I had every intention of doing Part 2 of yesterday’s story… But that didn’t happen. So here’s a shorter story…

When they come to me, they’re desperate. At their wit’s end. I am their only hope.

And I always come through.

“Please, please, you have to help us!” The most recent clients – let’s call them the Joneses – begged my assistant over the phone. “The ghosts have made out lives a living hell! Our house in untenable! Please!”

Was that the exact thing they said? I’m not sure – it was a variation on that theme. It always is. And the story is always similar: they got the place cheap – too cheap. They moved in only to discover that things go bump in the proverbial night – that’s how it starts. But it always escalates. And they always try “everything.”

For the record, “Everything” includes mostly things that just piss the ghosts off: seances, Ouija board sessions, psychics, maybe the odd clergy member, some burning of sage, and the worst: ghost hunters. Oh Jesus, nothing will turn a ghost from fuss to fright quicker than a tattooed 20-something with copious piercings and a film crew. If they get that far and the ghosts haven’t figured out a way to, uh, disappear the residents (it happens, believe me), then that’s when they call me.

First and foremost: the NDA.

It’s been vetted by a collection of lawyers that scare people more than the ghosts we take care of. Calling it “Iron clad” is the understatement of the year. Suffice it to say: we cover our butts – that’s why you won’t find my name on reddit, or Facebook, or, you name it.

Word of mouth only. And, trust me, we have plenty of business.

“Please, please, you have to help us!” That’s right, the Joneses….

I will walk the house first. Nice place – craftsman, built probably sixty years ago. They’re the latest in a long string of short-stayed residents. Difference is the market is crap and they’re overextended. Make this work or else (fiscally speaking).

By the time I’m back my researcher, Caitlin, has done a full workup on the place: deeds, titles, and property records since time immemorial. I want to know who’s owned it, what they did to it, and what the people they ultimately stole the property from did there. Everything. There’s even a call into the University archeology department. Did I mention Caitlin was good? The best.

Now we know the who, the why, the when. With my boots (well, kitten heels) on the ground, I’ve at least felt the angry denizens of chez Jones. Now it’s time for work.

First: outfit change. I prefer my black leotard with lavender leg warmers ­– yes, I picked those up in the 80’s, and if they were good enough for Jane Fonda, damnit, they’re good enough for my ghosts. Headband on, back to the house.

The Joneses are out of the house – non-negotiable. First thing upon entering, even the most combative spirit is confused by my ensemble. Getting them off-balance at first is key.

“Gather ‘round, spirits, ghosts, ghouls, demons,” this is where they look at each other in confusion. It’s rather amusing, really, if it weren’t so terrifying.

I get right into it. Caitlin presses play on her phone and the Sonos speaker is blasting Bonnie Tyler’s “Holding On For a Hero.”

“Let’s go, ghosts!” I start bouncing back and forth, “Let’s get moving! Get those legs up!” I kick in time with the beat. The spirits are trying to figure out what’s going on, but nothing on earth or beyond can deny Bonnie Tyler. Blood – or ectoplasm – is flowing as Bonnie ends and we drastically change the tempo with some Duran Duran’s “Hungry Like The Wolf.”

“Come on, ghouls! How do you plan on rattling those chains if you can’t keep up here?” I say, moving to the mid-tempo rocker.

I hear you – you’re doubting my methods. Understandable. Stop reading right now – go to the media player of your choice and put on Kenny Loggins’ “Footloose” – the next track I unleash on the undead – and dare tell me that you’re not moving by mid-chorus. I assure you, there isn’t an undead fiend out there who is beyond the reach of Kenny Loggins.

By this point I’ve worked up a sweat (please note the head band is more than aesthetic – it’s absolutely functional!). I can see the ghosts are starting to become more translucent. Some of the younger shades might have already winked out of existence. That’s when I bring out the big guns.

“Eye Of The Tiger.”

It’s double time now, and those ghosts are moving. By the time Dave Bickler announces that the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night, even the most entrenched, depraved, terrifying ghost has winked out of existence.

There’s always the exception, though. The Joneses’ had one ancient spirit that kept time with Bonnie Tyler, it shifted to Duran Duran. Even Kenny Loggins wasn’t too much for it, and for Eye of the Tiger, I guess you could say this ghoul was the real Survivor…

When the song ended, I stared into the ghost’s red eyes and said, “Great job on the cardio. Next we start leg day!” Poof.

The house is clear.

Another successful round of exercising the ghosts.