Dear Sirs,

I am writing to inform you of my immediate and utterly justified withdrawal from these premises, effectivepost haste. I have been haunting the north-west section of the catacombs since they were merely boring underground cemeteries — no signage, no lighting, no fire-code violations — just the way we liked it.

I have long supported the tourism industry. As a ghost, I pride myself on giving visitors a proper show. However, I must report a disturbing trend among the newest generation of mortals who traipse through our sacred, musty corridors.

The first incident occurred last year. I was hovering in my usual section, preparing to add a dramatic flair to the experience of some paying patrons. Just as the group approached and I was about to reveal myself — tastefully, of course — one of the younger mensniffedthe air and proclaimed, “I can smell the ghosts here! My dad says you can always tell by the smell!”

I was taken aback.I do not smell.I am not even corporeal — there is nothing to smell. The youth went on, describing “day-old soggy broccoli,” which he confidently attributed to the supernatural. This monster was spreading lies.Slanderous vegetable-scented lies.

The second incident was worse.

I was in the middle of one of my finest entrances, a full-bodied materialization from within a tastefully arranged pile of skulls. I even slowed the reveal for maximum impact. I locked eyes with each mortal. I gave themthe look. Then, with a practiced swirl of ectoplasmic flair, I vanished in a whisper of smoke, leaving behind awe… and the faint scent of antique despair.

This, I must tell you, is one of my signature pieces. I have received nods. Applause, even. There are reviews — positive ones.

But this group? They stood silent for a moment… and then begantouching the skulls.Moving them.Pawing at the walls, muttering about “cameras” and “projectors.” I don’t know what those are, exactly, but from context, I gathered they believed me to be fake.

Thenerve.

But the final blow came just last week.

A lovely couple had booked a private tour of my section. Samantha, the guide, was doing a phenomenal job — she always hypes me up, and I never let her down. That day, I decided tospeak.

Now, I don’t go for tired moans or shrieks like some of my colleagues (no offense to Wallace in Section D). I put thought into my act. That day, I chose a monologue fromHamlet— the one about solid flesh melting. A classic. I performed it with extra polish, disembodied and resonant, with a little echo for gravitas. Idelivered.

And what did they say?

“It was just a guy in a trench coat yelling Shakespeare into a storm drain.”

A storm drain.

Do I look like municipal plumbing to you?

I cannot and shall not continue to work under these conditions. This establishment will have to find another ghost to impress these uncultured barbarians.

Good luck with that.

Wishing you eternal indigestion,

Brother Ignatius Fell

Origninally Published by Robot Butt

https/www.robotbutt.com

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