“So you’re saying it’s kinda like that one game kids used to play at sleepovers to freak eachother out and shit?”
“Bloody Mary, yeah. But think of it as good ol’ Mary is on the rag and she still wants to please her man.”
“Hey, maybe that’s why they call her Bloody, ayyy.”
“Yeah, yeah. Good one. Anyways, in this version you don’t even see the ghost. You just feel her. If you get what I mean.”
“I would be worried about issues with lack of friction, her being a ghost and all.”
“You have to trust me on this dude. It’s warm and wet and fantastic.”
“Wait, wait. If you don’t ever even see the ghost, how do you know it’s a her?”
“Ignorance is bliss my man. I mean, would it really matter? It can’t be gay if they’re a ghost. Besides, still feels amazing.”
“So I go into the pisser—the women’s pisser I might add—shut out all the lights, make my way to the first stall, stick my dick in this glory hole, and a ghost is supposed to take care of me from there? And why in the hell is there a glory hole in the ladies’ room? Don’t really make sense from an anatomical perspective.”
“Look man, I know it’s a leap, but that’s what we’re asking you to do. Part of initiation. If you ain’t up for it, you know where the door is.”
That was Derrick doing most of the talking and convincing while Sammy put on his best skeptical bit. I just watched in silence while Andrew, the actual new recruit, sat next to me with wide eyes. He knew after Sammy took his turn, he’d be next.
What Andrew didn’t know was that Sammy was actually an active member here at the riding club. He was only playing the part of new guy. This was all part of the con.
I had seen this play out enough times to know what would happen next. Sammy would go into the women’s restroom, he’d wait a bit, maybe bang around in there a little, let out this good and loud moan. Really sell it. Next, he’d come out with his shirt untucked and belt undone, hair all disheveled. He’d lean a hand on the bar as if to steady himself, take a deep breath and exclaim, “Lord have mercy!”
Even after Sammy’s display, the recruit would still be quite incredulous, thinking that this was all just a hazing ritual that he was just going to have to take his lumps on. And he’d be right, more or less. But it was still all about setting the stage, planting that seed of the supernatural, getting the new guy a little bit off his guard.
What would really happen in the restroom was not a ghostly blow job, but rather the punchline to an elaborate prank.
Unbeknownst to the recruit was the existence of a camera mounted up near the light fixture on the wall opposite the stalls. The hidden camera—with night vision capabilities—went to a live feed back in the office behind the bar.
I know what you’re thinking. A camera in the ladies’ restroom? Some history is in order. We had obtained the clubhouse from Derrick’s uncle who had previously operated it as a shitty little bar and pool hall. The cameras were there when we got the place after Derrick’s uncle got arrested for a few perv related charges. I guess they didn’t catch this one. I shudder to think about the history behind that camera.
As for us, we never used the camera for its intended purpose. First off, we weren’t a bunch of perverts. Second, we were something of a he-man woman hater’s club with no members of the fairer sex allowed as members of our riding club. We barely even had use for a women’s restroom. But there were times when we would have girlfriends over for various social events (and in the case of Bubba, our mothers). In those instances, the camera was shut off and nobody was allowed in the back office.
Still, a camera in a restroom and an inexplicable hole drilled into the dividing wall of the two-stall restroom seemed like too good of a setup to let go to waste. And so an elaborate prank was developed. This was back when the club only consisted of Bubba, Derrick and myself. I’m not really sure who masterminded the thing, it was just one of those things where all of our ideas merged together into some sort of nasty volatile mix, like a recipe that forms an explosive out of household cleaning products.
Our idea was to have the mark use the glory hole in the usual manner, make it seem like it would be pleasurable but not without some sort of risk involved. I was the one that came up with the ghost story angle, figured that sticking your wang in an unknown hole was a leap of faith in and of itself, but why not take it a little further? Why not see how far the new recruits were willing to go?
The next step of the prank involved the payoff. On the other side of that wall is where we let our creativity really shine. All manner of things could be waiting and at the end of the glory hole. When the act was consummated, the lights suddenly came on, a still of the video feed was made, and a photo was printed. Recruits were caught with their pants down while on the other side a guy in a gorilla suit or Bubba in a tutu would be waiting.
