I’m Being Haunted By a Farting Ghost

What do you imagine when you hear “ghost haunting”? Doors opening and closing on their own. Lights turning on and off. Blankets being pulled from someone while they are asleep. What I wouldn’t give to be the victim of a typical haunting.

 

The ghost who’s haunting me farts. A lot. This ghost breaks wind like black belts break wooden boards: for sport and with forceful execution.

 

Ghosts are known to wreak havoc on their victims. Mine is reeking havoc on me.

 

I’m being tormented by all kinds of farts. Loud farts. Long farts. Trumpety farts. Whooshing farts. Farts that sound like a pressurized valve being released. Silent, sneaky farts. Flappy farts. Wet-sounding farts. Deep, baritone farts. Farts that go up in pitch at the end, as if they’re asking a question.

 

People are skeptical enough of ghosts as it is, let alone one who haunts with flatulence. Try telling someone, “The fart you just heard wasn’t mine, I swear. It belongs to a ghost.”

 

Even people who believe in ghosts don’t believe me. Paranormal scholars don’t have any documentation of ghosts farting. It just sounds like something I made up to deflect the blame of a really bad fart.

 

Initially, the ghost would fart in a room separate from the one I was occupying. When I would go to investigate the sound, I would walk directly into the ghost’s stink trap. Imagine if a sewer and a durian fruit had a baby. Now imagine changing the diaper of this hybrid sewer/durian baby. It smelled like that, but worse.

 

The smell of a ghost’s fart lasts much longer than a human fart. It’s almost as if each fart is a small ghost whose job is to set up camp and haunt whatever space it was released into.

 

Nothing gets rid of the odor. I’ve tried everything. Vinegar. Baking soda. Febreeze. Hell, I even bought one of Gwyneth Paltrow’s vagina candles. It didn’t mix well with the existing fart smell.

 

Now the ghost enjoys farting in close proximity to me, especially in enclosed spaces. My car. The shower. Under the blankets of my bed.

 

In an attempt to breathe clean air, I bought an oxygen mask. The ghost allowed me to use it, letting me think I’d found a solution. When I got the oxygen tank refilled, the ghost secretly replaced the contents with its own gas, turning it into a sick contraption from one of the Saw movies.

 

Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, the ghost decided to follow me outside of the house. Now there’s nowhere I’m safe from its sulphury secretions.

 

I live my life in fear. I never know when the ghost is going to let one rip, but I can be sure of two things: it will make it seem as if I am the one farting and it will time its gas to be released at the most embarrassing of moments.

 

Standing in a checkout line at the grocery store I seem like the most brazen wind breaker, drawing the ire and disgust of my fellow shoppers.

 

Taking elevators is out of the question.

 

The ghost got me kicked out of my own Meemaw’s funeral. During what was supposed to be a moment of silence, it sounded like I was ripping a phonebook in half.

 

Do you know how hard it is trying to date when you’re being haunted by a farting ghost? You only get one shot at making a first impression and there’s no redeeming yourself after a ghost frames you for a cacophony of deafening farts.

 

I tried contacting prominent paranormal investigators, but when I start to explain my situation they think I’m pulling some kind of immature prank.

 

I’ve had priests visit me for the purpose of performing an exorcism. However, they need to see to believe – a head turning all the way around or at least some otherworldly projectile vomit. Without any visual proof, I just have an apartment that smells like I was hosting a chili eating contest where every contestant was severely intolerant to beans.

 

In an effort to help this foul phantom move on from our world, I thought celebrating its emissions might be the solution. I excitedly asked people to pull my finger, anticipating the thunderous follow-up, but the ghost wouldn’t cooperate and I was left stranded without a punchline to my setup.

 

Being haunted by a farting ghost without a sense of humor? Trust me, it stinks.