My Personal Ghost Story

A while ago, I was asked if I believed in ghosts. To illustrate, I told a story.

Many years ago, I lived with my good friend Dave. Roxy, his girlfriend at the time, was into mysticism and hauntings and stuff like that.

One Saturday evening a bunch of us were going to hit the town, and we were deciding where we were going to go. Then, Roxy suggested that we stay in and commune with ghosts. Everyone agreed and was super into it. I was grumpy because I wanted to go out.

Roxy was convinced our apartment was haunted, and that we could communicate with the ghost that lived there. We all sat there with our hands on a Ouija board, as Roxy asked yes or no questions to the ghost. Questions like, “Are you here?” and “Are you angry?”.

Agonizingly slowly, our hands moved around the board. We’d spell something out, then try again. And again. Roxy was looking annoyed. The answers we spelled were things like “Jaspit” and “Yvugli”, words I suspected weren’t in the dictionary.

I made a crack about the ghost being illiterate. Roxy did not appreciate the joke.

Later, as I was going to bed, Dave confronted me while Roxy glared at me over his shoulder. He told me that Roxy told him that the ghost told her that it was upset with me, and that I would need to apologize, otherwise bad things would happen to me that night.

I told him to tell her to tell the ghost that I’d take my chances.

I slept great and woke up refreshed, but the joke’s on me because right afterwards I was murdered.