You close the door and step around the hot dog eating ghouls. You nearly trip on a relish jar rolling itself from the living room to the kitchen. In the cozy bedroom, you unpack and put on your warm PJs. It’s hard to ignore the dead ESPN7 reporter calling the action on your bed. Tired, you scoot around the visibly disgusted female broadcaster, slide under the covers, and into a deep sleep.

The desert sun shines bright through the windows. You wake up tired, your eyes exhausted from peeking. As you step out of bed, your feet lands in something squishy. Your foot is covered in ghost puke. There are purple ectoplasm puke spots throughout the house: the couch, the TV remotes, all the blankets, your luggage. You inspect the hot tub and it’s positively brimming with ethereal vomit. Dear lord.

The rest of the trip is quiet and uneventful, but you cannot help but shudder when you think about it. Not the ghost encounter. The cleaning fee.


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