Maniac Ghost Killer

Episode 1 — The Coward Kid

The chicken stared at the fried chicken in Mason Carter’s hand.

Mason stared back.

For almost five seconds, neither moved.

Then the chicken took one slow step away.

Mason moved the crispy piece closer.

The chicken stepped back again.

“Mason!”

A man’s voice thundered from the house.

“What are you doing?!”

Seven-year-old Mason finally looked over his shoulder.

His messy black hair hung over a face that showed almost no emotion.

“Making a chicken eat fried chicken.”

John Carter stopped in the doorway.

He looked at Mason.

Then at the live chicken.

Then at the fried one in Mason’s hand.

“What?”

Mason turned back to the bird as if nothing was wrong.

“I wanted to see if it would eat it.”

The chicken suddenly squawked and sprinted across the backyard.

John rubbed his forehead.

“Can you stop doing weird things for one day?”

Mason watched the chicken disappear behind a bush.

Then his entire body stiffened.

His knees pressed together.

Both hands dropped between his legs.

John narrowed his eyes.

“No.”

Mason started bouncing in place.

“I need to go to the bathroom.”

John closed his eyes.

Of course.

Of course he did.

“Now,” Mason added.

John let out a long, defeated sigh.

“Fine.”

Mason immediately hurried toward the house.

John followed him like a man walking toward his own execution.

This was his life now.

And somehow, the bathroom had become his greatest enemy.

It started after Mason’s parents died.

John still remembered the funeral.

Dark clouds covered the sky. Rain poured over the cemetery, turning the ground soft beneath their shoes.

Two fresh graves stood in front of them.

Mason was only seven.

He wore a black suit that looked too formal for someone so small.

He didn’t cry.

He didn’t speak.

He only stood there, staring at the graves while rain ran through his hair.

John walked up behind him and opened an umbrella over his head.

From that day on, Mason lived with him.

John never had a problem taking care of his nephew.

Mason was quiet.

He didn’t throw tantrums.

He didn’t demand expensive toys.

He could entertain himself for hours.

Usually by doing something strange enough to make John question his sanity.

But there was one problem.

Mason was a coward.

A serious one.

Dark rooms.

Empty hallways.

Strange noises.

Anything that made his imagination run wild could send him straight to John.

And bathrooms were the worst.

Every time Mason needed to use one, John had to stand outside the door.

Not nearby.

Not down the hallway.

Right outside.

And the door had to stay open.

Completely open.

“Don’t move.”

“I’m not moving.”

“You moved.”

“I shifted my weight.”

“Stand still.”

John stared at Mason from the hallway.

Mason sat on the toilet with the same blank face he used for everything else.

It was almost midnight.

John was still wearing his work clothes.

“Mason.”

“What?”

“I’m standing right here.”

Mason said nothing.

John pointed three feet away.

“I’m going to stand over there.”

“No.”

“You can still see me.”

“No.”

John’s eye twitched.

This wasn’t a one-time thing.

Monday night, he stood guard in sweatpants.

Tuesday morning, he stood there brushing his teeth.

Wednesday evening, he waited in his jacket because he had barely stepped into the house before Mason announced he needed the bathroom.

Thursday at two in the morning, he nearly fell asleep against the doorframe.

Every single time, Mason looked perfectly calm while John suffered.

John tried everything.

“There are no ghosts in the bathroom.”

Mason didn’t believe him.

“Why would a ghost wait in our bathroom?”

“Because I’m there.”

John had no answer to that.

He tried leaving the light on.

He checked behind the shower curtain.

He checked under the sink.

He checked inside the cabinet.

One night, Mason made him look inside the toilet.

John stared into the bowl for several seconds.

Then he slowly turned around.

“What exactly am I looking for?”

“A ghost.”

“In the toilet?”

Mason nodded.

John went to bed that night feeling twenty years older.

Something had to change.

A few nights later, John was lying on the sofa when he found the solution.

Or what he thought was a solution.

A parenting magazine sat on the table beside him.

He had picked it up earlier but hadn’t bothered reading much of it.

Then one sentence caught his eye.

Children tend to believe information given by parents and guardians.

John stared at the line.

Then he sat up.

“Really?”

His eyes slowly moved toward the dark hallway.

A dangerous idea entered his head.

It was irresponsible.

Probably terrible parenting.

But John was desperate.

A small figure suddenly appeared beside the sofa.

John jerked upright.

“God—Mason!”

Mason stood there, both hands between his legs.

“Bathroom.”

John looked at Mason.

Then at the magazine.

Then back at Mason.

A smile slowly appeared on his face.

“Mason.”

“I need to go.”

“Do you want to know a secret?”

“No.”

John blinked.

