Playing With Matches

Ghost Wars

"So, to recap," said Chuck as he bobbed inside the Convention Center with the rest of the ghosts, "that this whole Zombie Gras charade is just an elaborate ruse to court the paranormal vote for political purposes?"

"Yep, that about it," said Smokey, taking a "seat" near the back of the room. In truth, most ghosts were just awkwardly floating above the chairs, missing their buttcheeks and how they would tire out after sitting for hours. Weird are the things you miss when you become a ghost. 

"Well, somehow, I'm surprised it wasn't done sooner," said Chuck. 

"It don' matta," said Smokey. "Just sit back, an' pass a good time." 

As if the lights were waiting for Smokey's cue, they dimmed to nothing. Only the faint glow of the expecting ghosts could be seen around the wide convention hall, giving it an otherworldly sheen. It was dead quiet, which is the normal amount of quiet if you're a ghost. Kind of a patronizing thing to say, in introspect. 

We apologize for any of our ghost readers, and we assure you that we will be caught dead before we make any type of jokes like that again. We swear on our mother's grave. 

Three old women walked onto a stage, each one more decrepit than the last. They all seemed to have a foot on the grave, which is a good thing to look for in a medium. Like a good steak, you want them charred, but tender on the inside. 

There was a sea of chairs between the ghost's area and the stage, all of them occupied by the biggest parade of weirdos Chuck had ever seen. Psychics, Mediums, Clairvoyants, Ghostbusters, and even a close-up Magician were sitting in expectation, all dressed in a range from Victorian Pilgrim to Sadomasochist Goth Clown. 

Amidst all the weird folk in that room were a couple of otherwise normal men, with plaid shirts, glasses, and carefully groomed beards. They were inconsequential in any shape or form, save for the fact there were the only ones speaking — loudly, at that — and waving a camera around. But more on them later. 

For now, we only care about what the three crones had to say. 

"Welcome, fellow illuminated," said the oldest crone. She had an eyepatch, white hair, and smelled mildly of mothballs. "We all know why we are here, so let's skip the introductions and get right on it. We have quite a turnout today." 

Everyone began to murmur, except for the two men. They were practically shouting at the camera while making surprising noises. 

The second of the crones, one with long, blond hair and blue eyes that looked into nothing spoke with a grave voice, the kind you can only achieve as a chainsmokers of thirty-odd years. "Before we begin, we would like to thank the Mayor's office for letting us host this event under the Zombie Gras banner. For that, and only for today, I will not furiously prick her Voodoo doll all over with an ice-pick before going to bed." 

The audience laughed, but she didn't. Chuck couldn't decide which was the worse implication. 

"Now then, please hold hands together as we begin."

Hand in hand, the room joined together. A single candle was lit between the three crones which flickered shyly. Poor thing had stage fright. 

One of the bearded men, the tallest of the two, was the only one that dared to speak in the silence that ensues. He tried to whisper, but he tried more than he actually did. 

"Now, the seance will begin," said the man to the camera. "The oldest medium will take us through the motions, as is the custom in these events." 

The eyepatch crone cleared her throat, submerging the room into silence yet again. "There are spirits among us."