Wilbur sat in his living room, his hand trembling on his phone. He’d never believed in ghosts. Spirits, hauntings—it was all just nonsense. Ghosts were for Halloween specials, for conspiracy theorists. Americans, really.

He missed London, where the only thing he had to worry about was the rain and the occasional nosy neighbour. This… this was something else. What was that? He couldn’t even bring himself to describe it properly—how could he?

It had been late. He was just getting ready for bed, pulling the covers up to his chin, when he’d felt something. A presence. Cold. And then it was there. Staring. Eyes wide, unblinking, with teeth—sharp and too many—bared in a grotesque grin. He’d frozen. This isn’t real, he’d tried to convince himself. But then it touched him. Cold fingers on his face, gently, almost mockingly, as if to prove that yes, this was real.

Wilbur had nearly screamed, but nothing came out. The thing—it had stared into him, like it could see right through his soul. He could still feel the echo of those fingers on his skin. He’d never felt so exposed, so vulnerable, in his life. He had cried when it finally vanished, leaving him alone, shaking, his heart racing in the dark.

Here he was, barely holding himself together as he dialed the only number that might be able to help. Who’s he gonna call? The Ghostbusters. Of all things. If his friends could see him now, they’d laugh him out of the room. But this wasn’t a joke. Not anymore.

He swallowed hard as the phone rang. Come on, pick up. He didn’t know how much longer he could last. He felt small, helpless. A far cry from the man who’d been skeptical of anything remotely paranormal just hours ago.

“Hello? Is this… the Ghostbusters?” His voice cracked slightly. “Please, I—I need help. There’s… something in my house. It’s still here. I—” His voice faltered. God, how was he supposed to explain this? How could he make sense of it when he still didn’t believe it himself? “I—I don’t know what it was, but it’s still here. I can feel it.”