PANK HAUNTINGS – The House Guest

By Daniel Beauregard

We’d just see him occasionally in the kitchen or the common areas every once in a while, at least the first two weeks. He’d be just sort of putzing around like he didn’t realize we were there at all. The sightings were often brief. You’d turn your back to pour a cup of coffee and he’d already have disappeared. It wasn’t until several weeks into his stay that they became more frequent, unexpected. One of us would be brushing our teeth in front of the bathroom mirror and bend down to spit, then suddenly, there he was standing behind us; or, we’d be fucking and go to change positions and he’d be sitting on the corner of the bed, staring. It was kind of bothersome but also kept things interesting—sort of spooky—never knowing when he’d just materialize out of thin air; like having your own little voyeur in the house. We made a game of it, trying to see if we could eat before he floated into the kitchen or finish and throw our clothes back on before he hovered through the door. As he began to materialize more frequently, even that novelty wore off. We soon found ourselves, like it or not, with a permanent house guest. We’d walk in the door, home from work, and there he’d be, in the kitchen sitting at the table or in the living room stretched out with his feet upon the sofa. For no apparent reason at all, he’d taken a liking to me. So it soon went from finding him in the common areas at all times of the day to having him attached at my hip.

 Sera of course found it hilarious. Who wouldn’t, really? After all, seeing the psychic was my idea; clearly, it’d blown up in my face. But at the time, it seemed like fun; something different for us to try, spontaneous. There was a flyer tacked onto some old announcement board in one of the town’s many coffee shops. We found ourselves in front of the place a few days later, ringing the bell and waiting for the door to open. We stood there a minute or two and were just turning to leave when it swung inwards. A soft voice, hidden by shadows, asked us what it was we wanted. I held up the flyer and she stepped aside and waved us in. There was a small table with an ancient, moth-eaten table runner, atop which sat a cloudy crystal ball, a plate with some dying candle nubs and a bowl of what looked like herbs, bones, and other odds and ends.

As we sat, the woman cleared her throat. She had this sort of imperceptible quality about her, which made it difficult to determine what age she might have been. But when she folded her hands onto the table as she sat down, they looked ancient. She motioned us to take a seat and make ourselves comfortable and reached beneath the table, pulling out a cheap cigar box and placing it next to the crystal ball. She opened the box slowly, her gnarled hands pulling out a stack of dog-eared polaroid photos and spreading them out upon the table. Each one had a name and age pasted upon them with a white label. Go ahead and take a look, she said, then choose one that calls you, she said in a soft voice. We looked at each of the photos. They were men, mostly—middle-aged—a few women and children mixed in. Sera touched each one and settled upon an ordinary looking guy with brown hair and plain features, like one would imagine Biff Loman from Miller’s Death of a Salesman.

I nodded and Sera slid the picture forward.

So what’s the deal with this anyways? I asked skeptically. The psychic thought for a moment before answering. Think of it as sort of an Air BnB for wandering spirits, she replied. Sera scoffed and said under her breath: do ghosts even take vacations? I squeezed her hand under the table. The woman didn’t seem to notice. Alright you two, she said. Hold hands and clear your mind of negative thoughts. Be at ease and breathe deeply. You’re inviting a wandering spirit into your home, so it’s important to make them feel as comfortable as you would any other house guest.

We both did as we were told. 

Before I closed my eyes, I saw the woman caress the photo and reach behind her, pulling out a mason jar from a nearby shelf and unscrewing the lid. There was a sort of greenish blue goop inside and she scooped out a generous portion with two fingers—it had the consistency of Vaseline or hair gel—then slopped it onto the candle in front of her. For a second or two, the flame grew, changing from black, to blue, to green, then returning to the soft yellow glow it had been when we’d come into the place. A few minutes later she said some words in a language neither Sera nor I could understand and the whole thing was over. We paid and left and that was that. On the way out, she called after us, Now if you have any issues with your house guest—any issues at all—don’t hesitate to get in touch.

*

Weeks went by without any sort of apparition. We’d forgotten about the whole thing until one day we came home from shopping. The alarm system was going off, which wasn’t unusual—we had frequent false alarms back then—but when we opened the door and came into the kitchen Sera and I dropped our grocery bags, stunned. Floating naked before us was the man from the photo, semi-translucent—we could see through him to the wall behind—the resemblance was unmistakable. Without acknowledging us, he floated toward us quickly. Both Sera and I sidestepped before he could pass through us and he turned the corner and floated down the hallway into the living room. By the time we’d gathered our wits to follow him he’d already dematerialized, leaving us both to wonder if what we’d seen was real or not.

