Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - When the Dead Are Lost, They Find Me

Episode Date: October 15, 2025

When a weary “usher for the dead” spots a ghost sitting among the living at a raucous bachelorette party, his routine night of helping lost souls turns into a violent showdown with the spirit of a long-dead serial killer—and the reluctant birth of a new partner who can see the dead too. Fall is here, and so is our new Pumpkin Spice Coffee — a cozy medium roast with cinnamon and nutmeg that tastes like autumn itself. Go to NoSleepCoffee.com and use code NOSLEEP20 for 20% off your first order! Hate ads? Me too. Listen completely ad-free here: ⁠patreon.com/drnosleep Author: Jake Bible Check out the author's latest Kindle Unlimited release: https://www.amazon.com/Stone-Cold-Bastards-Jake-Bible-ebook/dp/B0FTHHJ3G1 * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised.  #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

After doing this as a semi-profession for 30-some years, you'd think it'd get easier. It never does, though. Tonight, for instance, it takes me close to an hour before I realize that the woman sitting with the bridal party isn't actually part of the bridal party. She's putting on a great show, laughing along with the jokes, making the motions of raising a glass at every silly toast each member of the bridal party makes to the young, giggly bachelorette. nodding along to stories they have all heard a hundred times. When I catch her out of the corner of my eye,

or turning to look at her when the table explodes into hilarious laughter, I think absolutely nothing of it. It isn't until I get back from going to the bathroom and see the woman still at the table, while the rest of the party is creating an impromptu dance floor up by the very tiny stage where a shell-shocked guitarist is trying to fend off their requests for him to play the entire Taylor Swift catalog, that I realize I've completely had the wrong impression.

I thought she was alive, and she very much is not. Not feeling the groove, huh? I ask her, as I take my drink from my corner booth and sit down at the table. The shock on her face tells me I'm correct in my assessment, an hour late, but correct. You can see me? She asks, I nod.

Oh, God, you can. can see me. Someone can see me. She reaches across the table to take my hands, but hers only drift through mine like they're made of air. Whoa there, I say, and put up my hands to my mouth to breathe some warmth back into them. That's a quick trip to frostbite town. She pulls her hands back and narrows her eyes. What are you? she asks. I can tell from her clothing that she probably died back in the late 90s or early aughts. I should have caught that before, too. But knowing she's been dead for over 20 years helps explain why she asked me what I was, not who I was. If you've been dead for a few decades, you see some stuff, and learn some shit. I have a

feeling this woman has seen and learned plenty of stuff and shit. I am a Sherpa for the dead, I reply. Although Sherpa feels a little appropriative nowadays. I'm a I should really come up with something else. A good rebranding never hurts, right? So, you're alive? Yep. And you can see me? Bingo.

Are you human? Last time I checked. Then how can you see me? I haven't met another soul in 23 years who can see me. Why you? That, my lady, is the million dollar question. And when you have an answer, please let me know. So you don't know why you are, how you are?

Nope. Have you ever tried to find out? My whole life. How long is that? 46 years. But I really didn't start hunting for answers until I was eight. So we can call it a solid 40 years, give or take. And you still don't know after 40 years?

Not a clue. I've talked to priests, rabbis, nuns, shamans, witches, high priestesses, who do practitioners, psychics, exorcists, paranormal psychologists, paranormal psychologists, long-haul truckers, and more strippers and bartenders than you can count. No one knows shit. One day I couldn't see dead people, the next I could. Was there some sort of trauma? Did you hit your head?

Not that I remember. It just happened to me, and I've been like this ever since. Have you found anyone else who was like you? Nope. Just me. Wow. That sounds lonely. Yeah, it kinda is. The only people I can talk to about it are ghosts and, well, no offense. Most of you could give two shits about a living guy who can see them.

How awful. Shit. We haven't gotten to the good part yet. What's the good part? The whole Sherpa thing. It means I have the ability to take the dead to where they need to go so they can move on. Noble in a way. Annoying in other ways. Like how it makes me real popular with the stuck in limbo crowd,

which makes living a living in a little bit more. a peaceful life, challenging when ghosts sometimes barge in on me while I shower, because they heard I can take them to the other side. The other side? Where is that? She's suddenly very excited. Being stuck in a bar for 23 years may sound like fun for some, but it probably gets old fast. She tries to grab my hands again, then remembers she can't and pulls them back.

