Neighborhood Ghostbusters

Growing up in Hamilton, Ohio never proved to be overly interesting—aside from some girl that got stabbed on my front lawn at four o’clock in the morning or many fire-department rescues of far too large kids attempting to squeeze themselves into infant swings. Despite this, and the raging opioid epidemic gutting my community in ways I couldn’t understand, I had a really good childhood. My family settled on a street corner directly across from a decently sized park that often housed a plethora of children my age. I could generally be found outdoors, utilizing my vast imagination and perpetually getting myself in trouble.

On an exceptionally monotonous summer day, my two preferred playmates and I sat on the massive step of my front porch debating on various ways we could pass our time. Biking, racing, and swinging were all tossed around, but no ideas seemed to peak any of our interests. After great thought, the smallest member of the congregation, Angel, proposed an intriguing idea. “Why don’t we find the ghosts in that alley?”

We all exchanged delighted expressions. Although we had discovered a supernatural entity that dwelled between an old woman’s humble abode and a dilapidated public housing complex quite some time ago, we had neglected to investigate it further due to a combination of fear and forgetfulness. With nothing else to entertain our time with and brains full of imagination, we collectively decided our course of action to face the eminent terrors of the narrow alleyway.

My second companion, Katelyn, our designated weapons specialist, took the lead with a wooden baseball bat. Following close behind her, I procured my older sister’s iPod to record any ghostly activity, as well as Angel, who would be the brave soul to first attempt in coaxing a reply from the invisible beings. Cautiously, we took steps into the depths of the eerie alley. A vague morning chill crawled up my bare arms, making the pit of my stomach feel even heavier with anticipation and fright.

“Hello? Ghost?” Angel began lamely. I searched the area, discerning nothing but brick, windows, and grass. Silence persisted over us.

“Did you hear that?” Katelyn gasped, snapping her neck back to meet our glances, mouth agape. Angel and I shook our heads, but then, it happened.

Above our heads, we heard a conversation. The exchange was indistinct, but certainly identifiable as the voices of a male and female. Heart pounding, I raised the recording device high above my head, determined to pick up evidence of paranormal activity. I felt Angel’s petrified grasp on my wrist as we waited for further continuation of the voices.

Suddenly, a roaring crash sounded. I heard nothing else but a yelp from Katelyn as we three turned on our heels and fled from the alley in a full sprint. To be sure we could be as far out of harm’s way as possible, we forced our shaky legs to carry us across the street and to the opposite side of the park. There we caught our breath and grinned at one another. “Guys,” I exclaimed triumphantly. “We’re Ghostbusters!”

When I played the recording for my two brothers later that day, they were both skeptical. They assured me that the voices were a couple that resided in the apartment complex, and the deafening bang was simply someone knocking over their trash bin. I could not accept their ignorant explanations for these uncanny occurrences and continued to believe that the alley was haunted. Now, I am seventeen and preparing to graduate high school, and I am aware that my brothers were correct. Occasionally, however, I desire that ability to conjure up creative stories and convince myself of fictitious information that I possessed as a child. The open-mindedness and acceptance that children are endowed with is a quality that even adults should strive to obtain.