The Podcasting Ghost

When the door clicked behind the rental agent, Tyler delivered a big uppercut fist pump. His own place. No roommates streaming shooting games at two AM. No parties he’d given a soft “Sure” to. Just peace and solitude.

He hadn’t even flinched when the agent told him the previous resident of the studio had died there less than a month earlier. The fact that the dude had basically melted there into the couch until a neighbor called the landlord about a foul smell had no effect on Tyler. He finally had his space, lingering bleach or no.

As Tyler busied himself settling in, he kept running into reminders of the previous resident that the cleaning crew had somehow missed: seemingly endless USB cords, esoterically shaped pieces of soundproofing foam that had been cut by hand, and a couple of little microphone windscreens.

Tyler threw them all in the trash.

When it came time for bed, Tyler flopped triumphantly onto his own personal mattress on the floor (a frame was the first order of the morning), turned out the lights, and shut his eyes.

Just as he was about to drift off, though, he heard a smooth, practiced voice saying, “Thank you as always for blasting 15,000 watts of our humble little show directly right into your earholes! We have a heck of a show for you today. Stephanie, the newest member of our tight-knit spectral community will be joining me today to tell her story.”

Tyler got out of bed and walked around the apartment, double-checking that the door was fully closed and the windows were shut. They were. He got back into bed and started counting sheep.

“It’s such an honor to be here — I mean, I know not everybody gets the chance, and I can’t help but feel like I cut the line here, a little,” he heard a woman’s voice say, clear as day.

“Just city noise,” he told himself. “In a couple of nights, I won’t be able to sleep without it.”

Then, there was a loud, ear-splitting slurp of coffee that made Tyler sit bolt upright in bed. He sat in the darkness, tilting his head like an owl because he couldn’t tilt his ears like a deer (because people’s ears do not tilt like that).

He couldn’t hear anymore voices, though, so he laid back down.

“You know, my parents were totally, like, full-on Chaco Canyon LA types of their generation — like, there’s this famous family story that my dad was tripping on LSD and thought he met Joni Mitchell, but it was actually a cactus, and it turned into this whole thing with pliers — I dunno how we got here,” and she laughed awkwardly in a way that shook the walls, “but obviously it wasn’t a great way to raise children.”

“Oh no; you don’t have to tell me about vain parents,” the smooth-voiced male came back in. “I mean, that’s why we’re all performing in life, right — and I mean, that goes for people in and out of the entertainment business, but those of us who actually on the show — listen to me talking like I have some kind of moral or professional authority — maybe that’s just an example of how we’re actually in the show -“

Tyler couldn’t take it anymore. He got out of bed and marched to both interior walls, pressing his ear to each in turn and each time hearing nothing at all. He walked to the kitchen to get a glass and pressed it to the wall as well, hoping to magnify the senseless chatter, but all he heard was the moaning swoosh of toilets being flushed and the on and off of running faucets.

He got back into bed.

“We’ll be back with Stephanie in just a minute,” he heard just faintly, but then the volume of the voice began to raise gradually with each word, “but first we need to take a second to pay some bills, if you know what I’m saying. Hello Freshly Deceased is the first daily meal service designed for the dietary, digestive, and general wellness needs of ghosts, ghouls, spectres, and zombies.”

Did Tyler hear that right?

“Hello Freshly Deceased starts with the best natural ingredients, from whole-grain ectoplasm to free-range human brains, and delivers them to your graveside or mausoleum fresh in our patent-pending disposable coolers. Tired of subsisting on the energy you can drain from batteries and psychically weak living folks? Try Hello Freshly Deceased today and taste the difference.”

He definitely heard that. Tyler pulled on a hoodie, threw open his own door, and started banging on the one next to his.

“Hello?” a groggy voice called, not opening.

“Look, man, I love podcasts as much as the next guy, but could you keep it down a little?”

The door opened, and a guy emerged who looked like he hadn’t slept in a month.

“You hear it too?” he asked.

“Yes, how could anybody not? You guys are practically screaming. Tell Stephanie to dial that laugh back.”

With that, Tyler stomped back to his own apartment and slammed the door.

“No, no, it’s y-“ he could hear his neighbor shout after him, but he was done being deprived of sleep by noisy morons.

Tyler threw himself into bed, buried his head under pillows, and pulled the comforter up over his ears.

“Alright, everybody, it’s time for my favorite part of the show: Patreon shout-outs!” he suddenly heard directly in his ear, as though someone was in bed with him. “Big Boo from the Ghost House has just jumped a-boo-ard at the $10 monthly level. Thank you so much, Boo! Your hand-thrown mug is on the way, but with shipping being what it is these days, I don’t want to make any promises. Our main man, the boy general and known tactical whiz George Armstrong Custer has finally gotten on the Patreon train after months of creeping on the message board — we see you, Big Horn!”

“Who the hell is podcasting?” Tyler finally shouted, kicking off all his sheets and pillows.

The only response was, “And of course, we gotta give a big shout, as we do every week, to those listeners in our G.O.A.T. tier who keep the show free for everyone else.”

Tyler ran to the bathroom and started shoving cotton balls in his ears.

“I just need some quiet!” he muttered to himself. “Just some quiet!”

“Remember,” the podcaster said, “all Patrons get the show two days early and ad-free as well as a subscription to our newsletter. We know you guys hate the ads — we get it — and if you’re looking to improve that experience, all you need to do is head over to Patreon.com and sprinkle a little sugar, and we’ll give just as much back to you — we promise.”

Tyler piled more and more cotton balls in his ears until finally he couldn’t hear the stupid podcast anymore. He couldn’t hear anything. And he drifted off.

A month later, the agent was showing Sarah the apartment and mentioned that the last two occupants had died — although they both had underlying medical conditions. The previous guy had some kind of brain fluid leak he was trying to treat with cotton balls, he said.

But Sarah didn’t care. She was so happy at the thought of having a place of her own.

This story is part of 13 Ghost Stories in 13 Days. Each entry in the series was written and published in a single day during October of 2020. This idea was completely stolen from Mark Macyk.

Day 1: The Devil’s Diphthong

Day 2: The Podcasting Ghost

Day 3: The Portal Potties

Day 4: The Household Accident

Day 5: The Scarecrow Competition

Day 6: The Cursed Father

Day 7: When the Car Hits the Tree

Day 8: Thank Christ It’s Halloween

Day 9: The Greek Halloween Myth

Day 10: The Ghost & The Cockroach

Day 11: Pampered