The Ghost

Mr. White’s always shouting “Great Caesar’s Ghost!” about stuff, but one day a bald dude wearing a bloody toga and laurel wreath appeared in his office.
He said something in what I figured was Latin, and even though I took a year of it in High School, I was totally hopeless with it.
“CALL A FUCKING PRIEST!” shouted Mr. White, cowering behind his desk. “WE NEED AN EXORCISM!”
Caesar held up a pizza box with a cartoony version of himself
He frowned, said “You think I look like this?” and then vanished.
Mr. White switched our company account to Domino’s.

Ghost Energy

Ghosts are most intense immediately after death, expending their energy to compel the living to complete some task of theirs left unfinished.
But after a few years, energy exhausted, ghosts fade and are reduced to wisps or phantasms… and then just unusual regions of spooky feelings when people pass through their former haunts.
Professor Bolton says ghosts can replenish their spectral vitality with fear and life force energy drawn from the living, but there are also natural waves in the world that intensify with great disasters.
But digging up someone’s grave works too.
Pass me the shovel.
And step back.

Cheaters

The big Necromancy test is tomorrow, and the Wizard Academy wants to ensure that nobody cheats on it.
All potions must be mixed fresh the day of the exam.
No special talismans or charms allowed.
And any attempt at cribbing spiritual energies from a classmate are strictly prohibited.
This is enough to keep most students on the level, but there’s always a too-clever-for-their-own-evil pupil ready to break the rules to beat the grade curve.
To convince them to play it fair, they tell the students that they will be working with the corpses of cheaters from years past.
PENCILS DOWN!

Yard Sale

I bought a ghost.
At a yard sale.
Although, it was technically an estate sale, considering it was all the ghost’s stuff being sold off.
And I didn’t mean to buy the ghost. I wanted to buy a sweater, some coffee mugs, and a really slick blender.
The ghost apparently came with all that stuff.
I asked for my money back, but they had a big NO REFUNDS sign.
And ALL SALES FINAL, so I couldn’t just give the stuff back.
It’s a nice sweater. And the blender’s nice and loud. Covers the ghost’s moaning and rattling chains.
More coffee?

When The Ghost Hits The Fan

If you run a common desk fan long enough, grimy gunk will accumulate on the blades.
Sure, a lot of it is dust, but the rest of it turns out to be chopped bits of ghost.
What? You thought that ghosts were person-shaped specters or flapping empty-eyed sheets floating in the air?
Well, I’m not sure about that. These bits and fragments are rather small, but I’ve collected up enough to take a guess.
What is it a ghost of? A person?
Actually, based on what I’ve got so far, I’d say it was a ghost of a dust bunny.

Ghost Writer

When I was young, my guidance counselor asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up.
I said “I want to be a writer.”
The guidance counselor laughed. “Writer? Not a doctor? A lawyer?”
“No, I want to be a writer.”
“Nobody is a writer,” said the counselor.
I pointed at his bookshelf. “Then who wrote those?”
He picked one out. “Shakespeare. He’s dead.” He picked out another. “Freud. Dead.”
Every book chosen, it was by someone dead.
So, I got a typewriter, paper, and killed myself.
People assume I’m a ghostwriter.
But these days, I prefer editing.

The Third Ghost

The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come never said anything to Scrooge.
Just did a lot of pointing and menacing.
Thank God that plan worked.
Why? Well, you remember that Mike Tyson guy?
Yeah, the boxer who bit off that other boxer’s ear and went to jail.
Remember his squeaky boyish voice?
The Ghost has the same problem.
Instead of a scary rasp or thundering growl, he talks in a high squeaky voice like a midget having his balls squeezed.
What? When have I heard a midget with his balls squeezed?
Um, ask The Ghost Of Christmases We’d Rather Forget.

Saucy Tim

Sometimes, I wonder if A Christmas Carol was just a CIA experiment involving hallucinogenic mustard.
The ghosts.
The memories.
The visions.
All his deep-buried secrets and fears, unleashed in a night of guilt and terror.
I mean, even Scrooge was suspicious, right? “Tis only a blot of mustard.”
If only he’d followed that suspicion instead of dismissed it so readily, the world would be a different place.
Sure, Tiny Tim would have died, but all those hookers he killed when he grew up to become Jack The Ripper wouldn’t have been brutally slaughtered.
God bless them, each and every one.

Get your own ghost!

What are you doing, wrapping your rage in a ghost?
If you’re going to be an asshole, do it on your own terms!
Don’t go dragging their good name through the mud as you bloody your fists on someone face.
It’s disgusting when you wrap yourself in the flag and act all patriotic for profit, but it’s utterly revolting how you exploit the memory of someone who trusted you.
How could you?
What’s even worse is that you didn’t even wait for them to die.
I wish you were dead, because I can’t wait to do the same to you.

Gertie and Eustus

My rich Great Aunt Gertie lays in bed, eyes closed, arm around her beloved cat, Eustus.
He’s not the original Eustus.
Gertie tried cloning. Cloning is hit-or-miss with personalities, though.
Luckily, the last came out nice and docile.
Now, she’s trying out the latest in hologram fields.
Before, they just rendered dusty, translucent ghosts.
These days, they’re quite lifelike with tactile presence.
Eustus wakes up, stretches, and curls back up, purring contentedly.
Gertie flickers for a moment, smiles in her electronic sleep.
She left everything in her will to Eustus.
(Even though he’s just a cloned copy, my lawyers say.)