Soon the sightings became more frequent. After the first few apparitions, we spent the coming weeks on edge, nerves frazzled until we grew used to them. We’d installed an EMF meter next to the thermostat in the hallway that led to the kitchen. It beeped infrequently and didn’t seem to work most of the time, even when he was hovering right next to it. Once we’d gotten used to sightings, we were thrilled; it was exhilarating. Neither Sera nor I could help mentioning it to several of our closest friends. But the ghost was never around when we wanted him to be; it’s like he knew he’d been scheduled to perform. Every time we had a dinner party, the EMF meter would beep and we’d run into the hallway with our guests, explaining what the EMF meter did, how it indicated the presence of a spiritual phenomenon. All we received were rolled eyes or feigned attempts at politeness, likely leaving them wondering about our sanity. No one ever believed us. The dinner parties soon stopped, along with much of our social exploits. We felt like outcasts, like the ghost had made fools of us, which enraged me.

Things went rapidly downhill from there.

Each morning, Sera got ready for work and left the house as quickly as she could. I took my time. There was never any reason to rush. Those days, our house guest never left my side. He followed me everywhere I went, floating alongside me at work through the low row of cubicles, passing through them as if they were nothing as I made my way to my desk. He’d hover there beside me all day, bobbing up and down. If I left to take a piss, he’d follow. When I went to lunch with coworkers, he’d follow. I began unraveling at a rapid pace, constantly talking to myself, or the ghost rather. People at the office took notice. Before too long I had a breakdown, I won’t go into details now. Let’s just say it was a shameful loss of control. My boss suggested I take an extended leave of absence until I had a chance to get “the help I needed,” whatever that was. By this time, Sera had become noticeably disgusted by the whole matter. Soon thereafter, I was relegated to the guest room to spend my nights, with him always watching over me, floating there or sitting solemnly on the edge of the bed. As my relationship with Sera frayed even more, I noticed something rather odd. The more time I spent with him, the less translucent he became, like he was slowing gaining his old form, turning into a real person again. Every time I tried to light the burner on the stove he’d appear instantaneously to blow the match out; this put me further over the edge. I broke down one morning trying to scramble some eggs, screaming at him as he floated there, a strange sort of look on his face. Sera rushed down the stairs, thinking all hell had broken loose. When she saw me on the floor in such a pathetic state, she drew a long deep sigh and said, Don’t you think you ought to go back to that psychic and tell her we have a problem here? She took pity on me, helping me off the floor. For the first time in what seemed like months, we embraced. Go see her today, Sera said, and tell her he’s not welcome anymore.

I nodded, then she snatched her keys off the table and headed out the door to work.

*

It took me some time to find the place again, as it was hidden in an alleyway off the main drag. When I finally did, the door was locked. I knocked softly, no response. I waited around a minute or so and knocked more forcefully, not stopping until I heard a voice scream from inside. A moment later she appeared and said, Oh, it’s you, come in, and I followed her into the dingy little room. She bade me sit down in the seat opposite her at the small table and without waiting for an explanation said, Problems with your house guest, eh? I nodded. We want him out, I said. He’s no longer welcome. Without going into too much detail, I told her how he seemed to have grown attached to me and never left my side. How it was ruining my relationship with my wife and I was at my wits end. How every time I lit a match to light the stove he appeared and blew it out instantly. She nodded. He died in a fire, she said, then continued, if you want him gone, I can do something to help, but it’s a little out of the ordinary. I’m willing to do anything, I replied, I’ve lost my job, I’m sleeping in the spare room…

She held her hand up as if she understood, then said, stand up and take down your pants. Excuse me? I asked, confused. Listen, this spirit has attached itself to you and I need something from you—your essence—in order to perform a ritual and rid you of him. I rose to leave, thinking she was nuts. Then she reached over and grabbed my hand. You want him gone don’t you? she asked. I nodded desperately. This will only take a minute. I promise, no one will ever know. It’s the only way.

I don’t know why I believed her. Part of me wanted to run, but the other part of me needed my old life back. So I stood and pulled my pants and underwear down to my knees. I watched as the psychic reached over and grabbed a pair of rubber gloves from a nearby shelf and a mason jar. She put the gloves on, then held my semi-flaccid cock in her hand, pumping until it became hard. A minute later, I shot off into the jar she was holding. Despite the strangeness of it all, I have to admit, it felt good, it being the first sexual encounter I’d had since I began sleeping in the spare room. She pulled the gloves off and tossed them in the trash like a practiced nurse, then plucked a few Kleenex from a box on the shelf and handed them to me. I wiped myself down and that was that.

