A couple of days ago, I was chatting with a long-time reader of mine. Over the years, she’s become more than just a reader — more like a friend, and honestly, one of my biggest motivators.
After reading one of my recent posts, she messaged me:
“I had a nightmare after reading your blog. Don’t touch me.”
I blinked at my screen. Nightmare? Really? There wasn’t a single jump scare in that post.
Curious, I asked, “Why so? There was nothing scary about it.”
She shot back: “Who was that girl?”
I had to laugh. “I’m not sure. She never told me her name.”
But she insisted: “No, she felt unrealistically real. Like I knew her. She’s Sophia. She’s from your imagination, isn’t she? She’s Sophia — from your book.”
Sophia. My fictional character. She continued, “It was her ghost talking to you.”
I replied, “Maybe.”
“I cannot sleep unless you tell me the truth.”
And I, trying to be mysterious, answered:
“Truth is slippery. She could be as real as this conversation… or as fake as aliens (debatable). But if you really want a real ghost story, let me tell you what happened to me the other night.”
So, here it is. My ghost story.
A Hot Night, A Cold Coffee
It was after a brutal round of interviews when I dragged myself home, sweat-soaked and shirt plastered to my body like clingfilm. It was one of those nights when even the mosquitoes were complaining about the humidity.
Shower. Cold coffee. Bed. That was the plan.
By 3:00 AM, I was half-asleep when I felt something scratching at my legs.
I opened my eyes. Nothing.
“Must be a dream,” I muttered. But then, a warm breath tickled the back of my neck.
I whipped around. No one. Just the slow blades of the ceiling fan, slicing moonlight into shadows.
I pulled the bedsheet over my face. Classic move. If horror movies have taught us anything, it’s that polyester blends protect against supernatural entities.
But my heart thudded harder when I realized—I wasn’t imagining it. Someone was watching me.
The Granny and the Spider-Girl
I peeked out. And there it was.
A figure dangling from the ceiling fan, hair wild, face glowing like a pale lantern. An old lady, wrinkled, floating closer. Her smile—crooked enough to shame a dental school.
Before I could scream, something else crawled over my feet. Long nails scraped my skin. This time, the pain was real.
A young girl, drenched in blood, dragged herself across the bed, her twisted hands pulling like a spider. Her face was covered by hair — until the fan’s breeze revealed it.
Skin pale as chalk. Tongue grotesquely long. Eyes that locked onto mine.
Pinned. Trapped. Terrified.
I thought, This is it. Heart attack at 30. Headline: Blogger Dies of Ghostly Spider-Girl Attack.
Reflex, Rage, and the Alarm Clock
Her claws dug into my back. Teeth hovered at my neck. My hands flailed wildly until—smack—I found my alarm clock. Pure reflex, I smashed it into her skull.
Shockingly, it worked.
And that’s when I realized: they were in my world now. The land where gods bleed, CEOs betray, and delivery managers haunt worse than any phantom.
This is Earth. Ghosts don’t scare me. Humans do worse.
Politics, betrayal, clients who email at 2 AM—that’s the real horror show. Compared to that, Granny Ghost was practically comic relief.
Turning Fear into Comedy
The granny hovered, but I squinted and thought, She looks just like my old delivery manager, Vicky.
I laughed. Hard.
Her crooked smile twisted into confusion. And when I imagined the spider-girl as my Hitler-like client manager Fredu… oh, I nearly rolled off the bed laughing.
Apparently, ghosts don’t like being laughed at. Because they hesitated. They faltered. And just like that, the power dynamic shifted.
I grabbed Granny Ghost’s hand. “Where are you going, disturbing my sleep?”
Spider-girl lunged, but I was already in full rebellion mode. “Come here, you devil sons of… managers.”
And I punched her square in the face.
The Morning After
And then, I woke up.
Clock: 8:00 AM. Shirt: maroon. Pants: black. Office: waiting. Ghosts? Gone.
Or so I thought.
In the shower, I felt a hand on my stomach. Breath on my shoulder. This time, no laughter came. Somehow, they’re scarier in daylight.
I bolted, caught a cab. Phone rang. A distorted voice hissed:
“I will get you. You are mine. But first—I need to kill you.”
The call disconnected. No record of it on my call log.
When my cab arrived, I sat down, glanced at my socks (mismatched, as usual), and there they were—fresh scratch marks on my feet.
Dream? Reality? Self-inflicted?
I’ll let you decide.
All I know is this: ghosts may terrify, but delivery managers will always be worse.
