Hunting ghosts is a hobby. I’ve gotten good at it; I’m the man they call for the tough jobs because I don’t take no shit and frankly, I don’t give a shit either. Gil Hodges is my name and yes, my father was a baseball fan. I am just thankful he hadn’t insisted on calling me Babe or Ruth for that matter.
There was this amusement park near where I grew up, a quaint little wayside place in Ontario, Canada. Crystal Beach it was called; its a condominium complex now. Even the beach part is a bygone memory. I lost a lot of time on that white sand. Kept a lot of memories there. And my virginity if I recall correctly. (I do remember correctly.)
The residents of the complex had major concerns about their little paradise. It serves them right. Who the hell were they to step on a man’s history?
In the old park, standing colossal on the edge of Lake Erie was this monster of a roller coaster. It was the “Comet”. Not being a big coaster rider, I lost many a fine lunch on her steep drop. But I digress.
It seems the old girl still runs. Or to hear the residents tell, it still does. Late at night, they are aroused by the rattle of the chain, the creak of the wooden frame and the vibration of the very foundation on which the condominium complex stands. And the screams. They are awoken by the screams.
Standing on the edge of the walkway, I witnesses as the heavy fog misted off of the lake surface. It rose to a towering height. Three, four, five stories tall as if the entire parcel of land was engulfed in smoke.
Around 2:30 am, the mist still hanging thickly, I saw what appeared to be a wooden frame of sorts. Right where the Comet perpetrated her terror. There was a slight tremor. A more violent shake. The rattled and creaks were
ear splitting. When the screams began, I turned tail out of there. Ghosts, schmosts I never did like roller coasters.