“No immune system is immune to death –
but after death, who knows?
Maybe ghosts get diseases,
with splutters and sneezes,
and scare the Bejeezus from us with their noses...”
It happened in the old house.
I was looking at places for rent. I had almost no money, which limited my options. No job. However, I was more than willing to tell lies on the forms. I'm morally flexible like that.
And so I ended up looking at places right on the outskirts of town. Places where a hypothetical commute would be two hours each way through rough, desolate country. A foul terrain of gas leaks, broken glass and rotten wood.
Even so, most of the rat-infested deathtraps I saw were still out of my price range.
My guide through these horrible houses was an unfathomably old realtor. He had only the occasional wisp of hair, and kept his eyes closed 70% of the time. He wore a bright cyan uniform which did not suit his face, and he coughed. The coughs were loud and sharp, punctuating every sentence he spoke, as well as the silences in between. Each cough sounded like it might kill him. Unfortunately, none did.
It took place after yet another failed showing. The realtor had just taken me up to a top-floor flat above a butcher's shop. The smell of raw meat stung my nostrils. I'm not a vegetarian, but some days I'd like to be. The place above the butcher's, all rotting wood and damp crevices – even that cost slightly more than I was able to pay.
After that, the realtor took me to the last property of the day: the old house.
“The oldest house” would be more accurate. None of the other places had been young. The eldest house? But then, “eldest” is just a word for people, as far as I know. People with siblings, some older than others. This house had no siblings. It stood alone, patches of waste-ground on all sides separating it from the other buildings by a good few feet.
It was a detached house on two levels. An actual house. This surprised me.
“You won't want this one,” croaked the realtor.
“I'll be the judge of that,” I said.
But it was certainly bigger than I'd been expecting. Inside was dust. Absolute dust. Layers upon layers, a thick film of dust on every surface. I felt like I was wading through snow – though, really, the dust only came a few centimetres up on my shoes. Every metal fixture – each lock and door hinge – seemed to have rusted, then had the rust rusted over by some kind of double-rust, then the double-rust rusted over again.
Every breath I took tasted of copper coins. The realtor hadn't coughed for a while. Perhaps he was holding his breath, unwilling to accept the air.
It happened as soon as he left me alone.
The realtor asked if I didn't mind if he stepped out for a moment. Only, he hadn't had a cigarette for hours. And he didn't want to smoke indoors. Only, he was worried the place might catch fire. Wood everywhere. Scattered fragments of wood, like kindling. So would I mind terribly if he went for a smoke?
“Sure, go ahead,” I said.
And he left.
A little time passed and, with nothing else to do, I ascended the staircase to have a look upstairs. The steps were crooked, with several missing. It was like walking up the teeth of someone who hasn't brushed in a long, long time.
There was no electricity. Only light filtering in from outside. Dim afternoon light, made jagged by broken windows. I crept through the shadows and pushed open a door. It creaked. Everything creaked. I could hear my own hips creak with every step. I walked forward into the room and then –
“Achoo!”
A sneeze. A gigantic, sloppy sneeze, right in my face. But from where? From who? There was no-one around. I shuddered, and legged it back down the stairs.
Outside, the realtor was nowhere to be found. His car was gone.
With a handkerchief, I wiped my face. What came away from my cheeks was a thick, viscous green sludge.
I headed back to the youth hostel as quickly as possible. Took a shower. But somehow, there was always more of the ooze. I must have washed my hair five times that night, but the water still ran green. I kept on finding slimy chunks – behind my ear, in my eyebrows, buried in my scalp. I couldn't get clean.
So how could I sleep?
Over the coming months I would discover it had been a ghost that sneezed on me that day. I caught the ghost's cold. Then, when I myself could not stop sneezing, I inadvertently assisted in spreading the haunted infection all over town. Now the whole place is haunted. The ghost exists in the nose of every man, woman and child.
Thankfully, the ghost doesn't seem to have any evil intentions beyond simply being all over the place. But the sneezing sure is inconvenient.
The town is now a cacophony of sneezes at all times. No-one gets much sleep any more. We tend to be covered in the viscous, green, ectoplasmic snot. Quite repulsive. Outsiders avoid our town entirely. I think we're under quarantine, but the government won't give us a clear answer on that.
Armed with Kleenex and Lemsip, we battle our haunted noses daily, and hope that one day this uncommon cold will be cured so we can go back to our lives.