Until that last dreaded and fateful night, I’d say ol’ Sammy got it the worst out of any of us. His prank involved peanut butter and Derrick’s pet bull mastiff, Romulus. Later, when it was all said and done he’d joke about borrowing Romulus and a jar of Jiff for a nice little weekend.
This whole thing was not a simple mean spirited joke; it had its purpose. It’s the same reason fraternities have hazing, why boot camp is so hard. Once you have some skin in the game, some pain and humiliation, you’re more likely to commit for the long haul.
That and the pictures made for good blackmail.
Maybe Derrick had aspirations of our little riding club on becoming a full fledged MC, a motorcycle club that is. On many occasions I’d caught him with a sketchbook concentrating on designing a logo, something we could stitch on a vest some day. It was a skeleton warrior on a horse with the word GLORY RIDERS etched below. A play on our secret initiation, yeah. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that none of the other guys would be too keen on basing our name after a glory hole.
So far, a couple of members that passed the initiation had moved on and our riding club remained as is: a little hangout group, poorly organized and only those with the most free time sticking around. That left me, Derrick, Sammy, and Bubba. It was a solid four-man core, but if we were ever going to take it seriously, we needed growth with people that would actually commit. Our hope was that Andrew would be in it for the long haul.
There was a commotion from the front door, a burst of sunlight. The perpetually late Bubba burst into the clubhouse, all three-hundred and fifty pounds of him.
“How we doing?” he hollered. “We get some ghost jobs yet or what?”
“We were just getting to it. Had a little hesitation from our first recruit,” Derrick said, throwing a thumb at Sammy.
Bubba sauntered over to our plant and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Buddy, you ain’t lived ‘til you’ve had your pecker sucked on by a spirit. Why, it’s downright otherworldly!”
Sammy winced and said, “I dunno.” He was really hamming it up. I decided to join in.
“C’mon, dude. We’re talking phantom fellatio here.”
“I’ll go,” Andrew said, his voice loud and clear.
We all looked over at him with surprise. This was the first time a recruit had volunteered to go first. Maybe he wanted to make a good impression, was just that driven to become a member. I took it as a good sign. Finally, we might have a recruit that would actually stick around.
“Stepping up to the plate, eh? I like it.” Bubba said.
Apparently, Sammy’s hesitation act was getting too tiring. The new guy was ready to get this show on the road.
“Paco, was it you that found this guy?” Bubba asked, looking over at me.
“Um, yeah. Worked with my brother at the tire shop. Has a roadster. Was looking to get more serious with it all.”
“Well, now’s your time to prove it,” Derrick said.
Andrew had hardly said a word through the whole spiel, had just sat back with a slight smirk on his face, like maybe he was knowing that we were all full of shit, but had decided to roll with it. He struck me as one of those quiet, skinny guys, the kind that sit back and laugh because they don’t really have much to say, the kind of guy that’s a lot like me.
“I’m ready as I’ll ever be,” Andrew said. “Rather get it over with.”
“Hey, now. That’s no way of thinking about it. I’m willing to bet you’ll want this to last a while. In fact, I’m willing to bet you’ll keep coming back.” Bubba stepped aside and gave a grand gesture toward the ladies room door while Andrew just smirked some more and shook his head.
“Now remember,” Derrick said. “Get your bearings and figure out how the bathroom is laid out and where the glory hole is. Inspect everything as you see fit. You’ll want to enter the first stall. Shut out the lights and feel your way in there. You’ll have a little bit of illumination from the exit sign. Once you get in there, place your dick in the hole, and wait. Got it?”
Andrew flashed a thumbs up and made his way over to the restroom, looked back at us before pushing his way in.
“Good luck!” Bubba hollered.
What Andrew didn’t notice in that final glance was that Sammy was no longer sitting with us. He’d slipped away, to the back of the club and into a utility closet that shared a door with the women’s restroom. There, he’d lie in wait with a pair of night vision goggles until the lights flicked off and darkness swallowed Andrew.
We crowded into the closet-sized office, Bubba halfway hanging out because there was no way he could fit with Derrick and I in there. The live screen feed was waiting for us with a promise of hilarity and we gathered round, our mouths cracking into grins.
