Revista: Ten Strange Tales

By Brett Sody

There's something for everyone in this bumper First Edition of REVISTA. Whatever you're into - Ghosts, Private-Eyes with the Most, Interstellar Exiles, Fatally Conflicted A.I.'s, Transmigrated Testifiers, Tinkering Rock 'n' Roll Time-Travellers, Ex Detectives, Puzzling Disappearances, Deadly Vendetta's, Former Inmates- Telling-All or Paranormal Investigators, you'll find a Tale or Two among the Ten that's just right for you.
Enjoy!

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350910209

Book preview

SPOOKED

Supernatural Solutions. S.S. Sure, it’s got that unfortunate Gestapo connection but hey, when did the bad guys bag exclusive rights on cool tags? We’re the go-to guys when it comes to the paranormal. That’s our turf.

We operate on the other side but base the business in Adelaide: land of churches, psycho killers and kiddie fiddlers. I’m the boss, Bradley, everybody calls me Brad. Started up S.S just before COVID 23 hit. Got lucky. You have to occasionally. Right place, right time, just like the bloody virus, who’d have predicted that?

I had a lawn mowing round before S.S. - Mr. Clip, and a mini-bin franchise preceding - Hop Skip & Dump. Was considering a move to Pests R Us for a bit prior to firing up S.S. Glad I didn’t. Business is booming in the undead end game. COVID 23 wiped out a quarter of the population in 2025, so there’s plenty of disgruntled deceased about. Everyone wants their unsettling spooky events sorted out quick smart and that means there’s plenty of work available if you’re prepared to cop the late hours. Most of them are between midnight and dawn. That’s when the creepies like to come out. Once the ghoul or ghouls responsible are located and confronted, they’re usually not in high spirits; we don’t come across many meek and mild manifestations anymore. Most are permanently peeved; they’re always pissed off about something. Can’t seem to settle in the afterlife - we’ve heard it hundreds of times here at S.S. It’s become the new standard in predictable spectral behaviour. There’s always some issue that’s remained unresolved post-mortem. There’s no spook I’ve ever met, and I’ve met a few, that hasn’t had a ghostly grievance or two that he or she or it can’t seem to get over and will not leave alone. That attitude is precisely what’s preventing the whining whingers from moving on. Stuck in the past. They really do, in my view, need to let go, but then we’d be out of a job, right?

  Speaking of, we go all over this state and will go inter if required. Example? Last week we had a case over the border, Kaniva. Phantasm extraction from the old post office. Acutely unhappy late ex-customer messing with the mail. Re-arranging, overnight, all the letters that’d been sorted during the day. Leaving a fair bit of ectoplasm splashed about too, smudging quite a few addresses - P.O. staff having to sort it all over again, as best they could with what they had to go on. Postmasters brief: ‘That ghost has to go ASAP, Bradley. It’s too much. That’s fucking with Australia Post. It’s simply not on’. Agreed.

Once we’d tracked the culprit down, we were able to obtain a confession without too much effort being expended. It’s not a well-known fact, but most apparitions crack easily under interrogation. They’ve very little staying power; got to disappear at dawn, obviously, so, creatures of the night they may be but that’s alright; so are we. You’ve got them until sun-up, then they’re out of there pronto. Try stopping them in broad daylight and see how you go. No chance. They’re not particularly inventive, ghosts. They tend to stick to the same old tricks.

  Let me introduce you to the rest of the S.S. team.

Team member two: Tech Tony Glavnic. Boy genius. There’s a lot of sophisticated gear needed in our business - motion-detectors, air-pressure gauges, vibration alerts, odour sensors, ultra-sensitive microphones, infra-red cameras, computers, hard-drives, back-ups, pre-amps – and volt throwers - it’s a shit load of gear and it packs out the back of our Volkswagen Transporter van. Without a good tech you’re in big trouble. Tony’s one of the best. Ex ABC. He knows how to operate all that stuff and he knows how to fix it when it breaks down. We’d be fucked without our Tone.

We’d also be fucked without Team member three: Elisabeth Harding-Sackville. Posh. St. Peters Girl. Project Manager. She’s the one that goes on site. Meets – greets – chats - appraises the supernatural situation, proposes the best solution, submits the correct quote. It’s worth mentioning that she’s only doing this gig, and part-timer’s as a swimwear and lingerie model, to pay her way through University. She’s doing a double degree in molecular biology and comparative chemistry. Those facts look great on the Team bio, as does her photograph.

Team member four - Mikey Z. Real name Michalis Zepoulos. Mikey Z does everything Elisabeth, Tony or I don’t, which can be quite a lot. Also drives the VW Transporter.

So that’s the team.

Here’s some intel on the Supernatural Solutions HQ.

