"The New Ghosts" - Chad Redden
On New Year's morning we released the new ghost for this year from its package. We thought we bought something exotic; a Crimean spice merchant who was the victim of an early plague year. We thought it’d be a ghost easily confused by our apartment full of modern appliances and indoor plumbing. Ours turned out to be a fraudulent specter, a congregation of grasshoppers that died of old age, bound together in a wadded t-shirt. Nothing violent. This will happen when you buy a ghost from an antique store.
"It's bad luck to go without a New Year's haunting, just bad luck," you said, knelt on the kitchen floor looking into the cabinet under the sink. "Are they just going to hide in there all year?" you said, then poked the broom handle into the cabinet knocking a bottle of beach to the floor.
Through the walls we heard our neighbor’s screams. A thud from the upstairs apartment shook the ceiling. "Scream with me. Scream so no one thinks we forgot a ghost this year," you said.
"WE didn't forget a ghost. WE have a ghost. WE have GHOSTS," I replied, pointing into the cabinet.
"SAY IT LOUDER!" You screamed and then took the sauce pan from the sink and threw it at the wall.
I picked up the toaster, lifted it over my head and then slammed it to the ground. You stopped screaming, and began to cry. "This isn't going to work, this isn't the same."
On New Year's few stores are open. Even fewer have ghosts left for sale. I found a gas station with a few left and bought a failed Salaryman that committed suicide in 1988. The clerk at the counter asked, "Running late this year?"
"No, the first one, well, it just doesn't work," I replied.
"Happened to me one year. Swear I got someone's mother, she kept refolding my laundry, turning the music down," the clerk said, then handed me my ghost in a plastic sack.
When I returned home you showed me your changes to the living room. The furniture was nailed to the ceiling. "Sorry, I worried my mother would stop by," you said.
I gave you the sack with the Salaryman ghost. You unscrewed the jar to release him. We watched his vapor trail leave the package and move into the television. It turned on and screen scrolled through pay-per-view henti. "This is the worst New Year's ever. I'm going back to bed," you said. Our neighbor’s screams continued to drift through the walls.
Later, after I found my paperback Japanese phrase dictionary, I woke you up. "Hey… hey… I think if you go take a shower, I can maybe talk the Salaryman into trying to strangle you with the shower curtain," I said.
You rolled over and looked at me, "Why do we have to replace our ghosts each year? Why do they leave us in the first place? I loved Samuel."
"I didn't realize last year's ghost had a name," I replied.
“He was the ghost from three years ago,” you said.
The volume of the television downstairs rose to distorted volume and before I figured out it was the sound of animated sex, I thought a girl was begging for her life.
Chad Redden was found in a shoebox and rehydrated. His work has appeared in analog and digital publications. He edits NAP (naplitmag.com).
"It's bad luck to go without a New Year's haunting, just bad luck," you said, knelt on the kitchen floor looking into the cabinet under the sink. "Are they just going to hide in there all year?" you said, then poked the broom handle into the cabinet knocking a bottle of beach to the floor.
Through the walls we heard our neighbor’s screams. A thud from the upstairs apartment shook the ceiling. "Scream with me. Scream so no one thinks we forgot a ghost this year," you said.
"WE didn't forget a ghost. WE have a ghost. WE have GHOSTS," I replied, pointing into the cabinet.
"SAY IT LOUDER!" You screamed and then took the sauce pan from the sink and threw it at the wall.
I picked up the toaster, lifted it over my head and then slammed it to the ground. You stopped screaming, and began to cry. "This isn't going to work, this isn't the same."
On New Year's few stores are open. Even fewer have ghosts left for sale. I found a gas station with a few left and bought a failed Salaryman that committed suicide in 1988. The clerk at the counter asked, "Running late this year?"
"No, the first one, well, it just doesn't work," I replied.
"Happened to me one year. Swear I got someone's mother, she kept refolding my laundry, turning the music down," the clerk said, then handed me my ghost in a plastic sack.
When I returned home you showed me your changes to the living room. The furniture was nailed to the ceiling. "Sorry, I worried my mother would stop by," you said.
I gave you the sack with the Salaryman ghost. You unscrewed the jar to release him. We watched his vapor trail leave the package and move into the television. It turned on and screen scrolled through pay-per-view henti. "This is the worst New Year's ever. I'm going back to bed," you said. Our neighbor’s screams continued to drift through the walls.
Later, after I found my paperback Japanese phrase dictionary, I woke you up. "Hey… hey… I think if you go take a shower, I can maybe talk the Salaryman into trying to strangle you with the shower curtain," I said.
You rolled over and looked at me, "Why do we have to replace our ghosts each year? Why do they leave us in the first place? I loved Samuel."
"I didn't realize last year's ghost had a name," I replied.
“He was the ghost from three years ago,” you said.
The volume of the television downstairs rose to distorted volume and before I figured out it was the sound of animated sex, I thought a girl was begging for her life.
Chad Redden was found in a shoebox and rehydrated. His work has appeared in analog and digital publications. He edits NAP (naplitmag.com).
