BILLY, CARRIE, AND BOB

The night had arrived, and the house looked eerily silent. The wind outside is starting to die down, leaving an unsettling stillness in its wake. Usually, in Kalkaska, Michigan, you could count on the wind whistling through the pines, a constant, comforting hum. Tonight, though, it was dead calm, making the crickets sound like a biker gang revving their engines. I arrived at the agreed-upon time, my hands trembling, my heart pounding in my chest. This was it. This was either going to be the greatest or the most disastrous night of my life.

She met me at the door dressed in a black dress that clung to her curves like a second skin. Carrie. Even her name sounded like a secret you’d whisper in a dark alleyway.

“Are you ready?” she asked, her voice a seductive whisper.

I nodded, unable to speak. Partly because the black dress was doing things to my circulatory system, and partly because I was about to embark on something so unbelievably stupid, so gloriously idiotic, that I felt like I was permanently stuck in a cartoon character.

Let me back up a bit. My name is Billy, and I’m a wreck. That’s probably the nicest thing I can say about myself. I work at the Kalkaska True Value, mostly dispensing advice on which shade of beige best hides drywall imperfections. Carrie, on the other hand, is the kind of woman who makes the world feel like it should be in Technicolor. She owns “Carrie’s Curiosities,” an antique shop down US 131, filled with things that are either incredibly valuable or incredibly dusty, depending on who you ask. She’s got this aura of mystery about her, this… “I know more than you and I’m not telling” vibe that’s incredibly alluring.

And, against all odds, Carrie had asked for my help. Not with a leaky faucet, or the best way to get rust stains off of an old vintage bicycle. Oh no. She needed my help with a ghost.

Yeah, a ghost.

It all started a couple of weeks ago. I went into Carrie’s Curiosities because I was curious. Carrie took one look at my sleep-deprived face and offered me a cup of some herbal tea that smelled faintly of gym socks.

“There’s something unsettled in the house,” she’d said, after I’d choked down half the cup.

I, being the rational and skeptical human being I am, chuckled. “Unsettled? You mean like, your chihuahua keeps barking at the wallpaper?”

Carrie just gave me that knowing look. “No, Billy. I mean, unsettled. As in, deceased and unhappy. As in, a ghost.”

Now, I’m not saying I’m a hardcore believer in the paranormal. But I’m also not saying I don’t believe. I mean, I’ve seen some weird stuff in Kalkaska. Like that time Eido Alawan swore he saw Bigfoot riding a snowmobile. So, I was open to the possibility.

Carrie proceeded to tell me about flickering lights, cold spots, and objects moving on their own. The usual ghost stuff. But the kicker was the whispers. She said she could hear them at night, just barely audible, like someone trying to tell a secret through a mouthful of marbles.

“And what does this have to do with me?” I asked, genuinely confused.

“You, Billy,” she said, leaning closer, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief, “are going to help me talk to it.”

Apparently, I had a certain “aura” about me. A calming, grounding presence. Which I suspected was just her polite way of saying I was boring and gullible. But hey, I wasn’t going to argue.

So, that’s how I found myself standing on Carrie’s porch, about to participate in a séance. A séance. Me! The guy who once tried to wallpaper his bathroom with duct tape.

Carrie led me inside. The house was even creepier than it looked from the outside. It was filled with antique furniture, dusty portraits that seemed to follow you with their eyes, and enough taxidermized animals to populate a small zoo. The scent of old books, mothballs, and something vaguely floral that I couldn’t quite place filled the air.

“Alright, maestro,” Carrie said, clapping her hands together, “let’s get this spectral party started.”

She led me to the living room, where a round table was set up in the center of the room. Five mismatched chairs surrounded it, and a single flickering candle sat on top, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. It looked like something out of a bad Horror film.

“Okay, first things first,” Carrie instructed, pulling out “Ghosts For Dummies” from a nearby shelf. “We need to establish a connection. We will follow the instructions in the book. You must take it seriously, Billy. This is not a joke.”

I nodded solemnly, trying to ignore the urge to burst out laughing. Seriously? A ghost? Me? This was ridiculous. But Carrie was serious. And, more importantly, Carrie was wearing that black tight dress.

We sat down at the table. Carrie began reciting an incantation from the book, a string of ancient phrases that sounded suspiciously like gibberish. I tried to follow along, but mostly just mumbled something that sounded vaguely Latin.

After a few minutes of chanting, Carrie stopped. “Okay,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “Are you feeling anything?”

I closed my eyes, trying to tap into my inner psychic. All I felt was the need to go to the bathroom and the uncomfortable itch of my wool socks.

“Um… I think I feel a slight draft?” I offered tentatively.

