Whether I was born with a sixth sense or what, I've seen ghosts all over town ever since I was a little kid, and I've spent my entire life pretending I couldn't.
Naturally, I knew that if I went around telling people I could see spirits, they'd immediately brand me an occult freak or a pathological liar and bully me relentlessly, so I never even mentioned it to my parents.
Then one day, while walking through a busy scramble crossing, I saw a bizarre ghost. Unlike the others, she was constantly weeping, pleading "Help me... help me..." as if desperately crying out to anyone who would listen. I felt terrible for her, but I didn't dare say a word. The reason was simple: her neck was bent sideways at a sharp ninety-degree angle, and she was smiling.
In short, she gave me the creeps, so I kept my distance. My gut told me she was bad news.
Still, day after day, that ghost stood rooted to the exact same spot near the roadway, whispering "Help me..." to the passing crowd.
I started to wonder if she'd broken her neck in an accident or something and ended up stuck in that gruesome posture, and bit by bit, I began to feel sorry for her.
The next day, it was pouring rain.
As I crossed the intersection, I spotted the woman's ghost and thought, "Yep, there she is again," watching her from afar like some fixed piece of street furniture. As usual, she was whimpering "Help me..." to the pedestrians, but despite the sea of people passing right in front of her, not a single soul stopped. I glanced her way and was about to ignore her and keep walking like always, when it happened.
"Please... help me..."
Hearing that voice—more desperate and heartbreaking than ever before—something snapped inside me.
It wasn't pure goodwill. It was probably just self-righteous hypocrisy.
Even so, I found myself wanting to help her. Maybe she was an earthbound spirit, trapped in this spot and suffering endlessly. I couldn't do much on my own, but at the very least, I could hear her out and consult a psychic or a specialist who could perform a proper memorial service for her.
Having made up my mind, I pulled my umbrella down low and stepped up beside the ghost.
Standing right next to her, I took a quiet, deep breath and spoke in a low voice.
"...If there's anything I can do, I'm here to listen."
It sounded almost like a cheesy pickup line, but the ghost turned her body in response to my words. When that head—tilted sideways at a clean ninety-degree angle—swiveled to face me, a terrifying chill shot down my spine, but I told myself I had to hear her out, gathered every ounce of courage I had, and stood my ground.
Then, the ghost spoke.
"I WASN'T TALKING TO YOU."
Mortified beyond belief, I slumped my shoulders and slunk away.
