Dear Sirs,
I am writing to inform you of my immediate and utterly justified withdrawal from these premises, effective post 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 men sniffed the 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.
I have never been so insulted in all my afterlife.
This monster was spreading lies. Slanderous vegetable-scented lies.
Having barely recovered from the Broccoli Incident, you can imagine my dismay when a fresh indignity unfolded.
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 them the 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 began touching 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.
The nerve.
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 to speak.
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 from Hamlet—the one about solid flesh melting. A classic. I performed it with extra polish, disembodied and resonant, with a little echo for gravitas. I delivered.
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?
There are no words severe enough to describe the insult. 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