How do I move on? Where do I go? Show me! Show me! Her excitement boils over, which is normal. The lights in the bar dims slightly. Then a single bulb above the tiny stage bursts. And the bridal party screams with a hilarity

that only massive amounts of alcohol and low IQs can produce. I am so sorry, she says and ducks her head. That's never happened before. Can't say the same, I respond and chuckle. I'm Gordy, Gordy Womack. Nina, Nina, Alexander. Nice to meet you, Nina. Now, how about you tell me a little about yourself?

Why? Well, so I can tell everyone all of your secrets, of course. She frowns. I laugh. I'm kidding. Telling me some personal details will help me find your departure point. Departure point? You mean the place where I will move on?

Is that how I get to the other side? Bingo. Without pause, Nina Alexander tells me her entire life story. Twice. I have to get up and move. after the first telling, because the bridal party returns and starts shrieking at me. To stop acting like a creeper and get away from their table, or Tina is going to call her cousins and they will fuck me a big time, buddy. When Nina follows me back to my booth, she tells me her tale all over again.

Wow, I say after the second telling. That really sucks. I was going to make partner, except I got killed in the ladies' room instead. They ever find the guy? Not that I know of. She looks around, then looks back at me. But my access to information is limited to what's on the TV over the bar, and what I can read as I eavesdrop over people's shoulders while they scroll in their phones. Understandable, I pull out my phone. Let's see what I can find.

I do some Google acrobatics and manage to track down a few old articles on Nina's murder. But even with my skills, having done this same type of thing over and over, I can't find any record of her killer being caught. Looks like the guy killed eight women before he just stopped. I say after I'm done searching. My guess? He died. Why do you think that?

Killers like that don't just quit. And I searched for similar killings in other cities. Some looked close, but not quite the same. I think the killer died, and that's why it all stopped. Also why they never caught him. Oh, that's too bad. That would have been some good closure. You don't need closure.

If you did, I wouldn't be able to see you. I can only help those who are ready to move on. If you're moving on, then closure isn't required. I suppose that's one way to look at it, she says and thanks for a moment. The bridled party has now decided that leaving their table ever again is too hard. So they take turns dancing on the table instead of wobbling the 25 feet to the impromptu dance floor they had made. All right, I agree, Nina says. With what?

That I don't need closure. Oh, I wasn't asking you to agree. Whether you believe it or not, you must be ready, or we wouldn't be having this conversation. That empty pint glass talking back to you? The waitress asks, eyeing me carefully as she walks up to my booth. It's complaining about its purpose in life. I hand her the empty.

A refill would go a long way to making this pint glass satisfied with life again. Uh-huh, sure, the waitress says, taking the glass for me. Do me a favor, will you? You bet. If you plan on ramping up the crazy, do it somewhere else. Staying seated and chilling your booth while talking to yourself is fine. But if you have an urge to start shouting about demons or breaking the furniture, just don't. I wait until she's out of ear shot before smiling at Nina and saying,

All right, that puts a wrench in things. Usually, I can be pretty anonymous. I once had a roundtable discussion with a lawyer, a mob boss, two nurses, and a priest on the state of public health care, and no one even batted an eye at me. Maybe she's like you, Nina says. Nah, no one is like me. And if she was, she would have seen you. Okay, but maybe she's sort of like you, but different somehow.

How? I don't know. I'm the dead person. You're the one with the powers or abilities or whatever. Fine. Sorry, sorry. Shit, here she comes. Play cool.

I'm the ghost. I don't have to play anything cool. One pint glass now happy with its life. The waitress says and sets my beer in front of me. You got a tab? I forgot to ask. Yeah, it's Womack. Gordy Womack. Just need the last name. I definitely don't need a phone number. Phone number? I wasn't going to give you my phone number.

Oh, you were going to ask for mine then? Nope, no numbers were going to be exchanged. Really? So, this old crazy person talking to yourself thing isn't just an act to get my attention? Do you go in for that kind of stuff? Um, can we get back to my moving on, please? Nina says, waving her arms over her head. Picture this. It's late at night. You're scrolling, and suddenly you find exactly what you've been looking for. You add it to your cart, maybe browse a little more than head to checkout, only to realize you don't have your wallet. But then you see it, that purple shop pay button. And just like that, you're done in seconds.