Carrie sighed. “That’s just the window, Billy. Try harder.”

We spent the next hour trying various methods to contact the ghost. We held hands, we closed our eyes, we chanted, we visualized white light. We even tried using an Ouija board she picked up at Walmart. Nothing.

“Maybe there isn’t a ghost,” I said, finally starting to feel a glimmer of hope. “Maybe it’s just this old house filled with rats? You know, creaky floorboards, weird noises, that sort of thing.”

Carrie shook her head, her determination unwavering. “No, it’s here. I know it is. We just need to find the right way to communicate.”

Suddenly, the lights flickered. The candle flame danced wildly, casting even more erratic shadows on the walls. A cold gust of wind swept through the room, even though all the windows were closed.

“Okay,” I said, my voice trembling slightly, “that’s not the window.”

Then, we heard it. A low, guttural whisper, barely audible, but undeniably present. It seemed to be coming from the corner of the room, near a particularly creepy-looking portrait of a Victorian woman with a severe expression and a disturbingly realistic mustache.

Carrie gasped. “It’s here! It’s here!”

“Okay, okay, don’t panic,” I stammered, trying to sound braver than I felt. “Let’s just ask it a question. You know, like in the movies.”

Carrie nodded. “Alright. Um… are you there?” she asked, her voice shaking slightly.

The whispering grew louder, more insistent. It sounded like someone was trying to talk underwater.

“Can you tell us your name?” Carrie asked.

The whispering stopped. For a moment, there was silence. Then, a single object moved. A small, ceramic cat figurine on a nearby shelf slid a few inches closer to the edge.

“Okay, that’s something,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Maybe it’s trying to spell something out?”

We spent the next few minutes trying to decipher the ghost’s message. It was slow, painstaking work. The ceramic cat would move slightly on the
Ouija board, then we’d have to guess what letter it was trying to indicate. Eventually, after much frustration and a near-fatal case of eyestrain, we managed to piece together a word.

“Bob,” Carrie read aloud, her brow furrowed. “The ghost’s name is Bob?”

I burst out laughing. “Bob? Seriously? That’s the name of the ghost haunting your creepy antique shop? Bob?”

Carrie shot me a glare. “Shhh! Don’t be disrespectful!”

“But Bob!” I exclaimed, still chuckling. “It’s like the most ordinary name in the world! It’s like finding out that Dracula’s real name is Dave!”

Suddenly, the room grew colder. The whispering intensified, becoming a low, angry growl. The lights flickered violently, and the portrait of the Victorian woman with the mustache fell off the wall with a crash.

Okay, maybe “Bob” was a sore subject.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, Bob,” I said, trying to sound sincere. “No offense intended.”

The whispering subsided slightly. The lights stopped flickering. The room seemed to return to normal, or as normal as it could be in a house filled with taxidermied squirrels and haunted furniture.

“Okay,” Carrie said, taking a deep breath. “Let’s try a different approach. Bob, we just want to help you. Is there something we can do to help you move on?”

The ceramic cat moved again, pushing a small, antique music box off the shelf. It landed on the floor with a clatter, and the lid popped open, releasing a tinny, off-key melody.

“Okay, a music box,” I said, scratching my head. “So, Bob likes music? Maybe he wants us to play him a song?”

Carrie looked thoughtful. “That’s possible. But I don’t recognize that tune. Maybe it’s something specific?”

I shrugged. “Only one way to find out.”

I pulled out my phone and started searching for the tune on YouTube. After a few minutes of frantic searching, I found it. It was an old, mournful ballad called “The Ballad of Screaming Yoko.”

“Okay, I found it,” I said. “Let’s see what happens.”

I played the song on my phone. As the melody filled the room, the whispering grew louder. But this time, it wasn’t angry. It was sad. Almost like Bob was crying.

When the song ended, the whispering stopped completely. The room was silent. The lights were steady. The ceramic cat was back in its place.

“Bob?” Carrie asked tentatively. “Are you still here?”

Silence.

“I think he’s gone,” I said, feeling a strange mix of relief and disappointment.

Carrie nodded, her eyes shining with tears. “I think you’re right, Billy. Thank you.”

We sat in silence for a few moments, letting the weight of the evening sink in. Then, Carrie turned to me, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“So,” she said, “about that Victorian woman with the mustache…”

And that, my friends, is the story of how I helped Carrie, the owner of “Carrie’s Curiosities,” exorcise a ghost named Bob from her haunted antique shop. As for whether or not I actually believe in ghosts now?
Let’s just say I’m keeping a lookout for Bigfoot riding a snowmobile. And
I’ll start listening to “The Ballad of Screaming Yoko” now and then, just in case Bob decides to drop by again.