How To Train Your Ghost

“You saw in the listing that the unit is inhabited, correct?” The man’s voice is too formal and stilted. It makes me want to ruin his day. 

“Ya, that’s fine. My aunt’s house is inhabited so I’ve been around spirits. It’s a nice one, right?”

“Mr. Franklin never reported any issues. I believe he was quite happy here but his health deteriorated and, well, he needed additional care.”

The old man never complained because he was utterly deaf and couldn’t see past his nose. I once made the roast in his fridge look like a dead cat and he just cooked and ate it. No reaction whatsoever. He was so boring. It was torture. 

The pair meander the tiny apartment, discussing utilities and tedious human needs. I desperately want to start slamming cupboards and smashing light bulbs but exert my faintest trace of willpower. A new tenant is worth the wait. 

“It’s a minimum 6-month lease commitment, then a guarantee of a 12-month extension offer at the same monthly rate. Standard inhabited-rental terms.”  

“Great, I’d love to take the place, then.” Score! I sweep down from my perch on the curtain rod to get close to this new companion’s face. She’s got deep red hair but up close there’s the tiniest hint of brown roots. Her skin is neatly covered in makeup that doesn’t hide the fine lines near her eyes. Her breath smells like peanut butter. I can’t wait to make her cry.

They’ve continued talking while I investigate and now they shake hands and move toward the door. I hope this being moves in quickly. I’ve been bored for so long. 

“Oh,” The redhead pauses at the door and glances back. “I forgot to ask if you had details on the spirit?”

The realtor flips pages on his clipboard, “Apparently it’s female presenting and has been called Jessie in recent years.”

“It” is so demeaning. I blow a hard puff of air in his face, causing him to yelp. 

The redhead gives a titter of laughter, then frowns slightly, as though remembering she’s supposed to be an adult. “Do you know if that’s her chosen name or one given to her?”

“I’m not sure. Is that important?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I’ve just heard that, you know, you’re supposed to rename them? To have more power over them?” She started doubting herself halfway through, morphing the statement into questions. 

“I would have no idea about that. I suppose you could do some research. I thought most people just ignored the spirits.” I can’t wait to see her try to ignore me. 

“Well, okay… I’m good then.” She lets him exit first, then glances over her shoulder. “Bye for now, Jessie, looking forward to getting to know you. I think we’ll have fun together.”

Oh yes. At least one of us will. 

—

Blood drips along the bridge of her nose, into the corner of her eye. She twitches, brushes at it, then finally blinks her eyes open. It takes a moment for understanding to cross her face, looking up at the slowly expanding spot above her head. Another large sticky drip plops onto her forehead. 

I had given her a full week of peace, to move in and get settled, before introducing myself. Just a few quick appearances behind her in the mirror (made her jump but nothing as exciting as fainting), a rotting rat in the fridge (sadly only an illusion and she knew it immediately), and hiding her keys every morning (she started leaving a house key under the mat outside, where I can’t get at it). Now, three weeks into our burgeoning relationship, I’m already having to up the ante. 

She rolls over and pulls the duvet over her head. Damn it. This creature is so boring! 

When she finally gets out of bed, I hover behind her in the bathroom, nudging cosmetic containers away just as she reaches for them and blowing into her eyes to make her blink at all the wrong moments. Finally, finally, she snaps and tries to scold me, “What do you want, Jessie? Seriously, what? You need to knock this off because I refuse to reward your bad behavior!”

Joke’s on her. This is the best moment of my day. But then she’s gone, off to work, and I’m alone. Again.

—

She comes home grumpy, scowling and throwing her bag on the ground. I wish I could make her feel like that. She only gets more wound up when she steps in the squishy pile of bodily fluids on the floor. I wish I could make a corporeal mess like that. 

Jumping on one foot, she flails to the sink to wash herself, cursing the decrepit old alley cat that she discovered on the back step the night she moved in. The old man could barely remember to feed himself but he never forgot to throw scraps to the mangy thing. The redhead took it a step further and brought the beast inside where it now screams until fed and discharges itself on various surfaces. She seems to begrudge her decision to become his caretaker. 

“Gross, Panda. What’s wrong with your litter box?” I can’t help myself and my laughter slips into audible range. “Oh, shut up, Jessie.” 

I’m still chuckling over her misfortune as she unpacks her things. From a glossy shopping bag she extracts three tiny vials. Each is labeled with an overwrought drawing of a different flower. “I finally picked up the oils for you. Lavender, rose, and chamomile. That’s what Jules said would help you calm down and be better behaved. We’ll see. Jules seems to think essential oils cure everything but it’s worth a shot.” I show her what I think of that idea by knocking the bottles off the counter. Tragically, they don’t shatter. “Jessie! Damn it, stop that! What is wrong with you, seriously? Really glad I bought the oils specifically for use on spirits. One of the features is break-resistant bottles so you can stop trying.” That is achingly annoying. 

She busies herself putting a couple drops of the oils into little dishes (also from the shopping bag so I assume they are spirit-specific as well though I see nothing special about them) and placing them around the apartment. She’s checking her phone and muttering to herself so presumably there’s some ritual going on here. The oils smell nice enough. I wonder if the little dishes are breakable. Certainly the oil will spill when I throw them at 2am. 

The oils are just the start. The redhead puts on some flute music, “The guy on the forum said calming music can really help. Do you like it?” She’s looking toward the ceiling so I assume she’s talking to me, though I’m helping the ancient cat destroy her sofa, tugging at the torn bits of cloth as he scratches. We’ve opened up some rather large holes. Who knew cats were so much fun?

