This was originally written for a writing class I took over the Summer in 2021. Some of these stories had prompts, which are noted after the story along with other comments.
They say in space, nobody can hear you scream. Unfortunately, ghosts are not bound by the laws of physics and can make sound anywhere. Gary Elwood thinks he may be seeing, and more annoyingly, hearing ghosts. Gary’s job is usually rather peaceful. He carries cargo in his freighter ship throughout the galaxy between space stations. In the unkempt cockpit of the vehicle, Gary sits, gritting his teeth as he whizzes through the star-spangled void. Voices, or what sound like they could maybe be voices, and visions, echo through the claustrophobic vessel.
In the distance, a star comes into view. Its brilliant blue hue illuminates the cockpit. Foil food wrappers on the floor shimmer and gleam in its light. Gary gets ever closer to the star, and something begins eclipsing its light on his ship. A pristine space clinic floats serenely ahead. The star gives it an angelic glow. The clinic hadn’t responded to any of his calls, but it was clearly still operational. The shiny bay doors to the dock gracefully opened and let him into the station. They promptly shut behind him.
Something was off. Everything was clean. Too clean. As if no living thing had stepped foot in this facility in decades. The walls were a clinical gray. The floor a slightly darker tone. As his ship touched down, a legion of cleaner bots scurried out from a small structure and began scrubbing away at every nook and cranny on the freighter. Gary stepped out onto the spotless floor and approached the door to the lobby. With each step he took, the cleaner bots would swarm to his dirty footprints, wiping away any trace that he’d been there.
The voices got louder and the visions more vivid as he got closer to the door. It slid open. At the front desk sat a distinct lack of a receptionist. Or even a receptionist droid. Like in the dock, everything was cleaned with weapons-grade precision. The room was barren aside from the receptionist’s desk, a few benches to wait, and a vending machine. That should do. And it did. Inside was one last bottle of Ghost-B-Gone. Gary fumbled in his pocket for spare change and procured just enough to get the bottle. The voices grew ever louder. Gary fumbled even more, and dropped a quarter on the floor. The coin’s collision rang throughout the empty halls of the station, followed by the many wheels of many, many cleaner bots ready to vacuum up the loose change on the floor.
The prompt for this one was "Not realizing that the facility has been closed for almost thirty years, a man who has started to see ghosts goes to check himself into a mental institution." Friends have told me the "ghost-b-gone" bit messes with the tone, which I agree with. I really like the idea of an abandoned space station that's in perfect working order because of robots and whatnot.