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See less cards go abandoned and more social campaigns. sales go with Shopify and their shop pay button. Sign up for your $1 per month trial today at Shopify.com slash dns. Go to shopify.com slash dns. That's shopify.com slash dns. One forearm goes through the waitress, and the woman hunches over, shivering. Christ! What was that? She exclaims and looks around the bar.

Hey Tommy, close the front door. It is closed. The bartender yells back. Well, there's a bitch of a draft in here. So, what do you want me to do about it? Fucking Tommy. The waitress mutters then looks at me. Wo-Mack, got it.

Need anything else? Snacks? Water? A straight jacket? I have three at home already, so I'm good. Thanks for the beer. Thanks for making a very annoying night. She looks over at the bridal party,

which has basically passed out at their table. Into a weird, but definitely not boring night. My pleasure. I'm glad my special kind of crazy could help. She smiles at me for a couple of seconds and walks off. Oh, she likes you, Nina says. I said I doubt she likes me. No, she likes you, as in she's into you. A thought hits me. Probably not a good thought, but worth a try.

Hey! I call out. The waitress stops and looks back. What? Do you know anything about a murder that happened here about 20 years ago? 23. Nina corrects. Um, I mean, 23 years ago. Uh, no. And for the record, weird just turned into creepy. Right. Sorry. It's just that I knew the woman, Nina Alexander. You knew the woman who was killed here 23 years ago and are asking me if I've heard of her murder? Yeah, that totally clears it up. Not creepy anymore at all. She walks off. You blew that, Nina says. She was hot too. I'd have bet money she would have gone home with you tonight. Yeah, thanks. I was trying to help you, by the way.

Oh, right, sorry. Uh, thank you. No problem. Now what? Now we find your way out of here. How do we do that? You follow me. Where are we going?

I have no idea. We just kind of have to walk around a little. I thought if I told you my story that you would know where to go. No, it just helps me narrow it down. By hearing about your life, I develop more empathy for you, which makes finding your crossing over spot easier. I still have to do a little hunting, though. That makes sense.

I'm glad it does for someone. I get up, taking my beer with me, and try to look casual as I slowly make a circuit around the entire bar. I must not be as casual as I think, because the waitress keeps glancing over at me and shaking her head. When I get to the hallway leading to the bathrooms, a hot white pane erupted. in my left shoulder. He stabbed you, right?

I asked, Nina. It has been trailing me the whole time. Like a dozen times. Okay, good to know. I keep walking. And when I reach the lady's room door, pain erupts in my chest, my abdomen,

my thigh, my neck. Collapsing to my knees, I rest my head against the bathroom door. Are you all right? Nina asks. No, not so much, I say. After all this time,

there's still some serious resists. do from your death hanging around. Sometimes empathy can go a little too far. The bathroom door is yanked open, and I fall forward onto my face. Oh my god, fucking pervert! I'm calling my cousins right now! One of the members of the bridal party screeches at me. Then she literally walks over me, her stiletto heels, almost breaking skin as she stomps across my back. Ow! I slowly push up onto my hands and knees. That ain't how you do it, pal. A man's voice says.

Hello? I asked, getting to my feet. What? Do you hear something? Nina asks as the bathroom door closes, leaving her out in the hallway. I would have given that sparkly bitch a good stabbing back in the day, the voice says. Maybe cut off her tithies and taking them home. Um, gross. I turn in a circle, but see nothing. Where are you? I'm the ladies' room killer. I asked where? Wait, you're the who?

The ladies' room killer. I kill. killed over three women, and all of them in ladies' rooms. Over three? So what, four? Well, yeah, but four is a lot. But how many women have you killed, huh? None. None? What kind of body count is that? A normal one?

I circle again, then stop and look directly above me at the ceiling. Oh, there you are. A middle-aged man bloated in blue, grips the ceiling tiles with his fingers and toes. Where are your shoes? I ask. I don't need shoes. So, you didn't have shoes on when you died? Who says I'm dead? I stand and wait.

Okay, yeah, I'm dead. He admits. And they were stolen. Stolen? Some drunk woman came in here while I was having a heart attack and stole my shoes. She kept mumbling about her boy needing new shoes. Then she left with them in her hand. Did she tell anyone you were dying?

Does it look like she told anyone I was dying? Good point. Gordie? You okay in there? Nina calls from out in the hallway. I can't seem to go in there to check on you. That's one of my kills, the man says. Oh?