He should begin disappearing, she said. It may take some time but it’ll work. Thanks, I guess, I replied, not really knowing what else to say after getting a hand job from a psychic who kept my sperm in a mason jar. I got up and she walked me to the door and opened it. Just a minute, she said, and ran behind to a shelf, pulling out an old Polaroid camera. Before I realized what she was doing, she snapped a photo. Satisfied customer, she said and laughed, shaking the picture back and forth to let it develop. Outside, the bright sunlight shined in my eyes and I staggered down the alleyway, trying to get my bearings after the odd experience. She shouted after me, Don’t worry, sooner or later you’ll give up the ghost. Her shout terminated in a loud laugh that followed me down the alleyway into the open air of main street. The whole experience left me far too baffled to read too much more into it at the time.

*

After several weeks, Biff (that’s what we’d started calling him) became more translucent, like the psychic said, although he was still as present as ever. One day, Sera and I found ourselves together in the kitchen, an unusual occurrence, as she’d often be up and out the door before I’d woken up. She was washing the dishes from the night before and broke a glass, slicing open her hand. Blood dripped onto the floor off her palm. Before she had time to grab a towel, Biff materialized and began licking her wound, then crouched down to lick up the drops of blood that’d fallen onto the floor. Sera shrieked and ran upstairs. I left Biff in the kitchen, finishing his meal and followed Sera into our room. She’d already dragged a suitcase out of the closet and was frantically stuffing clothes into it as I pleaded with her not to leave. I kept stammering, but the psychic said…the psychic said he’d leave…but she ignored me. I kept pleading with her and she turned at one point and said, I don’t give a fuck what the psychic said, I’ve had it. With that she zipped up the suitcase, carried it downstairs. As she made her way out the door I noticed Biff had dematerialized. I’ll send someone to pick up the rest of my things, she said, slamming the door behind her.

For the rest of the day, Biff remained out of sight; perhaps he knew he’d done something wrong; more likely though, he’d gotten what he’d needed. In a frenzy, not knowing what else to do, I stormed out of the house into the street, walking through town in a half daze until I found the alleyway. I began frantically banging on the door of the psychic’s place, but no matter how loud or how long I hammered there was no reply. At one point, an old woman who lived in the apartment above the place stuck her head outside and asked me who I was and what I was doing there. I told her and she replied, no one’s occupied that place for years. Before slamming her window shut I heard her mumble, fucking nutbag.

I waited a few more minutes, uselessly hoping she’d been wrong and that the psychic would open the door. The place, I then noticed, did seem unoccupied: the hand-painted sign on the glass door chipped away into imperceptibility; the curtains moth-eaten, faded a light pink from decades of unfiltered sunlight. Defeated, I gave up and staggered home. Biff was in the kitchen. He hovered around me all day and gave me no peace until finally, exasperated, I took a knife from the drawer and drew a small slit across my palm, letting the blood drip down onto the floor. He crouched down on all fours and began lapping up the drops of blood then rose and began sucking the blood from my wound, holding my hand with both of his diaphanous arms. I couldn’t feel his touch, but I could feel the blood being drawn out of my body. I realized that if I wanted any respite at all he needed blood, so I began feeding him. But soon it seemed as if I was always feeding him. One look in the mirror and I could tell something would have to give. I spent the days wandering the house, trailed by two ghosts; one Biff, the other, Sera’s spare belongings which she’d never sent for, bits and pieces of our life together. One day it simply became too much. I couldn’t go back to work, I knew that. They’d called and told me, as nicely as they could, that they’d had to fill my position with a temp who’d worked out so well they’d hired him on full time. I did the only thing I could think of: I opened the bottom of the stove—Biff blew out the pilot light—then I cranked the gas and laid there with my head in it, breathing in the rotten egg smell as deeply as I could. I’m not sure how long I drifted in and out, staring through Biff’s ugly, stained translucent feet down onto the dirty kitchen floor. After what seemed like hours, there was an overwhelming darkness one could easily describe as death; of course, it wasn’t.

—

Daniel Beauregard lives in Buenos Aires, Argentina. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in a number of places including Surfaces.cx, Youngmag.io, Harshlit, Ligeia Magazine, Misery Tourism, The Nervous Breakdown, New South, Burning House Press, tragickal, Heavy Feather Review, Always Crashing, sleepingfish, The Fanzine and elsewhere. His chapbook Total Darkness Means No Notifications is forthcoming from Anstruther Press in 2021 and he has previously published two chapbooks of poetry, HELLO MY MEAT and Before You Were Born. Daniel is also a co-founder of OOMPH!, a small press devoted to the publication of poetry and prose in translation. He recently finished a collection of short stories titled Funeralopolis and a novel titled Lord of Chaos and can be reached online @666ICECREAM or www.danieljohnbeauregard.com.