The Ghost Diaries: Episode VII

An original comedy horror serial

A ghost’s afterlife is turned upside down when an obnoxious family moves into his haunted house. Their presence quickly brings his worst nightmare to life — people who refused to be scared of ghosts.

The Ghost Diaries is a comedy horror story told through diary entries. It’s set in Deer Falls — the same small Colorado town featured in my stories Snow Dragon, Pandora Reborn, and The Crimson Reaper. This first episode of this serial is free to all Strange New Worlds subscribers. The entire eight-episode serial will be available exclusively to paid subscribers of Strange New Worlds and paid subscribers of my Patreon page.

I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII

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June 17 —

Blood is supposed to be nightmare fuel. I can’t tell you how many living people turn squeamish or panic at the mere sight of blood. Give one of those folks a scrape or a deep paper cut, and they’ll carry on like they’ve arrived at the grim reaper’s front door.

Why can’t the Farmer clan act the same way?

I did nothing elaborate to try to scare them today. What’s the point? All my past detailed plans fell flat. I decided to embrace spontaneity as the new spice of my afterlife. Go with my gut instinct and live in the moment.

In that spirit, I scrawled threatening messages on walls and mirrors in multiple darkened rooms after the sun dipped below the horizon. Each word was written in blood. I used three full blood bags that Simon included in my curse starter pack.

My messages produced screams. Just not the type of screams I craved.

“Who did this?” May shouted.  

She traced her index finger over the master bathroom mirror and recoiled when blood stained her fingertip. May marched out of the room and into the hallway.

“I’m not cleaning up this mess!” Her eyes darted from one end of the hall to the other. “One of you kids better fess up or you’re all on scrubbing duty.”

I rolled my eyes at May’s threat. Carpets and furniture in this house now bore countless stains and a seemingly permanent layer of dust, pet hair, and dander. The whole family avoided vacuuming, sweeping, and mopping like cleaning up after themselves was against their religion. 

“Colby did it!” Daisy’s accusing shout echoed from downstairs. “He painted on the walls!”

“I did not!” Colby let out an angry sigh from his bedroom. “You did it.”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“Enough!” May’s nostrils flared as she interrupted their argument. “Get some soap, sponges, and a bucket of water. You’re both cleaning this mess before bedtime.”

Both kids whined and complained she was being unfair. May marched them from wall to wall and mirror to mirror, making them scrub until only a faint red residue remained of my messages. Nobody paused to read the words or figure out where these messages came from.

I took some satisfaction in getting the upper hand against those two brats for a change. Then again, I also feel deeply frustrated as I recount this incident. Not one soul showed an ounce of fear or curiosity about messages written in blood. A normal living person would’ve been cowering under their blankets and praying to their invisible god for help right about now.

What in the hell is wrong with this family?

It feels like they’ve tormented me much more than I’ve tormented them so far.