For me, there was never any doubt as to where we should be located. Adelaide Arcade, built 1885. Oldest available office space in this city. It runs between Grenfell Street and Rundle Mall. One of the first joints in this town to go electric. And it’s officially haunted. We’d checked it out, obviously, came up empty but kept the results quiet. Check out these pair of crackers. One: In 1887, Francis Cluney, resident caretaker, got his head caught up and mutilated in the building’s electricity generator. Nasty. Two: Florence Horton was shot three times in the back by estranged husband Thomas in 1904. She was carried into shop 50 and there she died and haunted by her said to have been ever since. Not by us, of course, we’ve looked into that incident as well and it’s all a crock, but as I’ve said, there’s no need to go about ruining a perfectly good rumour. S.S. is located on the upper floor. 47 of 50.

A little after ten in the morning she walks in. I’d just been invoicing our latest successfully concluded case, the Port Pirie Poltergeist, a particularly nasty nuisance that’d been playing funny buggers in the pub cellar with beer lines and generally wreaking havoc, as ghosts tend to. As I’ve mentioned - predictable. Publican George Curley wanted it out. They always do. If you know what you’re doing, and we do, it’s a cinch to give them the heave ho. The Supernatural nasty identified – the appropriate Solution then applied - file under case closed - invoice attached – client happy. Looks like there’s another prospective one standing in front of me now. Early thirties? Mid, maybe. Not unattractive. Long mousey hair in a pigtail poking through the back of her Buddha Happy baseball cap. Active Wear everywhere: Nike Air-Zoom sneakers, Desert Storm tights, Rock Wear tagged tank-top. I’m impressed.

  ‘Good morning’ she says, and hands me a card. Greta Warne, The Joyful Path Yoga and Self-care Retreat. 102 Ocean Road, Victor Harbour. I know it well. The old Governor’s summer residence, Whitmore House. Victorian double story, built 1891, on twenty acres of land. Olive groves, orchard, pool. Gently sloping coastwards. Lovely view of Encounter Bay, only three kilometres away, from the tower. Cops a very nice late afternoon sea-breeze.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Greta’ says I, ‘I’m Bradley. Call me Brad. Take a seat. Cup of tea?’

  ‘No thanks, Brad’ she replies, but takes that seat.

‘What can we do for you, Greta?’

  ‘We’ve got a ghost’

  ‘Not unusual, these days. Friendly, is it? Or hostile?’

  ‘I’d say hostile, from what I’ve been told’

  ‘So, you haven’t actually seen it yourself, Greta?’

  ‘Not me personally, Brad. Quite a few of the guests have, and staff’

  ‘Manifesting as male? Or female? Or didn’t say?’

  ‘Definitely male’

  ‘How long has this been going on, Greta?’

  ‘Ever since we moved in, say six months ago’

‘And how often does the spook appear?’

  ‘Off and on’

  ‘You’ve waited this long to contact us?’

  ‘I was hoping he’d just go away’

  ‘They never go unless you push them, Greta. They come with the house. Spooks like to stay put. Not all that adventurous, ghosts. Real stay-at-homers. You can read them like a book’

  ‘The letting agent never said anything about a ghost’

  ‘They never do, Greta, take it from me'

‘Well, he’s got to go, Brad. He’s freaking out the guests, the news is spreading that we’re haunted. It’s a bad vibe all round. Bookings are dropping off fast. Cancellations are pouring in. At this rate there’ll be none this time next week and we’ll go bust. We’re supposed to be a peaceful holistic healing retreat, not a haunted house that’ll give you the screaming horrors for years to come. If he’s not gone soon, we’ll have to shut down. It been hard enough with COVID 23, let alone having a spook hanging around. Can you do it?’

  ‘Guaranteed, Greta. We’re the best in the business’

  ‘When would you be able to start?’

  ‘Not until toward the end of next week, Greta’ says I, scanning my S.S. desktop calendar.

  ‘No earlier? He’s causing a real problem, Brad’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do for you, Greta, but honestly, we’re flat out at the moment’

  The following Thursday.

The sun had already sunk into Encounter Bay by the time I pull up in the S.S. VW Transporter. Too late to save it; way past the point a well-tossed lifeline would’ve done anything. Greta comes out of Whitmore House to greet me. The Active Wear’s been replaced by a short tan cotton dress and denim jacket. Hair still in the ponytail but sans baseball cap. Lime green silk scrunchie, no make-up. I remain impressed.

  ‘What’s the plan?’ she asks.

  ‘The ghost, Greta. Is he appearing in any particular room?’

  ‘Always in the same one, Brad’

  ‘That’s good. Which room?’

  ‘Four’

  ‘Top floor?’

  ‘Correct’

  ‘Common spot’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh yeah, you get very few in, say, the kitchen, or laundry’

  ‘I wonder why that is’

  ‘Had a couple in a garage recently’

  ‘Ghosts?’

‘Really nasty pair. Anyway, best get moving, dark soon’

  ‘Need a hand?’

