Humor: After being ghosted by a ghost I'll never mix business and pleasure again

When I became a professional psychic, I expected risks. An entity might throw a chair at my head. I could encounter demons during a routine asylum assessment. I also risked a pottery session with a spirit who needed to reenact their favorite Patrick Swayze movie before they could move on to the afterlife.

Yet, a broken heart never crossed my mind when contemplating the possible dangers.

A couple hired me to investigate their old manor on the edge of town. It had been built sometime during the early 1700s. They were sure a ghost resided there and wanted it gone. So I spent time in the home, hoping to catch something unusual and figure out how to proceed. I didn’t have to wait long. The first morning, after my shower, a message appeared on the mirror, written by a ghostly hand. “You are so hot.”

Ugh! I’m sorry, but just because you’re dead doesn’t mean you get to be a pig. I don’t care what era they died in. I turned on the shower to steam up the bathroom mirror again before writing, “Stop watching me shower, you pervert. Also, I don’t appreciate you objectifying me.”

Later that night, I was rocked to my core while exploring the house. Not by the blood on the walls but by the message it spelled out. “I’m quite sorry. It’s been so long since I felt this kind of connection to a woman, and I came on too strong. I should have remembered my manners. I won’t bother you again.”

Quickly, I took out my recorder. I began to talk into the air, asking questions. Then I’d stop the recording and listen to the crackling reply. The ghost apologized, I forgave them, and then I tried to get to know them better.

I found out his name was James. He died 100 years ago when he was 27 years old. He came from a wealthy family (but still wanted to make a difference), his favorite color was blue, reading Emily Dickinson was his favorite pastime, he supported the suffragette movement, and he liked long walks in the woods. He had hoped to settle down and start a family but never really fell in love until he met me.

We developed inside jokes expressed purely by tapping on walls. Those strong spirit hands that stacked chairs proved to be apt at…other things. I stayed in the house for hours at night, promising to work for free so Mr. Olsen didn’t object, using the Ouija board to talk late into the evening. However, since I wasn’t solving the ghost issue, Mr. Olsen invited more investigative teams to the manor. Soon, James stopped replying to my taps.

I heard rumors around the ghost-hunting forums of other female investigators having their hair stroked or butts squeezed. One blond went so far as to say that she’d received an X-rated note from James, scrawled by her partner’s hand during an automatic writing session. Another investigator (a redhead who daylights as a model) claims she let the ghost into her body to learn what it wanted and can only describe the experience as “sublime.”

That was enough for me. One night, I confronted James via the board. I brought up all these encounters with other psychics. He spelled back, one agonizing letter at a time, “Were we exclusive?”

I moved the planchette and drank from a bottle of wine as he moved the planchette. Then, I moved the planchette more and then drank more. Angry words were spelled. I don’t remember what happened next. When I woke up, I saw my bible and a crucifix on the floor. The room smelled of incense and booze. James was gone. The house was clean, but my heart was broken.

Now I’m all business. I get in, find the ghost, help it find peace, then move on. No talking to the spirit off the clock. If I learned anything from this experience, it’s that even in death, a jerk will be a jerk.