Content warnings:
Violence, death and dying, bodily harm, sexism and misogyny.
This started with a prompt in a weekend flash writing contest: “True love is like ghosts, which everyone talks about and few have seen.” That weekend, my teenage daughter and a couple of her friends were talking about sidekicks in books that are more interesting than the main “chosen one” character—and it brought up my own conflicted feelings about the show Supernatural, which is littered with the bodies of the Winchester brothers’ female sidekicks. Even though this story is about toxic relationships, it was important to me to have a thread of hope—that a sidekick can become a hero.
One
This first part isn’t a lie. As you follow the Gentleman Ghost Hunter, his rucksack stuffed with tools of the trade—salt, holy water, knives, and crucifixes with tiny, muscled Jesuses glued to the wood—pride swells inside you. He’s Internet famous, even has a TV show in the works, and he picked you as his new partner.
You think: Who cares I’m not a gentleman. Or even a man. You tweeted about joining the Gentleman—#equality #feminism.
You think: It will be different this time.
Now that last part, that’s your first lie.
Two
You tell yourself the voice inside your head, my voice, reflects your own anxieties.
You don’t want to consider the alternative—that you are haunted—because the Gentleman insists ghosts only want to hurt people, not help them.
Three
Let me tell you a story.
There was once a woman who joined the Gentleman and fought at his side. Sammi wisecracked with him; she didn’t mind when the Gentleman made innuendos, or pretended she didn’t. When women blocked him on social media, she agreed females could be real bitches: who did that skank even think she was? The night she died, Sammi’s rucksack held an empty vial of salt, a broken crucifix, and an unsent postcard addressed to her sister: Having a great time!
You tell yourself the same lie: You are having an absolutely, fucking wicked good time.
Four
The Gentleman is a club of one. But one is an unstable number. A lonely number. He needs a sidekick, someone who will praise his deeds; order takeout, clean the dishes. Someone to stand in the line of fire when he’s about to lose it all.
You aren’t a dummy; you know you aren’t the first. But as you dig through his archives, you learn you aren’t even the second or third. There have been seven—all who perished in the Ghosthunter’s battles. First, Sammi. And then Bethany, Jennifer, Taylor, Gauri, Maggie, and Lola.
You tell yourself that you can change him. That you are a family. And that he’ll care for you and protect you, no matter what.
Five
You know from your research the sidekicks died at Undercroft Manse, the place that’s haunted the Gentleman his entire life. The details are sketchy, but the events follow the same arc: a fierce battle arose between the Gentleman and the manse’s ghosts. And when the fight was about to be lost, a sidekick sacrificed herself to save the Gentleman.
You tell yourself the sidekicks made noble sacrifices. You really believe it.
Six
You’re prepping for the Gentleman’s return to Undercroft Manse; this time, he says, he’ll finally rout its evil. You ask about his past sidekicks, and his voice tinges with husky regret: None of them were tough enough, none of them had the balls to do what he does.
As he caps a vial of holy water, he asks if you’ve got what it takes to survive.
Your hand rests on the smooth wood of a crucifix, and you really believe it when you tell him you are the smart girl. The strong girl. The girl who can turn everything around.
Seven
You had envisioned a Victorian heap, roof tiles broken and turrets collapsing under the weight of gravity and neglect. You trudge behind the Gentleman as he leads you down a dirt road, and Undercroft Manse slides into view: it’s a 1960s split-level, with an attached two-car garage. It’s someone’s abandoned domestic fantasy, its curtains tattered, glass windows shattered.
The Gentleman points you toward the kitchen for backup position. A magnet presses a faded photo to the fridge: parents and a boy—with the same intent expression as the Gentleman—stare from the snapshot.
In the corner of the kitchen are the remains of a woman wearing jeans and a green flannel shirt. You shiver when you see the postcard that has fallen out of her rucksack: Having a great time!
You tell yourself ghosts are abominations that deserve to be driven to hell.
Eight
The Gentleman throws the works at the ghosts—holy water, crucifixes, arcs of salt. But the ghosts are quick, and they dart around him like they know his strategies and skills.
There’s something at work here that you can’t understand, a history between the house and the Gentleman. Deep, rotting roots that don’t belong to you. He’s held here by family ties, things that he can’t release and that force him to return again and again, bringing his sidekicks as reinforcements.
The Gentleman screams at you to get your heart in the game.
He’s right, you tell yourself: now’s not the time to doubt whether his fight is also yours.
Nine
The Gentleman is losing. He demands you step between him and the ghosts, that it’s all about sacrificing yourself for the greater good. He says he’d do the same for you.
It’s then that you notice me: A ghost with a green flannel shirt, ink-stained fingers from a leaky ballpoint pen. I whisper your name, and you recognize my voice. I think you finally understand: a haunt sometimes wants to save people.
The Gentleman is calling. He screams, then pleads. He’ll die without you.
I’ll be honest—you’re not the first I’ve haunted. Every sidekick has heard my whispered truths, my stories about postcards and lies. For a moment, I worry you’ll make the same mistake as all of us, starting with me and following with all those who came after. That you’ll fail to see the lies for what they are until it’s too late.
But then you turn your back to the Gentleman and pluck the yellowed postcard from my rucksack.
You tuck the postcard in your pocket, and turn your back to the kitchen, head for the front door.
It’s then that you tell yourself a lie to save yourself: The Gentleman will survive on his own.
