle, too late and they may have already convinced themselves it’s “just the wind.” But ah, just right, and you have them leaping over hedges, barreling through doors, or my favorite—crashing straight into each other. Imagine me, a maestro of terror, orchestrating a symphony of shrieks with nothing but a single, well-timed syllable. 

My day starts like any mortal’s, in a way: with routine. I wake with the stars, float through the woods to shake the trees a bit—get the energy flowing. I stretch, which, when you’re a spirit, means something closer to passing through branches and stones, just for the feel of it. And then, with a whisper of wind to announce me, I’m off to work, haunting in earnest. By night, I am the unseen, the inexplicable. By midnight, I am the unknown that hums just beyond their periphery. 

It’s not all gloom, of course. Some nights, when the world feels like a wet blanket, I make it a point to entertain myself with the “phantom touch.” It’s a ghostly handshake, a skill I honed over the centuries, and it’s harmless, really. I’ll simply tap someone on the shoulder, maybe tousle a strand of hair. The poor soul will whip around, seeing nothing, and mutter about drafts. Sometimes I get creative, turning into a dark shadowy owl, if only to perch nearby and watch the mortals squirm. Imagine the joy of watching an old birdwatcher swear he saw “a ghost owl” staring right at him.

By dawn, I float back to my haunt in the woods, a tired and amused spirit clocking out without a timecard or paycheck. No pension, no coffee breaks. Just endless nights of making humans run and the occasional chuckle in their wake. Don’t misunderstand me, though. For all the dread and darkness, this job still has its perks. Once, I scared a pair of teenagers so badly they ran into the old cemetery keeper’s shed and had to sleep there till sunrise. What a night!

Ah, I can almost hear your pity now, wondering if I might prefer a peaceful existence. Perhaps a job that didn’t involve spooking people into panicked dashes through town squares. And yes, I would love to be more of an observer. To roam gardens, drift through museums, even watch people sleep (strictly out of curiosity, of course) without sending chills down their spines. But this is not within my spectral rights. For you see, I am a spirit bound to terror.

When I’m not scaring, I sometimes haunt “Spirit HR” in my imagination, filing the odd, phantom complaint. My first would be about lighting, I think. It’s always flickering and dim when I’m around, without so much as a decent spotlight. My second would be about the wardrobe situation; every night, it’s just my same old shroud and some mist, not a fashionable cloak or hat to be found. And last but not least, I’d file a request for a scare quota. Imagine if I only had to scare, say, five humans a night instead of constantly roiling about in terror. I’d even take on the “casual fright” program for a chance at early retirement.

Despite it all, I’m a content spirit. Yes, I live for the thrill of a good fright, but I don’t mean to scare people witless. If I could wave a wand, I’d much prefer they left a bit startled, not scarred. But again, that’s not up to me, is it? The laws of haunting are ancient and strict, dictated by forces as old as time itself. It’s a haunting life, but it’s my life.

On the darkest nights, when the fog is thick and the air still, I find a special peace in my work. The silence wraps around me, a reminder that this world is neither here nor there. I am as much a part of it as I am outside of it. And that knowledge fills me with a peculiar sense of joy. I drift between realms, untethered yet bound, a visitor and a resident in the land of the living.

So, dear reader, if ever you feel a chill in the air or glimpse a shadow that seems to breathe, remember: it’s just me, hard at work. And if you happen to hear that unexpected “boo,” don’t be alarmed. It’s just my unique way of saying, “Good evening.”

And thus, the night unfolds, each scare leading to another, each startle bringing me closer to dawn. You might even call it my way of keeping the world in balance, filling the spaces between laughter and fear with something…spirited. 

And should we cross paths, I hope you won’t begrudge my little fright. After all, what’s a ghost to do when he’s got a job to do?