Interesting. That explains why she can't come in here. Bad mojo. I give him a thumbs up. I'm Gordy, by the way. You are? Mitchell Ronning, attorney at law, and killer of ladies while they go to the bathroom.

I didn't kill them while they were on the toilet. That's disgusting. Sorry, no offense meant. I looked down at the floor and rub my neck. You think you can come down? I'm getting a nasty crick. How's this? He asks, standing directly in front of me, bent over so his face is in mine. Fucking hell! I shout and swipe at him, my hand going straight through his torso.

Personal space, dude! He backs off and leans against a stall. How come you can see me? I don't feel like giving this scum my life's story, so I say, magic. He scoffs. No such thing as magic. No such thing as serial killer ghosts. Yet, here we are.

Is that what they call me today? Where do I rank in the lexicon of killers? Uh, I don't think anyone calls you anything. You're not exactly on the true crime radar. But I had four kills! Were you caught? Were the police closing in on you when you had your heart attack? Uh, no.

Not exactly. Huh. I pull out my phone. Mitchell Ronning? Attorney at law. Got it. I search. I find a new story from 2002.

Here we go, I say. Local attorney Mitchell Ronning suffered a fatal heart attack Saturday night at a local bar. Details on the memorial service will be provided by the family. That's it? That's it. Were you expecting more? What about my life's work?

Your life's work? Killing four women! You consider that your life's work. work? Dude, that's not just disturbing, but really, really sad. They should have written books about me, made television movies, maybe one of those primetime miniseries. Yeah, those don't exist anymore. And even if they did, how would anyone know you killed four women? Did you leave a note? No, of course not. I wasn't planning on dying in the ladies' room from a heart attack. Did you have a journal or manifesto? No, other than legal briefs,

I've never been much interested in writing. Video confessions? Audio? Maybe you recorded a confession and burned a CD. That was something we did back in 2002. We burned CDs. I... No.

I did none of that. And how would anyone know you killed four women? He pauses, thinks it over, and his whole being just slumps. It's like he's still there, but in a melty way. If I hadn't done all that cocaine, Then I wouldn't have come back to this bar, and I wouldn't have done all those fireball shots,

and I wouldn't have stumbled back here, and I wouldn't have had the heart attack. That was a whole rush of regret. Feel good to get that out? Gordy! Who are you talking to in there? Nina shouts. Hold on, Nina. I'll be right with you. Just give me a second. Let her in, Mitchell says.

I knew she was around the place, but I haven't seen her since that night. Why the hell can't I leave this bathroom? Nina's trauma. She can't come in here and face the location of her death, and you can't leave, because you are inextricably tied to her trauma and to this location. There's no science to it, so don't hurt yourself trying to figure it out. I've just been doing this a while, so I kinda know the rules. I use air quotes around rules. Doing what for so long? What are you? Oh, right, sorry. I'm a Sherpa for the dead. I shake my head. The more I say that, The more I hear how offensive it is.

I need a new job description. Guide for the dead? That sounds too self-help, like coachy. I don't really guide. I just lead and show the way. Pretty sure that's what a guide does. Yeah, well, I don't like it. I'll keep brainstorming.

The door opens, and the waitress looks in. Wow, not so bridesmaid was right. There is a creeper in the lady's bathroom. Sorry, I slipped and hit my head on the door. Then she opened it and I fell in, and it all went to shit from there. Sounds plausible. So, then why are you still in the ladies' room? Say you need a TP!

Nina calls from the hallway. Stalls are always running out of TP. Not in the men's rooms, Mitchell says. That voice? Nina calls. I know that voice! That's because I fucking killed your ass, bitch! Mitchell shouts.

The waitress narrows her eyes. What are you listening to? Huh? I ask, startled by her observation. You have that look my dog gets when he hears something far away. What do you hear? How dare you call me a bitch? Nina roars.

Don't make me come in there. Bring it, you worthless whore! Mitchell roars back. I'll kill you all over again. You can't do that, I say, and instantly regret it. I'm sorry, I can't do what? The waitress asks. Ask you what you hear?

She shakes her head. I was going to do you a favor. and tell you that the entire bridal party is calling every cousin, brother, uncle, and asshole with a baseball bat to come down here and beat you to a pulp. But screw you. Be pulp for all I care. She storms off, and the lady's room door slowly closes. Gordy! Stop talking to my killer! Nina roars. Eat shit, bitch!

