The Cranberries Curse

Ghost town, ghost tour — same difference, keep your voice down, they can hear enthusiasm. I've been leading this walk for eleven years and the dead ones tip better when you whisper.

Depends on the spirit. The Colonel over there only picks up complaints about the service. Mrs. Abernathy, bless her, hears everything — which is why I never think about lunch until we're off her lawn.

Translucent, sure, but so's a jellyfish and people see those fine at the beach at noon. No, I run the day shift and the night shift — the day crowd's mostly here for the gift shop, but the ghosts don't punch a clock, Hishy. Mrs. Abernathy's been standing on that lawn since 1912. She's not going anywhere for your convenience.

Technically it's her sister's house — Mrs. Abernathy never set foot in it while she was alive either, on account of the sister running off with her husband the week before the wedding. She died right there on the lawn mid-argument, and near as we can tell she's still winning it. That's the tip, by the way — you leave a little something on the birdbath, she calms right down.

Wait, we couldn't stand? Hishy, I've never met this woman in my life — you're the one who apparently has history with the dead now. Point at her again, but subtly, like you're stretching.

Oh! Mr. Haddad! Wait, no, that CD thing wasn't detention-worthy, that was practically a science demonstration — anyway he's not on the tour, Hishy, he works here now, he does the 6 PM slot on weekends. Died mid-lecture, apparently, and the afterlife took one look at his classroom management skills and said "you know what, keep going."

Hishy, no, absolutely not — rule one of the tour, you do not confront the staff. Last guy who yelled at Mr. Haddad got assigned a thousand-word essay on respect, in his sleep, for a week. Wrote it himself and everything, didn't even remember doing it.

Oh no. Oh no no no, he's turning around, Hishy — that's the lecture face, that's the exact face from the yearbook photo — everybody back away slowly and pretend to read the plaque about the birdbath—

See, THAT'S the sound I've been trying to teach people to make for eleven years — that little squeak right before the essay assigns itself. Congratulations, Hishy, you're about to become a footnote on my tour. "And over here, the lawn where a grown man relived eighth period." Now smile, wave, and back toward the birdbath — leave something on it, maybe he'll go easy on the word count.

Do they have CD players in the afterlife — Hishy, that man's been dead since dial-up internet, he doesn't need a CD, he needs an apology and possibly a Walkman. Just set it down, back away, and for the love of all that's spectral stop making eye contact — oh no, he's reading the track list. He's reading the track list, Hishy, "Zombie" is NOT the song you play for a ghost, that's practically a threat!

Do NOT play tug-of-war with a poltergeist over a Cranberries CD, Hishy, that is literally how the essay curse starts — let go, let go, he's stronger than he looks, eleven years of chalk dust builds serious grip strength!