Gostly Encounters of the Fourth Kind

Content warning: graphic sexual depictions, but it's for comedic purposes rather than erotic.

I, an arch-demon, fear the spirits of the dead like an elephant fears a mouse. My human companion, though concerningly easy to possess, can’t see ghosts and fears nothing.

I accepted his contract because he was lonely and naive and only asked for a friend. It was an easy job, and I desperately needed work to replenish my reservoir of souls after being thrown through a wormhole to Earth during a losing battle in Hell’s war with Heaven. I never thought I’d have to explore active haunts with him for—YuToob?

“If there are any ghosts in here, can you make your presence known in some way? Maybe you could make my flashlight flicker,” My companion said as he panned his camera around the bedroom of an abandoned love hotel.

To him, the walls, painted with faded pink stripes and mucked with mold creeping across their corners, the creaky and sunken wood floor flooded with brown water, the dusty, red, heart-shaped headboard poetically cracked down the middle, the worn-out pink and white sheets over the sunken-in mattress, and the stale air full of dust particles lit up by the moonlight peeking through the boarded-up window all looked like signs of empty, decaying abandonment.

It was all the same to me, aside from the group of naked ghosts who paused mid-orgy to look at us with irritation and disdain. None of them were poltergeists, so they couldn’t manipulate physical objects. There was no interaction that my spiritually blind companion could have with them. To the ghosts, we looked like two mundane idiots. Such lowly spirits couldn’t sense that I was an arch-demon in disguise, so I tried my best to pretend I didn’t see them.

“Seems like nothing’s here. Why don’t we check somewhere else?” I nudged my companion in an attempt to back us out of the impending public embarrassment.

“But look at those stains on the bed sheets! I think it’s blood,” My companion said excitedly as he approached the bed.

It was most definitely not blood. My sensitive nose would have picked up on the iron notes as soon as we entered the room. The stench was instead a nauseating mix of mildew and ectoplasm. This was not the first spirit orgy to have taken place in this room since its desertion.

The spirits floated out of my companion’s way as he shoved his camera into the middle of the orgy circle. One of the spirits with a belly as round as a shield and legs as hairy as my hindquarters sat himself down in front of the camera and proceeded to beat his meat while his buddies egged him on.

The ghostly man came all over the camera lens, and the spirits cheered. My companion squinted at the camera’s digital screen.

“My view just got blurry. This thing is so fickle sometimes,” He complained as he re-adjusted the focus.

The spirits laughed at him. I made a mental note to give that thing a deep cleanse when we got home. Even if he couldn’t see the ectoplasm dripping from the rim, it didn’t mean the sensitive technology wouldn’t pick up on it. Human technomancy is not a magic system to underestimate. I’ve known lesser demons who’ve fallen victim to the shit the human race comes up with to get around the fact that 96% of them don’t have a connection to the Weave.

“Hey, let’s try using the spirit box to see if we can pick up any supernatural activity in this room,” My companion said as he placed the stupid black box on the mattress.

Not all technomancy was commendable, like the so-called “spirit box,” since it could technically connect the living with the dead. The Weave’s laws of probability tampered with its reliability to maintain the barriers between realms. Any living race across the galaxy that tried to meddle with the realm of the dead ran into issues with the laws of probability. It was a taboo practice unless, of course, they were Weavers from an Afterlife Matrix like myself.

Many of the spirits returned to their lustful fun, while some curiously watched my companion set up the box. The thing played its white noise, and he explained to the camera how the box worked as he backed up enough to get the whole bed in frame. Understanding what it was for, the spirits delightedly shouted various profanities, vulgarities, insults, and corny horror movie ghost impressions at the spirit box.

All he could hear was white noise, cut-off clips of words, and the occasional, high-pitched moan coming from a particularly loud bottom.

“Sounds like someone’s screaming,” My companion said. “Do you think someone might have been murdered here in the past, and their angry spirit is still haunting this room because maybe it was a crime of passion, and they couldn’t rest in peace without closure?”

“Something was definitely murdered here, I’ll give you that,” I replied.

One of the ghosts yelled “pussy!” Miraculously, it was the only coherent word the spirit box spat out.

Yes. Thank you, spirit.

The spirits cheered, giggled, made out, and fucked harder fueled by chaotic glee.

My companion chuckled, flustered. “Well, I guess that’s pretty appropriate for where we are.” He deflected as he shut off the box. “I think that wraps up this week’s episode. Is this place really haunted or not? I’d say I’m not impressed. I think the ghosts need to try harder. What’s your take, Aamon?”

Sometimes, I think this fool has forgotten that he made a contract with a legitimate Marquis of Hell. The ghosts threw out a few choice words and a couple of boos to convey their annoyance. I crossed my arms and sighed deeply with embarrassment. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

“I think I want to leave now.”

“Well, there you have it, folks. What do you think? Please drop a comment, and be sure to hit that like button and subscribe to get notified when we post another episode of Ghostly Encounters of the Fourth Kind. See you next week!”