Why am I telling you all this? Because I’m a cynic. Because horror movies are terrible – as Neve Campbell said, it’s a big-breasted girl going up the stairs when she should be going out the front door. Why else? Because I’m a 19 year old student with a dead boyfriend who talks to me. Sounds spooky, huh? Well it’s not. Like I said before, it must suck to be a ghost. You can’t touch anything, not even the woman you love. You also can’t hurt the people who caused your death, which is a drag. However, if you living, flesh-and-blood girlfriend one day decides to play with a ouija board and contacts you… Well, she can hurt them.

Which, in case you haven’t guessed, is what happened. Travis is my boyfriend, and he was killed by some kids who thought guns were cool and shooting people made you popular. Assholes. So I missed him. I still miss him - even though I can talk to him, I can’t touch him. I can’t kiss him or hold him, make love to him, hold his hand – all these things couples all over the world take for granted, and we can’t do it!. I hate God. But God isn’t real. The punks who killed Travis are. I don’t want Travis to leave me. I want him to stay with me forever, but that won’t happen until I’m dead, and I’m not selfish enough to make the people who love me hurt as much as I do because of losing Travis. Instead, I want to give Travis the peace he deserves and exact revenge on his killers. Geez, that sounds so dramatic, but it doesn’t feel that way. Just necessary.

So I need to make them understand how Travis feels, what it felt like to crawl for mercy and receive none. I won’t kill them. If they’re still alive, maybe they can do something to make up for what hurt they caused. What can I do? I’m not smart, I can’t come up with some genius plan. I’ll just have to do the best I can. Hmm. Maybe that’ll be enough.

As a precaution, I’ve decorated my room like a weird gypsy fortune telling room. Purple drape with gold trimmings, a crystal ball and tarot cards, along with an excess of make-up and a gaudy costume for me. The chances of anyone arriving are slim, but…

Oh, dear. These guys are dumb. Here they come now. They enter, tattooed, bandana’ed and nervous. Hate creeps coldly over, but I control it. They have crawled into my web: now it’s time to play. They took the man who meant everything to me away. Without him, I’m nothing. Maybe when I know he’s happy, I can be too. We’ll see. I greet them, thespian all the while, and invite them to sit down, séance style. After a minute or two of setting the atmosphere with some chants that put the teeth on edge, and guttering candles that bring the shadows to life, and the air thick with unsettling oils.

Then I roll my eyes back into my head, like I’ve seen on TV, and in the voice of my ‘spirit guide’, Ronan, I ask if they know a Travis. As they answer in the negative, eyeing each other and fidgeting in their seats, Ronan tells them a Travis knows them and has a message for them.

One, with a weaker constitution than the rest, starts to rise, but I cry out in a shrill voice for him not to break the circle, for if he should, evils from the other side may break through and wreak havoc upon the world like were released from Pandora’s box. The look on the uncultured dolt’s face tells me he has no idea who Pandora is, but nevertheless he sits, looking uncomfortable. Using a special mechanism, I press down on a pedal with my foot and the table cloth falls away from the table, revealing my ouija board. Without any of us touching it, it starts to spell out words

At that, the boys get very troubled, and I smile darkly to myself as I release their hands and they race for the door. Before they reach it and find it locked, I reach under the table and my searching fingers find their goal: a shotgun. Pumping it loudly, they turn, their eyes wide with fear. Gang wars they can handle. Drug busts they can handle. Innocent men walking through their territory they can handle. In the same way I wish to handle them, with a ballet of bullets, blood and death. But they cannot handle the supernatural.

"Travis was my life," is all I say, the hatred showing in my eyes and burning into them like lasers. Aiming at each of them through the crosshairs, as I reach the last tough guy, he draws a small hand gun and fires, a pure reaction. Violence is the answer to everything with him. My own, ghost guided reaction is to fire at the freak. It strikes the very bullet out of the air, and an amalgamation of both mine and his strike into his leg.

As he writhes on the floor in agony, I hope the wound gets infected and turn to the other three, frightened out of their wits and ‘my’ impossibly sharp shooting. As they stare at me in fear, I almost pity them. They probably never felt any love for anyone, nor any love in return, so their only obvious path was one of pain and hatred. Almost. I talk to them, tell them of my and Travis’ love for one another, and hate for them. Tell them of the lives they’ve shattered. As I talk, the ouija board in front of me spells out the same words. At the end, the rock-hard, streetwise punks are grovelling on the floor, weeping. I smile, and tell them to get up and go and help their wounded friend, then start making up for bad karma. The door’s open eerily – Travis’ doing – and they run for their lives, as fast as possible, carrying the injured punk.

I collapse back onto my chair, feeling as though a great responsibility has been lifted from my shoulders. I notice the ouija board in front of me.

I smile.