Who Ya Gonna Call?
by Kenneth Weary
Hunting ghosts is hard work, but it paid the bills. I reminded myself of that as I ran through the dank halls of Westin Hills Hospital. I had only been a freelance exorcist for two years, but I was one of the best.Though one couldn't tell if they saw me now. I was shaking in my boots. I hated haunted buildings. I had been hired to rid the old hospital of a ghostly teen girl who had died in a fire in 1889. A spiteful little bitch, Franny had caused rebuilding to be delayed indefinitely with her tantrums. Suddenly, the dusty double doors blew open as a whirlwind pursued me, Fran the center of its eye.
She had caught me off guard and I gave a little whimper. Taking a swig of red wine from my Hello Kitty flask, I braced myself. Franny sighted me and blew forward in a rage. I reached into my bag and pulled out my trusty-- stake?
"Shit!" I cried. I had meant to bring my cross. The Damned were afraid of God, a stake was not acceptable. I didn't have time to react as I was swept up in Franny's ghostly wind. Time to improvise, I thought. Pulling my lighter from my pocket, I filled my mouth with red wine and spit it on the flame. Franny screamed in the flare and dropped me. she hovered by the ceiling and gathered herself, then rushed forward again. I was ready.
"Bring it bitch," I muttered.