Ghost of The Golf Course

By Kristiana Sfirlea

What is it about living teenagers that makes breaking into places after hours so appealing to them? I mean, look at me. I get rules. Don’t be seen, don’t be heard, don’t make mist unless the forecast calls for it. And curfew? I follow curfew every night. I’m only allowed out after dark, anyway.

I guess undead teenagers just have a greater sense of responsibility.

My four living trespassers, armed with flashlights and rubber-headed golf clubs, line up one-by-one at the first hole of the putt-putt course. They each have a different colored ball: white, blue, green, and one a dull, dull red.

“Do you think we’ll see her tonight?” a boy asks, moving to the second hole. “Paris of the Putt-Putt?”

Gosh, I’ve always hated that name.

“Only if we see the mist.” A girl puts her flashlight under her chin and lowers her voice to a growl. “That’s when you know she’s here. Mwahahaha!”

My putt-putt course has been taken over by juvenile delinquents. And they laugh like mad cows. Joy.

“I heard it was her boyfriend,” says the second girl. “He lured her over to the miniature Eiffel Tower on Hole 9 and beat her with his club. It was a poetic death.”

The other boy frowns. “Why?”

She shoves him with her shoulder. “Because her name was Paris, genius!”

Okay, first off, Brad didn’t lure me anywhere. And second, he didn’t beat me to death with his club. That would’ve been far too messy for Mr. Pretty Hands and his white polo shirts. The girl was right about one thing, though. My death was poetic. This was where Brad and I had our first date. And it’s where we had our last.

The four of them make it past the giant clown mouth, the windmill, and the bridge. Their last obstacle looms overhead. Hole 9. The Eiffel Tower.

“This is where it happened.” The girl’s voice barely rises above the midnight breeze.

“What if we see the mist?” The other boy rubs his arms uneasily. “Should we run?”

I’m of half a mind to crank out some fog just for the fun of it. The golf balls are wet from the damp night. I wouldn’t be breaking the rules.

“No! I wanna see her.” The girl gazes up at the tower, and her voice softens. “Do you think she knew her boyfriend was nuts?”

Nuts? Yes. But nuts about golf, not killing girlfriends. When Brad took me to a putt-putt course on our first date, I thought it was cute. He spent most of the time talking about the game, which I chalked up to him being nervous. Wrong, sister. Not nervous. Obsessed. Golfers, golfing, golf clubs, golf tournaments—there wasn’t an off switch! After two months, I couldn’t take it anymore. On our final, fatal putt-putt date, I was breaking up with him.

And he might’ve let me go if I hadn’t parted with a pithy insult about his aim.

“What do you think she’s tethered to?” the second girl asks softly. “Ghosts, they’re always tethered to something. Is it the tower? Or maybe the club he killed her with?”

All four of them look at the rubber-headed clubs in their hands. A collective shiver runs through my group of juvenile delinquents like a current of electricity. Wispy vapor rises off the ground, lapping at their ankles.

Sorry. I couldn’t help it.

The last of their bravado seems to evaporate with the mist.

“Come on. Last hole.” The first boy readies his ball—the dull, dull red one. It’s been a good night for him. If he plays this right, he’ll be nine for nine.

“You can do it, man.” The other boy claps his back. “That red one’s been your lucky ball, huh?”

“I told you. It’s the only red one they have. It’s got special powers.”

That’s true. But the ball hasn’t always been red. Once upon a time, it was quite white… before Brad and his perfect aim sunk it straight into my skull.

The first boy swings his club, and I go flying through the Eiffel Tower.

Note to self: if I ever have to die again, don’t let it be at the hands of a stupid boy who cares more about his pride than his girlfriend’s life.

And don’t come back as a haunted golf ball.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kristiana Sfirlea is a former haunted house operator and agented writer of middle grade fantasy involving time travel and things that go bump in the night. She dreams of the day she can run her own bookstore. Or haunted house. Or a haunted bookstore! She loves Jesus, her family, and imaginary life with her characters, in that order.

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