Mitchell shouts. You got murdered, so you don't get a saying anything. I'll say whatever I want, you sick fuck. Oh yeah? And how about you come in here and say it to my face? Try that, bitch. You know what? I fucking will. The door flies off its hinges, knocking me back across the bathroom and into one of the stalls.

The back of my head hits the toilet, and I see stars. I also see Nina, floating a couple feet off the ground, glide into the bathroom. Her hair is standing on end, and electric currents shoot out from her fingertips. You have no power over me! She screams. and all of that electricity pours into Mitchell's ghostly form. He dances and wiggles

and convulses and twitches and then poof. He's gone. The waitress comes sprinting through the doorway and falls to her knees. What the holy fuck? She says as Nina spins in a circle, cackling triumphantly. I killed him!

I killed the motherfucker who killed me! I roasted his ass! I, Nina Alexander, got revenge on my murderer. Nina is gone too. I need a drink stronger. than beer, I say, and slowly get to my feet. My head is pounding, and I reach back and feel sticky blood in my hair. A lot stronger. When I get to the waitress, she's still on her knees,

her mouth hanging open and her eyes wide with shock. I offer my hand. You okay? Only her eyes shift, and she stares at me without saying a word. Here, come on, let's get you up. I put my arms under hers and lift her to her feet. I think you could use a strong drink, too. I walk her out back into the bar where the bartender is standing there, his phone in his hand. Do I need to call the cops? What happened back there? He asks. Six shots of whiskey and whatever she wants, I say to the bartender.

I get the waitress settled on a bar stool, then plop down next to her. She's still on the clock, the bartender says. The clock is broken right now, dude. I say, shots, keep them coming. You! Shit. I turn on my stool. The entire bridal party is standing behind me, and they are pissed.

Hey, I say, can I help you? You can help yourself do an ass-kicking shithead. The one in front snarls. And we got people on the way to do just that. Do what? Kick your fucking ass! The one behind her shrieks. Fucking pervert!

Hey, I told you we don't want any trouble, the bartender says. Then he leans in close to the barrenner says. the waitress. Snap out of it and help me here. Ghost. As all the waitress can say, before swiveling her head on her neck and staring at me. Ghost. I pat her shoulder. Yep, ghost. What the fuck are you talking about ghosts for? The girl in front asks. You're the one who's going to be a ghost. The one behind her yells. I saw a ghost once. Someone from the back says. They all pause and turned to look at her. True story. I was at my Nonas house when I was little, and this boy walked straight through the

Where the fuck is he? Where's this fucking pervert at? Man bellows as the bar's front door is shoved open so hard that it smashes into the wall, knocking two framed photos of former mayors down onto the floor where they shatter, sending glass shards shooting in all directions. The bellowing man, the first, in a long line of bellowing men, takes one step, sets his foot on a large shard of glass and slips. His feet fly out from under him, and I stare in horror as I watch him fall, fall, fall, and land. I've seen the aftermath of so many deaths over the years that I've gotten pretty good at figuring out the physics that caused those deaths. In this poor asshole's case, it's just pure dumb luck.

The glass breaks. He steps on a stray shard. He falls backward, his head slams into the floor, and his skull cracks open. Pretty common way to go out, really. Uncle Joey! The bride screams. shoving out of the center of her protective bridal gang to rush to the dead man's side. Uncle Joey! Someone should call an ambulance, Joey says, suddenly standing between me and the waitress.

I don't look so hot. You're dead, dude, I say and sigh. Sorry. The waitress screams. This gets all of the women in the bridal party and half the men in the baseball bat mob screaming as well. You should call the cops now, I say to the bartender. Then I grab his wrist before he can make the call. Shots first, he shake my head.

You know what? Just hand over the bottle. He reaches behind him without looking and snags a bottle of whiskey, mechanically handing it to me as he dials 911. I'm surprised to see you, I say to Uncle Joey as I uncork the whiskey and drink straight from the bottle. Ah, I rarely see fresh ghosts. I'm a ghost? He asks.

I point at his dead body on the floor and the wailing family members crouched around it. Oh, right. Makes sense. Sorry you were called down here to beat my ass. Makes me feel kind of responsible. But we'll get you sorted out quickly. You must really be ready to go. To go?