We watched as Andrew entered the restroom. He investigated the first stall, saw that, yep, there was actually a glory-hole drilled into the dividing wall. Investigating the second stall, he found nothing amiss.
A good laugh was had when we watched him grope the dead air of the empty stall, as if he could catch a feel of the invisible ghost. Of course he came up short.
He stared at the mirror and placed his hands on the counter, took a deep breath. Locking the restroom door behind him, he slowly began to disrobe.
“The hell’s he doing?” Derrick said.
Taking off his belt would’ve been one thing, but the absolute madman actually took off his shirt, undid his belt, and kicked off his boots.
“My God. He’s going completely nude. Socks and everything,” Bubba said, watching as Andrew placed his garments on the bathroom counter.
“More than could be said for me,” I said. “Those never come off when I’m getting busy.”
“Eew. That floor’s pretty wet in there.”
Andrew got down to his boxer briefs and stared at himself in the mirror for a bit, took another deep breath. We roared with hysterical laughter. I don’t know how he didn’t hear us and come rushing out of the restroom saying, “What’s the deal?”
It would’ve been better for all involved if he had.
Stepping out of his underwear and flinging them toward the counter, Andrew made a big lean toward the light switch with one hand on his junk. The camera switched over to night vision mode, greens and black shadows, his eyes glowing like a possum’s as he passed the camera and entered the first stall. Only his bare feet were visible as we moved into the next act.
On the two-toned screen, Sammy slid out from the utility closet door, holding a large ShopVac by the handle, not letting its wheels touch the ground. An extension cord snaked from the vacuum and back into the closet. He was as quiet as a ninja as he maneuvered the hose attachment into the opposite stall, the goggles on his face adding to the appearance.
The prank was designed to end soon after. As soon as Andrew realized he was getting sucked off by a vacuum cleaner, we’d burst in and tell him, “Welcome to the club.”
Well, maybe give him a chance to get dressed first. We’d never had to account for that wrinkle before.
There was a complete moment of silence as we held our collective breaths, waiting for Sammy to hit that switch.
I haven’t known such quiet since.
Sammy leaned out of the stall and hit the switch. The vacuum roared to life. On screen there was a huge flash of light that blotted everything out. We heard a scream and on the floor next to the vacuum cleaner was a small fire.
Sammy waved his hands as if trying to clear smoke out of his face. Started stomping on the fire at its point of origin: the extension cord.
And we could smell smoke, we could smell ozone.
“Holy shit!” Bubba yelled. “It’s electrical! Sammy, don’t touch anything!”
I’d never seen a man of his body habitus move so quickly. He rolled over the bar and started hollering toward the restroom. Derrick scampered off to the breaker box. For a brief instant, the clubhouse went completely dark. He’d killed the main.
“It’s the utility closet!” somebody yelled.
The lights returned. I made my way to the restroom.
A haze filled the air. There was the smell of smoke and burnt hair and pork rinds.
It was hard to get the stall door open. Andrew’s body was blocking its path.
“Andrew, buddy? You alright?”
Through some frantic determination, we managed to shimmy the door open past the obstruction.
He was smoldering. Standing upright and facing the dividing wall, tethered there by . . . something. His head was craned back like he was looking up at the ceiling, and I swear I saw a plume of smoke snake out of his open mouth. Just past his blackened tongue.
It was clear to see what happened. The electrical current had followed its natural path, using Andrew as a conductor. A tire track of electrical char erupted from the soles of his bare feet and up either leg, his thighs and groin blistered and peeling. Tethered to the dividing wall by his manhood and melted plastic—the vacuum hose fused to him. Knees bent and elbows cocked, wrists flexed.
“Holy fucking shit,” Derrick said dryly.
“Get him down from there, man! Somebody do something. CPR or an ambulance, shit,” Sammy said. He was pacing.
Bubba just stood back with his hands on his head, eyes wide.
It was up to me. I touched Andrew’s body and it was warm, but still kind of stiff. I stood behind him.
“Detach the hose,” I told Sammy. He did so and I was able to snake it through the glory hole. I underestimated the weight of his body and he pinned me to the opposite side of the stall. “Get him off of me.” I grunted.
