Writetober 2026, Writing the Putrid, Day 1: Apparition Afoot
I spent day after day rescuing the Land of the Free’s misplaced specters. Ghosts where they shouldn’t be, trapped spirits, all the same. My clients: A serious businessperson A bumbling buffoon A bored teenager would all call about one thing: “A shaking clock, a ticking table.. A spirit is afoot!” I brace myself; put on a brave face, I gather my gear. “I’ll be right over. Keep calm and stay still!” In my time, I dealt with many ghosts: An accountant possessing a calculator. A horologist possessing a clock. But no brave face, no bravado, no ghost of days’ past could’ve prepared me for these eight words— “Hello, Harold. Do you know who I am?” The voice didn’t boom, shake or tremble from its tinny vase confinement. I dropped my gear in panic as my palms grew slick.
I had found the ghost of the one I once loved most. The one held dear - who clasped me tight as her soul went to rest. I froze and hurled the vase onto the floor Rendered into nothing but...
