Kary, The Friendly Teenage Ghost
Prologue
Sometime in the eighties, a local girl was cruelly pranked at the big school dance when it turned out her date asked her out on a dare. She still haunts the town to this day.
In the center of town the ghost of Kary White hung suspended in the air, her prom dress dripping with blood. Her throat was slashed from the car crash and her eyes shone like two blinding headlights. Her mouth hung open and mostly she just slowly rotated in park, her limp body hovering a few feet above the ground, gripping a steering wheel in her hands that was no longer there.
The key word was: just don’t think about it.
Yes, she was there. Yes, we could all see her. Yeah it was a real bummer what happened to her—but no, she couldn’t talk. No we don’t know why she’s here. No, it’s not just some Scooby-Do style man in a mask—we checked. NO, if you stand underneath her you can’t see anything. She’s . . . she’s wearing underwear you pervert.
She seemed to be an honest to goodness . . . ghost. I wish I could tell you why she was here. The paranormal investigators hired by the city counsel declared it a genuine miracle. Not much came of it.
All sorts of people would be thrilled to have a REAL connection to loved ones they’ve lost—but Kary White didn’t have any family in the area. Her mom disappeared the night of the dance and lots of people in town have died from all sorts of things: industrial accidents, drownings, heart disease—and none of them ever came back. Certainly not as spooky ghosts.
So mostly she was just . . . there. Not really doing anything.
The state of her body was a little freaky. You know . . . the torn ligaments and shredded gore from her traffic wounds, plus the way she dripped blood constantly and her glowing yellow headlight eyes—but mostly she kept to herself. Just floating around in her tattered 80’s prom dress, hair all askew. Her unnaturally pale body streaked with blood.
The key word: just don’t think about it.
There was no tourism industry set up to advertise her presence. There wasn’t some moonlit ritual were we all gathered and danced around her like some kind of maypole. [Town] was like any other small midwestern town. Our one long main street dotted with ramshackle diners, liquor stores, hardware supplies, a brewery, a theater playing two or maybe three of the most current movies twice a day. A dozen competing motels, all with plenty of vacancies and equally free wi-fi. There was an old mill where they used to make paper and a tire store where people presumably bought their tires.
We all have normal jobs in a normal town that just so happens to have the mute mutilated apparition of a young woman woman cruelly abandoned on the most special night of her young life.
Just don’t worry about it.
Sometimes, when she passed by, she could projects visions into your mind. That definitely happened sometimes—but normally only on her birthday or on the anniversary of the dance. The important thing to remember when you inevitably find yourself transported into one of these nightmarish delusions, is that none of it’s real. It’s all just fancy hallucinations brought on by a hormonal psychic ghost. She doesn’t mean any harm, she’s pretty confused most of the time.
Just don’t think about it.
It’s fine. She seems attracted to people who think about her. She seems to know when you are thinking about her. Homing in on them.
So most people just distract themselves with other things and . . . try not to think about it.
It’s fine.