Everyone carries a ghost in their back pocket. There are no rules about how many you can own but most people find enough companionship with one, perhaps two. Not me. For years I’ve sewn extra pockets into all my pants, comfortably housing my small collection of friends. Three house ghosts, a vanishing hitchhiker, a gray lady (not that Grey lady), a Funayūrei, two bánánachs and my most dangerous ghost, a wraith.
At school, we weren’t allowed to let our ghosts out. It happened sometimes–a poltergeist might trash a classroom before an exam, a headless horseman might ride through the halls causing an early dismissal. One recess in third grade, Jeremy Hofler accused me of lying about my Funayūrei.
They’re only found in Japan, he’d said, rallying his friends in a circle of jeers.
My dad got it on a work trip to Osaka.
Show us then. Or are you too scared? Jeremy scoffed. I bet it’s just some stupid house ghost.
My house ghosts were never good at hiding their feelings and nudged especially close through the fabric of my jeans. You wanna see it? Fine!
I led Jeremy and his little crew to the bathroom, nervously checking that no teachers were watching. Using toilet paper, I plugged the drain in the old steel trough and filled it with water.
Watch this, I announced, retrieving the little plastic boat from my back pocket. It bobbed in the full basin for several seconds, clanging against the edge like a broken wind chime.
Droplets of water from the still-dripping tap rippled across the water in a pulsating rhythm. Tiny concentric circles became larger, more urgent circles which turned into wave upon wave. One of my classmates shrieked when the crests of the frothy tide began spilling over the basin’s edge and onto their shoes. Another scream came when everyone realized the entire bathroom was filling with water. Ethan Cutler began kicking at the knee deep pool as if he might fight his way free of the swells.
The door’s locked! Georgia Philippou cried as she jerked at the handle.
The maelstrom became too strong for Ricky Phan, sweeping him back and forth across the bathroom, his limbs banging into stall doors and paper-towel dispensers. Jeremy, shivering, waxen-faced, huddled on top of a toilet seat begged me to make it stop. The ocean churned despite his pleas.
House ghosts aren’t stupid, I yelled, defending the trio of aggrieved spirits hugging my thigh.
Jeremy nodded back, wide-eyed and gritted out; okay, s-s-sorry!
Satisfied–and a little nervous my Funayūrei might claim an actual victim–I plucked the plastic boat from the water and shoved it back into my pocket. At once, the shoulder-deep water receded through the toilets, the sinks and the little grates in the floor.
Soaking wet and shivering, I was called to the principal’s office. You’re lucky no one was seriously injured! Mr Spraek decried, his bhoot taking the form of a calico cat on his windowsill. I often felt sorry for that cat–Spraek’s pockets were always turned out as if he were purposefully denying his companion the warmth of still-alive flesh. Dangerous ghosts should never be released without adult supervision. How many others do you have? What kind are they? I didn’t answer–at nine I already knew my ghosts had a legal right to privacy. That night, my parents grounded me. But before bed, my father crept into my room and excitedly asked me questions about my Funayūrei’s performance. Did it conjure water or need a water source? Did it manifest a humanoid form? Did it understand me despite not speaking Japanese?
Nowadays, when I’m at work and my boss pisses me off, I wonder what might happen if I take the onyx marble from my front pocket and let my wraith out for some fresh air.