To the editor and readers of the so-called “The Skeptic” Magazine. My name is Ediwinabin HamHamster III, and after reading your correspondent’s libelous reporting on the Drovers Inn (The Skeptic, 7th February 2022), the Scottish hotel where myself and several other spirits make our home, I had no choice but to respond in scandal.
First, let me get the usual questions I am asked out of the way. I died in an unfortunate accident involving a lit candlestick, some lace curtains, and a particularly distracting passage of “Lady Chatterley’s Lover”. Since that unfortunate day, I have haunted rooms 6 through 11 of the Drover’s inn. No, I do not know why I didn’t go to heaven or hell and no, I don’t know what my unfinished business is – though I suspect it has little to do with bearing witness to the near CONSTANT onanism of Mr Eggo, the very sight of which forbade me from administering a proper haunting that evening.
Look, I understand that as an Elizovictorian ghost my ideas of modesty are rather different than your modern standards, but believe me when I tell you that the brass knob of the door – one that I have oft jiggled in the middle of the night, by the way – had hardly closed when Mr Eggo was as naked as the giraffes of Africa. At first, I was under the impression that he had stolen one of the walking sticks from the gift shop but no, it was his terrible tallywhacker, which he proceeded to swing about the room for the rest of the night as though he were hoping it would start doing the vacuuming.
It was so bad that Mr Bargles – the Edwardian gentlemen who tragically drowned when he mistook his afternoon tea for his snuff-box, and who has haunted the bathroom of Mr Eggo’s room ever since – took one look at his beastly disposition and willingly descended to hell. I didn’t even know we ghosts could do that, but apparently we can, and Mr Bargles was not the last to take the opportunity that evening.
Also, it should be brought to your attention that many ghosts are creepy children. How is one supposed to make a terrifying pair of twins appear suddenly in a hallway, or materialise a babyless pram, knowing that it could accidentally do so in the den of vice Mr Eggo turned the Drover’s into for one miserable evening? I found myself reenacting the 2001 film “The Others”, except it was far more scary, and I’m far more convincing as a living person than Nicole Kidman.
Furthermore, for you and your reader’s information, in spite of all this, we attempted several hauntings during the night, ALL of which were ignored. At dinner, I appeared behind Mr Eggo in a fogged bathroom mirror but was forced to flee when he brutishly passed wind directly into my spiritual lap before he could notice me. Later in the evening Mrs Withersbee, a turn-of-the-century ghost who was tragically caught in an industrial haggis mill and haunts the third floor, attempted to descend hauntingly on Mr Eggo and his wife as they slept… only to discover them wide awake in the midst of a sordid roleplay, in which he portrayed Michael Gove, Secretary of State for Levelling Up, and his wife played the part of – of all people – former footballer Kenny Dalglish. Mrs Witherbee is a spirit who wakes each evening fresh with the memory of her own disembowelment, and I tell you I have never seen her more upset.
Finally, I would encourage your readers to give the Drovers another chance at a proper haunting. Though I will admit our spirits are somewhat shaken, we are still ready to rattle glasses and blow mist on the outside of windows, if your readers are willing to witness it.
As for Mr Eggo, next time he’s in town may I recommend the Green Footed Pig, an inn down the road far better suited to behaviour such as his, and with a much better WiFi connection.