We managed to lie him on his back where we did some halfhearted CPR. But after a while it was clear that Andrew wasn’t coming back from this.
“Delete the tape, man. Everything,” Derrick said.
#
It took us about twenty minutes or so to get our story straight. To keep the number of suspects down, we let Bubba leave. They gave me the option to leave, but I wasn’t going to leave my brothers in arms behind.
Our story was this: we had all been out for a ride and were going to meet up with Andrew at the clubhouse. His bike was parked out front and when we entered the place, we could smell something off about the place. We called out his name, but there was no answer. The door to the women’s restroom was open and that’s where we found him: naked and in the stall with a ShopVac attached to his dick.
People see CSI on TV and shit and think that’s how it is in real life. Well, I don’t know how it is in the big city, but it sure as shit wasn’t that way out here. You’re lucky to get a M.E. or a decent autopsy. Most of the time, it’s some yokel from the sheriff’s department that will come out and take a few photos, determine if anything is fishy (and they have a pretty high bar for that, wouldn’t want to have to do extra work and all).
Andrew’s death was strange, for sure. But the case as presented was open and shut. He had been engaged in some bizarre form of self-pleasure and it had backfired. People had certainly died while in the midst of masturbation before. Auto-erotic asphyxiation comes to mind.
Although there was some question about the electricity not being up to code—with the utility closet outlet having much more current than was warranted—nobody was charged. The death was ruled accidental.
Aside from our dirty consciences, we had gotten off clean.
It wouldn’t last.
#
First there was Bubba. He passed in his sleep. His mother found him. A man of his immense size, you could write it off as one of those things. Did he have undiagnosed sleep apnea? An underlying cardiac issue? He wasn’t one to care for his health and he seldom went to the doctor. Who knew what sort of health condition was lurking underneath all that weight. It would be surprising if there was nothing.
Something like this was bound to happen. But still. Fuck.
And that was before I found the voicemails.
It wasn’t just me, either. We all got them.
Somehow they all appeared on our phones’ notifications at the same time. It was as if the cell phone company had kept them in limbo for a set period of time before releasing them a week after his funeral.
My heart took a leap when I saw his name next to the voicemail symbol. It was accompanied by the date of the night he died. It took me an hour to work up the nerve to listen to the minute-long message, and during that time I received texts from all the other club members, all variations on the same theme: “Dude.” “Is this some sort of prank?” “Did you do this?” “This is fucked up man.”
The message started off with heavy breathing. It was just a few breaths, slow and relaxed with the hint of a snore vibrating somebody’s soft palate. Next, you could kind of hear this little whimper and then Bubba’s voice.
“Andrew?” he asked, confused, his voice grogged with sleep.
This was followed by a wet choking noise, gagging and sputtering, lips blubbering together. Like somebody trying to come to the surface for air. Like somebody drowning.
A break in these awful noises, and somehow worse, a high pitched voice that begged, “Please.”
And then nothing. The voicemail ended.
Try as we might, we couldn’t come up with a rational explanation.
“Maybe he had a nightmare and called us all in his sleep. Like a sleep paralysis thing,” I offered.
“Wouldn’t he be, y’know, paralyzed?” said Derrick.
“Well, maybe it was like an aftershock thing? Like he was coming out of it.”
“I think we all know what really happened,” Sammy said.
“And what’s that?”
“It’s a ghost.”
“You believe in that shit?” I asked.
“You got a better explanation besides nightmares?”
“I mean, guilt is a powerful thing. The stress can really fuck with your system. And let’s get real, Bubba’s system was already pretty clogged,” I said.
“Maybe we should turn ourselves in,” Sammy said. “Come clean. I can’t seem to handle this anymore. I’ve been seeing things myself.”
Derrick held up his hands. “Woah, woah. Nobody’s going to the cops. This was an accident. A terrible, terrible accident. None of us wanted this to happen. How many pranks have we done in there? What good would it do for us to do some time?”
“I dunno, man. I’m haunted by it. I was the one that flipped the switch.” He paused for a long while “But I don’t wanna go to prison or anything.”
