Projekti
Phantomfacers
Phantomfacers is my second published short story, printed in Northern Light, Volume 9, New Writing 2021–22 by SUISS, the Scottish Universities’ International Summer School, in 2023.
This short story began its life as a writing exercise during my time at SUISS’s creative writing course in the summer of 2022. “The room smelled unpleasant. Describe in more detail.” went the assignment, and from there I went ham with dialogue and esoteric references to a certain C-plot ghost-hunting team in a TV show about a pair of brothers whose family business is driving around listening to classic rock and loving each other very much. If you get that reference, you have to hire me, it’s the law.
So, without further ado,
👻
Phantomfacers
I was the first to arrive, as usual. The main corridor was lit by fluorescent tubes that desperately needed changing. Actually, how were they on in the first place, who was paying the electric bill for an abandoned asylum? The sickly mint-green corridor blinked in and out of existence around my phone as I searched the web for more urban legends concerning the place for tonight’s loose script. There used to be a time when the rhythmless flickers, clicks and buzzes of light fixtures in a desolate hallway would have given me the willies, but we had been filming in places like these for about a year now, without any encounters or incidents. If you love the paranormal, don’t watch how the sausage gets made.
Brittany arrived carrying her half of the gear and said, “Good old Travis, punctual as ever, even to a haunted hospital excursion. Are you having fun here, playing by yourself with the ghosts of the criminally insane?”
“First of all, it’s an asylum, and second, this is apparently what we do for a living now, so it would suit you two well to be on time too,” I said.
“Well, ‘living’ is a bit of a stretch. I barely made rent this month,” Brittany said.
“You could start wearing something a bit more revealing for the shoots. I guarantee it would boost our subscription rate.”
“Yeah, and a few months down the line we would be moving our operation to OnlyFans, for the investigation of paranormal panty disappearances. I can almost hear our number one fan scoffing in disapproval.”
“You never know, your granny might be a lot more open-minded than you give her credit for.”
“You’re disgusting.”
Alan chose that time to appear from behind a corner, travelling at an unmanageable speed. He crashed into a row of worn-out, leather-covered chairs that knocked a trash can down the corridor, spilling vintage garbage from its bowels. The clumsy ingress sent Alan sprawling amongst the glass coke bottles and empty packs of cigarettes proclaiming to be the doctor’s choice.
“Really?” I asked him with my most condescending tone.
“I was trying to scare you guys, to get you in the zone,” he answered from the floor.
“I think you managed to scare my ovaries into hibernation if that
counts,” Brittany said.
Staring at the ceiling, I grumbled, “Please, leave the stunts for filming, I’m not in the mood right now.”
Alan got up and patted his trousers and jacket clean from the dust and grime as best as he could and said to me, “We are Phantomfacers, it’s our job to seize the impossible, to always be ready for the most inconceivable situations. Don’t take your failure to capture my excellence out on me.”
“Dear lord,” I said and pinched the bridge of my nose so hard it hurt. I took out my video camera from my backpack without even trying to come up with a comeback.
“Are we ready to make my next masterpiece?” Alan asked Brittany and me, his pompous tone finding new gusto with every syllable.
“Give us a minute to set up,” Brittany snapped as we were turning on our equipment. She had given up trying to argue that this was a team effort with him about a month ago.
Alan began to fidget around almost immediately. Before I realised, the idiot tackled his way through the door into a doctor’s office yelling, “I feel the presence of a spirit!”
And then the smell hit my nostrils. It was like a rancid tentacle, burrowing its way into my sinuses, carrying with it the spoils of war from the battle against the rotten herds of hell. An invisible fire engulfed my perception, making my tear ducts gush out with a volume that would have made a small electric dam jealous.
The deluge made vision a thing of the past, but I heard Brittany and Alan retching violently, only to find myself writhing on the floor under the same spell. Suddenly, amongst the sound of gasping and heaving, Alan bellowed out a scream of a madman from somewhere in the murk, a blood-curdling cry that made everything quiet. There was no sequel. All I could hear afterwards was the splashing of something viscous on the linoleum floor, like tar bubbling in its pit.
I began to crawl on all fours towards Alan, still half-blinded by the stench, fumbling as I went. When I finally found him in the dark room, he was lying on the floor, back towards me, curled up in a fetal position.
I shook his shoulder saying, “Hey, are you okay?” but he was unresponsive. I went to turn him over and saw that his eyes were enveloped in bright white light and weeping tears of dirty engine oil.
Then out of his mouth came a rough, manic gurgle that said, “The doctor will see you now.”