“Hey, Panda, knock it off.” She shoos the cat away. I continue picking at the fabric. “Jessie, don’t help.” She gestures with one of the essential oil bowls as though warding me off. “Here, be calm, or whatever.” I ignore her and rip a long strip. She sighs, rather dramatically in my opinion. “Here’s hoping this shit works fast.”

—

Calming music and some flower smells fail to tame me over the next few days so the redhead spends her weekend cleansing her kitchen of animal products. I don’t immediately realize this has anything to do with me until she starts cursing me for how much food she’s throwing out and the wasted money and what even is she going to eat? I’m fascinated by the way she’s tormenting herself. It’s lovely to watch but I am a little disappointed that I can’t take credit. 

“This person on the forum says that going vegan was the turning point with his spirit problem. Something about ‘death energy’ in the meat products.” She’s talking on the phone. I hover near her ear, trying to hear the other side of the conversation. 

“That sounds ridiculous,” the male voice scoffs. This better not be a boyfriend. “Just be firm with it. These things need to know you’re alpha.” 

“I don’t know. There’s all these conflicting opinions on that. I’ve been seeing stuff that says that’s really old school and maybe not the best.”

“Maybe people with easy spirits can get away with talking nice and bribing them with offerings, but some spirits need a clearer hand. The longer you tolerate this nonsense, the worse it’s going to be.”

“Okay, Dad, I hear you.” 

They continue talking about something boring that isn’t me and hang up. “Okay, Jessie, let’s see how you feel without the murder energy or whatever from the food. You need to be good. Otherwise, I guess I’ll have to be alpha, whatever that means.”

—

She should have kept her chicken nuggets. 

I push my luck that week: unplugging her alarm clock so she’s late to work, unplugging her fridge so her newly-purchased, animal-free food is ruined, and dumping the essential oils into her shoes. Her anger is a lot of fun, but then she doesn’t come home one night. I panic that I’ve chased her away. There’s nothing worse than an empty house. 

—

She comes back with a plan. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You are going to knock off this crap. Your behavior is unacceptable. You need to respect me.” Great lecture honey. Not sure why you think I care. “From here on out, I’m in charge.” I throw her mug at the wall. Bring it.

She waits until I’m busy tying all her necklaces in knots. When I reemerge from the jewelry box, I brush against a ring of salt laid around her bed. Little shocks pass through me, not only painful but giving me the unique sensation of being torn apart. She’s laid rings of salt around all the furniture. I bang the kitchen cabinets for an hour. She tries to speak sternly over the din but gives up. 

The next day, she walks out when I nudge her toast just out of her reach, a little at a time, until it falls on the floor. She doesn’t even say anything, just leaves me. Without any furniture to interact with, I’m forced to open all her drawers, then lure the cat into her silverware drawer, where he generously deposits a hairball. 

Finally, just three days into her experiment in being “alpha” (What does she even mean by that? She just keeps saying it louder and louder.), I tear her shirt and she turns a handful of salt at me. It doesn’t hit me but it’s close. 

I didn’t know I had this type of rage in me. 

The windows vibrate with my shrieks. 

The room goes black. 

Her screams join mine. 

By the end, the redhead’s clothes are shredded, her arms are scratched, and she’s sobbing. When the authorities arrive, summoned by complaints from the neighbors, they quickly dismiss the scene after learning it’s a spirit incident. “Just get them under control, okay?”

I do feel awful. Her face is contorted, streaked with tears, and freckled with salt from falling (being pushed) into one of the rings. Annoyance is fun. Fear can be fun. This? Isn’t fun. Why did she threaten me like that? I hate that I’ve hurt her. She hurt me, too. “This is a mess,” she voices my thoughts, through ragged breaths. We’re on the same page now, at least. 

—

“Okay, no more of that.” She spent the night cleaning up the salt, plus all the things we (I) broke. “There has to be a better way than mutually-assured destruction.” I nudge the lid back on her apple-shaped cookie jar. What an ugly thing. “Thanks, Jessie.” 

I’m considering how to strike a balance of being a nuisance but not triggering a war when she pulls out the box. “I have no idea if this will do anything but I was thinking, maybe you’re bored during the day? What if I put out a puzzle? Maybe you can do that instead of… everything else you’ve been doing. Just, I get that you like breaking stuff and being chaotic. I probably would too, if I’d been stuck in a house for 50 years or whatever.” More like 70. “But, please, please stop breaking everything I own and keeping me up every night. Okay?” No promises, lady. 

The puzzle is interesting, though. I’m too afraid to wreak havoc today but, even after yesterday’s drama, I’m instantly bored when she leaves. The image is a sunset over a mountain. Trite but pretty, I guess. I finish it by mid-afternoon and occupy the rest of the day by turning all her clothes inside out. 

“Impressive.” She traces the mountain with one finger. Then she sees her closet. “But apparently it didn’t take you long enough.”

The next puzzle is bigger. I spend the rest of the day dripping olive oil over all her clean dishes.

She tries again. Not bigger but the design makes it harder, lots of areas of all one color. I only have time to switch the direction of her toilet paper.

Finally, I’m not able to finish before she gets home. “Ha!” She’s annoyingly triumphant. “Success!” Then she picks up one of the last pieces and slots it into place. I tear a corner of the puzzle apart and fling the pieces in her face. She laughs. Damn her. “You only hurt yourself with that one. But I get it. It’s annoying when other people come in at the end. I’ll let you finish.” She pours herself a glass of wine and celebrates when I put the last piece in (after searching for it in the rug for 20 minutes). 

“Did you know there’s a puzzle subscription service where you can get puzzles and return them for new ones when you’re done?” I obviously did not so I blow in her face. “Stop that. Well, there is. So we can have new puzzles all the time. What do you think of that?” I love it. I blow in her face, again. She’s still fun to annoy after all.