“Ghost Of A Texas Ladies Man” • Concrete Blonde (by Guy Cramer)

Overnight, the TikTok reel of me jumping out in a Scream mask and her passing out appropriately on the antique fainting couch hit one million views. I told her about my idea of monetizing the channel, though she didn’t like it being at her expense. Every day there’d be new content of me scaring the bejeebies out of her in unexpected places. There was one reel where I popped out from the bathroom closet, which may not seem like a big deal, but our house was built in the 1920’s, the closets are tiny. I got her from behind the driver’s seat one morning on her way to work. Unlike most surprise videos where the car stays in park, I did it when she got on the highway, that reel had the most views of them all. During this time a number of men messaged us asking how she was doing, saying she needed to break up with me, and what kind of guy does that to his own girlfriend? I also received a number of personal messages from admirers of my work. One woman offered me a thousand dollars for one good scare. Seemed like easy money until I Google-mapped the address. Her home was a fortified compound on a backwoods road, complete with razor wire and a set of Dobermans. This is Texas, and that would’ve been suicide. I managed to make a few quick bucks here and there, most of the time from lonely thrill seekers. In a way, I was providing a service, something to make them feel more alive. Another woman messaged me that she and her husband had hit a lull in their love life and needed to spice things up. Looking at their Instagram profiles they were your young average evangelicals. Both posed in a cute selfie at the Sixpence None the Richer reunion concert, they were nuts for Sixpence, even her youth pastor hubby’s ID was: out_of_the_bearded_barley_81. I agreed, and financial compensation was to be discussed later. When I arrived, the house was dark. I assumed they were already anticipating a scenario, playing the role of unsuspecting high school sweethearts getting caught by Scream, or pretending to be extramarital lovers trapped in a cabin by a psychopath. I had put fresh fake blood on my plastic blade, which I later felt bad about dripping on the kitchen linoleum. When I got there, it was only the wife wearing a negligee, sprawled out on all fours over their sheets ready to pounce. Her gas blue eyes glowing as she leaned in lowering her voice, “I love a dangerous man.” I told her there must be some mistake when she leapt from the mattress, spraying perfume directly in my face. Blinded, I felt my way to the door, and when I reached the car, I rinsed my eyes with the watered down Coca-Cola in my cup holder. A shadowy figure darted across the lawn, it was out_of_the_bearded_barley_81 holding a baseball bat, using language that didn’t seem becoming of a youth pastor. I barely made it home. When I walked in, my girlfriend was standing in the middle of our living room holding her Glock 19. “Oh is this where you scare me?” I raised my hands, looking for the hidden camera. “I know everything, I know all about the other women you’ve been scaring,” she said, finger on the trigger. I stepped forward and the last thing I remembered hearing her scream before the shot was “Is that Chanel No. 5!?” When everything went dark I didn’t follow the light, I stayed behind. The police believed her story, that she had mistaken me for an intruder. Now I lie in a pool of ectoplasm stains on my side of the bed watching her sleep. When I lean in for a kiss she walks right through me. I try to make it like old times, jumping out from behind corners, curtains, and furniture. I even sprang out of the garden hose once while she watered our yellow roses. It’s just not the same.

Guy Cramer is a writer, and yes he's from Texas. He's had recent work published in Farewell Transmission, BULL, and Pool Party Mag. He's on Instagram: guy.cramer