  ‘No thanks, Greta’

By eleven I’ve set up the gear we’ll use in Room 4: our infra-red cameras, ultra-sensitive microphones, motion-detectors, air-pressure gauges, vibration alerts, odour sensors. Micro speakers. In Room 3 with me: the computers recording it all. On screen, on speakers, stacked on antique oak writing desk. Any spooky spectre showing up tonight will have their visit well-documented. Greta’s gone home; by now The Joyful Path has zero clients, so we’ve got the place to ourselves, the apparition and I, and the job spec is crystal clear: remove scary unwanted guest and get some nice paying ones back.

I wait.

Audio’s recording. Camera’s rolling. Gauges registering, detectors ready, alerts alert, sensors poised, midnight approaching.

More waiting.

  You could hear a pin drop.

Tick fucking tock.

A cheesy moon rides high in the sky.

  The darkest part of the night has just passed - there’s a cool sea breeze coming in off Encounter Bay and shaking down a few straggling olive tree leaves on its way through.

A little after two the standoff is broken.

Elisabeth walks in, unexpected. I’d given her the night off but being the pro she is couldn’t stay away. Had to pitch in. That’s Ms. H-S for you. Will put in the extra mile, invaluable, as I’ve said.

The moaning kicks off soon after her arrival. Moaning and a little bit of chain clanking, predicable phantasm MO, startling lack of originality as previously noted. My 14 Inch Laptop Pro’s monitoring the show next door in Room 4: The feed from our infra-red’s reveal the groaner and clanker up as clear as day. The micro speakers come into play. I turn my mic on and say, ‘Hey, you, ghost, got a name?’

Ghost says ‘What?’

  ‘You, in Room Four, what’s your name?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘I do’

  ‘And who are you?’

  ‘We’re from Supernatural Solutions’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Deadly, mate’

  ‘What’s it to me?’ 

  ‘Listen up, ghost-boy, and listen up good. We’ve been hired for a specific job, and that job is clearing you out. Got it? Getting your ghost-arse off the premises’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Your name please?’ 

  ‘What’s yours?’

  ‘Bradley’

  ‘Bradley who?’

  ‘First names will do’

  ‘Ken’

  ‘Okay Ken, you want to tell me what’s going on? Why the haunting? What’s your beef? How’d you cop it, Ken, any-way? How long you been a phantasm for?’

  ‘That’s a lot of questions, Brad. Why should I tell you?’

  ‘Maybe you’re just not getting it, Ken. I’ll expand. As I said, we’ve been engaged to give you the shove, is that registering with you? You’ve freaked all the guests out, bookings are non-existent, the owner’s frantic. So, it’s up to you, Ken, we can talk about it, try to find a solution or I can come in there and give you ten thousand volts right up your apparition arse and blast you to atoms. Your call, Ken’

  ‘Okay, take it easy, Brad - here’s the story. Got COVID twenty-three early in Twenty-Five. January - could have been February - you lose track of time once you’ve checked out. I tested positive while I was down here on a retreat. It was total lockdown, no-one in or out. The bastards locked the door and I choked and spluttered and coughed and wheezed and died. Took me a week, in agony, and guess what? Not one of those new-age, crystal-gazing, bead-wearing, tree-hugging, rune-stone reading, tarot-playing, tofu-eating, incense-burning hypocrites in the house did a god-damn thing. Bugger-all. Bradley, I passed over in this room! So, any yummy mummy from Burnside heading down south in hubby’s Range Rover for a few days of rejuvenating and self-discovery and aroma therapy and deep-skin cleansing and yoga and remedial massage is going to have to put up with a little bit of argy-bargy from me. Sorry, but that’s the way it is’

Ken’s overwrought ghostly rant over, Elisabeth introduces herself and explains to him that his entrenched male privilege bias and elevated sense of entitlement, which he may not have been aware he possessed, will no longer work. Not here in 2027. She encourages him to acknowledge the fact that his expectations regarding the Whitmore House incident were unrealistic and that he needs to reconcile and let go. Plus, of course, there are now no guests, not anymore. Ken will be moaning and clanking for an empty house. Pointless.

  ‘Thanks for that, Beth’ he says.

  ‘Here’s the deal, Ken’ I say. ‘You vacate the premises peace fully and I can swing you a spot at Mount Brecken mansion. Got over sixty rooms to choose from there, Ken, library, wine cellar, billiard parlour, drawing room, tower. Traditional ghost hangout. Great ocean views, a big step up from here, Ken - I’d give it careful consideration if I were you’

  ‘Options being?’

  ‘Smithereens’

  ‘There’s no room for negotiation, Brad, on that?’

‘Surely, mate, you’d have to have been expecting some sort of intervention by now; how long did you think you could keep this caper up for? Without drawing some heat’

  ‘I can’t say in truth that it’s been