Ghost Hunting in Colombia
I received news of a ghost in Bogota, Colombia the day before yesterday. According to the news, she was wearing clothes from another century. She walked in front of three cameras and vanished right in front of them. Hoax? Maybe. It was up to me to find out.
I bought a plane ticket heading straight for Bogota. I gave my grandmother enough food to last for days, packed my ghost hunting kit (my laptop, iPod, and a Ghostbusters T-shirt to show this spectre I meant business), and got on the plane.
I arrived in my mother's home country at around three in the afternoon. I found the area where the ghostly woman had been spotted and found one of the residents nearby. He was an old man; bald, wrinkled, and old. Very old. I stood in front of him, staring at his beady eyes for a full minute before asking the old Latino a question in his native tongue, "Здравствуйте, я пришел, чтобы бороться с призраком. Пожалуйста, скажите мне, где она, чтобы я мог ударить ее трудно."
"Oh, you speak English?"
"I'm a retired English teacher. What do you want, American?"
"The ghostly woman. Who is she?"
The old man shrugged. "I do not know. She just appeared one day. Might not even be a ghost."
I nodded, though I wasn’t sure whether I believed him. How could she not be a ghost? It was the perfect explanation. It made sense, really. It was far more believable than "atoms" or putting a man on the moon.
"What do you want with her?" the retired teacher asked.
"I'm hunting her."
"What? Don't do that."
"Fuck you, I'll do what I want. Goodbye, comrade."
I headed to the nearest motel and bought myself a room for cheap. I spent the night on my computer, looking up ways to defend oneself from ghosts.
That was when I heard the screams.
I ran outside, armed with a pepper spray. I spotted a crowd of people looking down at a dead body. The dead body of the retired English teacher. He was dead. Deader than dead. He was like Dick Cheney's heart, only a bit more lively. But still dead. His guts were splattered on the ground and his blood began to change color. A black color. I headed back inside before anyone could blame me. In a land of foreigners, I could be used as a scapegoat for the man's murder. I propped the bed against the door and hid in the roach-infested closet for the rest of the night.
The next day, I left the motel. I called up an old contact back in France and asked for help. My contact told me about Pedro, one of his experts on ghosts. He would meet me at the cemetery. I asked him why he had an expert on ghosts as a contact and he hung up on me. He always does that.
I headed towards the cemetery and met with Pedro, a handsome man who wore his jeans a little too tight.
"The ghost killed him," the mysterious young man said.
"Are you sure? Also, how did you I was going to—"
"Shut up. Leave town. Now."
"Your presence is upsetting the ghost for some reason. You need to leave before she claims another life."
"Hell no, I ain't leaving. I came to fight a ghost."
"Think about this, man. Another life will be snuffed because of your damned curiosity."
I shrugged. "I'll live."
“Not you, you dick! I mean other people!”
I was confused by what he meant. “Other…people?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake! I’m outta here!”
“Wait!” I shouted after the fleeing Pedro. “What size are those pants?!”
It was getting dark. I ran out of the cemetery as fast as I could. There was no way this psycho ghost was going to get me while I was in the graveyard—oh fuck she was there.
She stood in front of me, as plain as day even though it was night. I could see her face; emotionless, though it had a hint of rage. Emotionless rage. Angry unemotion. Is that a word? Should be. She had earlier killed a man. Pedro told me she would kill again. Could I be her next victim?
She pointed a finger at me and opened her mouth to say something…
“I think you’re hot!” I shouted at her.
She blinked in confusion.
“For reals?” she asked me.
“Wait, you can speak English?”
“It’s a ghost thing.”
I shrugged. I’d take that explanation.
“How hot do you find me?” She played with her ghost hair.
“Pretty hot,” I lied. I mean, she was pretty but not that pretty.
She jumped me. I landed on the grave dirt with the ghost girl on top of me, ectoplasmic lips on mine. She made grunting noises; it wasn’t anything unearthly, she just didn’t know how to moan sensually. We made sweet, ghostly, probably immoral and illegal love in the middle of the graveyard for hours. I can’t even describe the things we did because I’m pretty sure the FBI is keeping tabs on me.
When the sun began to rise, I quietly gathered my clothing and left the naked ghost girl on the ground. It was over. All those Twilight and Hush, Hush books were right: all a misunderstood and troubled girl needs is a mysterious man to sex her into her senses. I was that mysterious man. I was Edward Cullen. Now my Bella Swan would soon move on to the afterlife, but I wasn’t going to be there to see it happen because then she’d get all clingy on me and I’m not ready for a relationship right now and she would probably have wanted me to stay in Colombia and I couldn’t because the internet sucks there.
I got on the first plane back to New York. My services were needed there and I hadn’t played Dishonored in a while anyway. Hehe, I guess you can say I did some…ghost busting.
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