Mason started shifting from foot to foot.

“I want to go now.”

“Right, right. But this secret is about ghosts.”

That stopped him.

Mason looked up.

John lowered his voice.

“The truth is... when ghosts enter our world, they have to follow the laws of physics.”

Mason stared.

“What does that mean?”

“It means they become physical.”

Mason still looked confused.

John raised a fist.

“Physical. Solid.”

He punched the air once.

“So if a ghost appears in front of you...”

Another punch.

“You can hit it.”

Mason’s eyes followed his fist.

John nodded seriously.

“You can beat the hell out of it.”

For the first time, Mason forgot about the bathroom.

He looked down at his own hands.

Slowly, he clenched them into fists.

“All ghosts?”

“Yes.”

“Even big ones?”

“Punch harder.”

“What if it gets angry?”

“Punch it before it gets angrier.”

Mason thought about that.

John pointed toward the hallway.

“You were about to pee yourself.”

Mason’s eyes widened.

He immediately ran toward the bathroom.

John leaned back on the sofa, satisfied.

Finally.

Peace.

He picked up his drink.

“Parenting is easy.”

Mason stopped outside the bathroom.

The light was already on.

Beige tiles.

White sink.

Shower curtain.

Toilet.

Nothing strange.

Nothing moving.

He looked over his shoulder.

John was still in the living room.

Far away.

Too far.

Mason looked back into the bathroom.

His throat felt dry.

Ghosts followed the laws of physics.

That was what John said.

John was an adult.

Adults knew things.

Probably.

Mason stepped inside.

He left the door open.

Just in case.

He sat down.

For a while, nothing happened.

He glanced at the doorway.

Then the sink.

Then the shower curtain.

Nothing.

His shoulders slowly relaxed.

Maybe John was right.

Maybe there was nothing to be afraid of.

A pipe clicked inside the wall.

Mason froze.

A drop of water fell from the faucet.

Plink.

He stared at it.

Another drop.

Plink.

“It’s just water,” he whispered.

The light above him flickered once.

Mason looked up.

It stopped.

He waited.

Nothing.

Then the temperature dropped.

Mason’s breath caught.

One second, the bathroom was normal.

The next, cold air wrapped around him.

His arms prickled.

The light flickered again.

Bright.

Dark.

Bright.

Dark.

Mason’s fingers tightened around the toilet seat.

Something was wrong.

He could feel it.

Not behind him.

In the corner.

He slowly turned his head.

At first, there was only shadow.

Then the shadow moved.

Ash-grey mist crawled across the tiles.

It climbed the wall.

Gathered near the ceiling.

Then something stepped out of it.

A hand.

Long fingers.

Grey skin.

Another hand followed.

Mason stopped breathing.

A towering figure unfolded from the corner.

Its shoulders nearly touched the ceiling.

Dark mist twisted around its body.

Its face was pale and stretched.

Its eyes were hollow.

Mason’s body locked in place.

Every instinct screamed at him to run.

His legs refused.

The ghost glided closer.

No footsteps.

No sound.

Just a huge figure moving through the bathroom like it had always belonged there.

Mason pushed himself back against the toilet.

His hands began to shake.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

John said—

The ghost leaned down.

Closer.

Mason could see its empty eyes.

His heartbeat pounded in his ears.

He wanted John.

He wanted the hallway.

He wanted anywhere except here.

Then a thought cut through the panic.

Ghosts follow the laws of physics.

Mason blinked.

Another memory followed.

John punching the air.

You can hit it.

The ghost tilted its head.

Mason looked at his own hand.

His fingers slowly curled.

You can beat the hell out of it.

The fear was still there.

It didn’t disappear.

But something else pushed through it.

A stubborn little spark.

John said ghosts could be hit.

John wouldn’t lie.

Probably.

Mason planted one foot against the tile.

The ghost drifted closer.

Mason raised his hand.

For the first time, the ghost seemed to hesitate.

He pulled his arm back.

Then slapped it with everything he had.

SMACK!

The sound exploded through the bathroom.

The ghost’s head snapped violently to the side.

Ash-grey mist burst from its face.

The shower curtain whipped backward.

A bottle fell from the sink.

Mason froze with his arm still extended.

The ghost froze too.

Its head remained turned.

Silence.

Slowly, very slowly, the ghost turned back toward him.

Its jaw hung open.

Its hollow eyes were wider now.

Not angry.

Not terrifying.

Confused.

Almost offended.

Mason stared at it.

His palm stung.

His heart was still racing.

But one thought now drowned out everything else.

John was right.

Ghosts could be hit.

The ghost let out a low, stunned groan.

Mason clenched his tiny fist.

For the first time that night, the thing in the darkness looked more afraid than he did.