To the other side, the afterlife, heaven or hell or wherever. Oh, fuck yeah. I fucking hate my life. Miserable day and night. Get me the fuck out of here now. Sure. Tell me a little about your...

He boofs away. Shit, that was easy. I guess he really did hate his. life. That was a ghost, the waitress says. Oh, you're back. Good. Here. I slide the bottle over to her. It's not exactly a healthy way to deal with this shit, but it does the job. I saw a ghost in the bathroom, she says, then drinks several swallows of whiskey and gasps when coming back up for air. And I saw a ghost beside me. It's weird that you saw him too, I say, taking the bottle back. Nina, I can understand.

She'd gone full-rage ghost. Those are easy to see. But Uncle Joey, that's different. Cops and ambulances will be here in five minutes, the bartender says and looks at the waitress. You cool, Keeley? She slowly focuses on him. No.

You want me to get rid of this guy? She slowly focuses on me, then back on the bartender. No. You sure? Yes. Maybe close things up for this. night so no one else comes in, I suggest. Yeah, good call.

He hurries off to the front of the bar and starts turning off the neon signs that hang in the windows. Then he locks the door and stands there staring out of the small windows set in the top. I'm Gordy, I offered the waitress my hand. Keeley, was it? She stares at my hand, then takes it and gives it a weak squeeze. Yeah, Keeley. Well, Keeley, I hate to break it to you, but you'll may have somehow accidentally gotten a job as a Sherpa for the dead.

Uh, what? I know, I know, it's an awful name. I'm trying to figure out a better one. The serial killer in the ladies' room said I should call myself a guide for the dead. But I just don't like that. And even if I did, I'm not taking naming advice from a two-bit serial killer who only killed four women. Keely blinks at me. Sorry, that sounded better in my head.

I snapped my fingers. What about escort for the dead? She doesn't say anything. The crying behind us keeps growing and growing. No, you're right. Makes me sound like I'm the dead's prostitute. High-end prostitute, but still a prostitute. The crying continues to rise in volume.

Hmm, what about conductor for the dead? One of the bridal party literally throws herself on the floor and wails so loud that I start to hear a ringing in my ears. Will you drug? Bunch! Biches! Shut! She explodes up off her stool. I just saw a fucking ghost woman in the bathroom, and she killed another ghost! Then I saw your fucking precious Uncle Joey right next to me, and he just disappeared!

I'm seeing ghosts, and I need you all to shut the fuck up! Shut! The bar goes dead silent. One of the cousins or brothers or other uncles drops his baseball bat, and the clatter makes everyone jump. Sorry! He says. Keeley sits back down. down. You weren't talking to yourself all night, were you? She states. Nope. You can see and talk to

ghosts. Yep, but not all the time. Only when they are ready to move on. Sure but for the dead. Exactly. She sits there for a long few minutes. Outside, sirens fill the street, and flashing blue and red lights filter in through the bar's windows. Usher, she says. What? You're not a conductor or guide. You're an usher. You show them to the other side, and then your job is done. Just like an usher shows someone to their seat, and then that's it. They don't deal with that person again. Usher for the dead? I like that. A nod. I like that a lot. Also, it ties in with Poe's story about the fall of the house of Usher, which is kind of cool. Don't overthink it. Right, Usher for the Dead. Nice.

The bartender unlocks the front door and lets the paramedics and police inside. Keely glances over at them. What do I say? She asks. I can't tell them I saw ghosts. No, no, that would be bad. Just follow my lead. I've done this hundreds of times.

I go to stand up, and she puts a hand on my shoulder. I'm Keely. Yeah, I know. But it's good to meet you officially, Keely. You are going to help me with this shit, right? You aren't going to ditch me, are you? And miss the opportunity of being able to talk shop with someone for once in my life? Fuck no.

It's you and me against the spectral world, Keeley. Slow your roll, buddy. We're not moving in together or anything. Of course not. But trust me, you have no idea how lucky you are to have me to help. This shit gets pretty wild sometimes. No shit. Right.

Already seen some weird shit, haven't you? I grasped her hand on my shoulder and give it a squeeze. Now, let me dazzle the cops with some real bullshit so we can get out of here and talk. Works for me. She picks up the bottle and chugs, and chugs and chugs. She'll be fine. Officer, Gordy Womack. I have to say I feel so bad about this because all these fine gentlemen were called down here over a simple misunderstanding.

Let me tell you what happened.