“Nothing we do is gonna bring him back.”
Sammy didn’t say anything, just looked at the ground and sniffed, rubbed his eyes.
“Look, we’ve already lost Bubba. Can’t have you sent up state. Ya got me?” Derrick tapped his shoulder with a fist.
Sammy cleared his throat and said,“Yeah, man.”
#
A month or so later, Sammy didn’t show up to work and wasn’t answering his calls. They found him in the bathroom of his trailer home, his body soaking in a bath full of saltwater and blood. A toaster and antique desk fan were submerged in the water with him, both connected to heavy duty extension cords.
He had slit both of his wrists for good measure. There was a note that simply read, SORRY.
“I guess it’s over now,” Derrick said to me one night on my back porch. He’d stopped by after work and we were drinking beer from long neck bottles and ashing cigarettes into a rusty coffee can. We had quit meeting up at the club house, hadn’t been back there since the accident. None of us felt comfortable there with the shadow of what we did hanging over the place.
“What’s over?” I asked.
“This haunting shit. Don’t you think the ghost feels like the score is settled? Sammy was right, he did hit the switch. He was closest. If anybody was to get the blame, it would be him.”
“So you do believe there was something to it?”
Derrick just took a long drag of his cigarette and looked out at my overgrown backyard. “I don’t know what I believe, man. Have you, like, seen anything?”
“No. Have you?”
“Just thought I saw him when I was out for a ride, one day. Standing in a field. Naked. But I didn’t know if it was just my mind replaying that image of him, y’know? Like some sort of PTSD thing.”
“Yeah.”
“But what could we even do if he is haunting us? Just wait for our fate, I guess.”
“Maybe you’re right though. Nothing else has happened since Sammy. If—and this is a big if, since I’m not really even sure I believe in that shit—Andrew is looking for revenge, then he’s bound to be satisfied by now. He died from electrocution and now Sammy has. Like you said: the score is settled.”
“I hope I’m right.”
#
I would get texts from Derrick, images sent to me of empty gravel roads and pastures.
“Do you see him?” the accompanying message would ask. “Anything?”
I never did see anything and I would respond in kind.
“Nobody else could either,” he’d type back. “Just checking.”
And so I wondered if that was the distraction that had caused Derrick to swerve off of 77 that Friday evening. He had always been such an excellent biker before and there was no alcohol in his system—he had just gotten off work. I couldn’t help but imagine a scenario where he saw Andrew step out in front of him on the highway as he rode at upwards of eighty miles per hour.
He was found dead in a ditch with a broken neck and I also wondered if, had he survived the crash, Andrew would have staggered over to finish the job somehow.
#
And I know I’m next.
For whatever reason, he has decided to pick me last. Maybe because I was the least guilty. Maybe because I was the most quiet throughout the whole prank process. Maybe because he knew I’d figure it out. What I had to do. What he needed.
#
The corrugated metal building is an oven in the August sun. When I open the door, a dry heat slams into my face. The power to the clubhouse has long been shut off and the air is musty and stale. Dust and spider webs cover every available surface. Rat droppings crunch underfoot. The empty bottles and cans of the last beers we drank sit untouched on the bar, little monuments to better days.
I come here at least once a week to offer him peace, to pay my penance. Because if I don’t, then I’m next. I’m the only one that’s still alive out of the four that set up that prank, and me coming here is why.
We started this tale with the jokey premise of a ghost in a gloryhole and we end this tale confirming as much. Just not in the way we expected. Cause Andrew still comes in most nights, his ghost determined to repeat the act of his death for however long in the afterlife.
Do I really need to go into the gory details of what happens on my side of the dividing wall? Just know that I have confirmed the existence of ectoplasm
I walk over to the women’s restroom and prop the door open to let in what little light there is. Using my cell phone flashlight, I make my way to the second stall. The water in the commode has long since evaporated. I take a seat on the toilet, put my elbows on my knees and pull out my phone and upload everything that you’ve just read.
To the left of my head is the glory hole. I hear heavy breathing from the other side. There is the flicker of spectral movement. Something like a trick of the light.
I inhale, blow the breath out through my nostrils, and wait for the ghost to come.