Strictly Business

Dipper thought “Get a grip on yourself. This is business." And that was true.

Busting ghosts was his business, even if so far it paid somewhat less than running a cash register in the Mystery Shack.

On the other hand, he hadn’t been at it very long—professionally, that is—and he was still building up a client base. On the other other hand, ghosts were supposed to be ghostly. A splash of anointed water, a brandish of a crucifix or a Magen David, Yin/Yang, Aum, a symbol of whatever religion the ghost had believed in pre-decease, a silver mirror for practically every ghost, incuding the odd surprised atheist—one of these should do the trick.

But, and this was a big but, the key was that the ghost had to be spectral. That meant everything from—

“Ohhh, I want you,” she cooed, writhing in the pale glow of the lantern he had set on the floor, sweeping her hands over her curvaceous body—

—everything from an orb, a floating nearly invisible transparent bubble of ghostly energy, to a phantom blur, a wavering, shimmering, glowing shapeless—

“Please,” she whispered, her eyes wide and pleading, her lips wet and gleaming. “Please take me right here, right now.”

—shapeless dim mist that sometimes you could only catch from the corner of your eye. Or in more developed form, a vague, humanoid shape, with visible head, arms, and legs, perhaps seen ascending or descending—

“Look at me,” she murmured, smiling, her chin down, giving him an upward stare, bedroom eyes. “You want me. You want these.” She pulled her arms from the short sleeves of her top and rolled it down beneath her tempting—

—descending a stairway. In still more developed forms, the ghost might be recognizable as male, perhaps a monk in a procession of phantom monks—

—tempting round young breasts. She stroked them, smiling, offering them to Dipper, the nipples beginning to erect between her teasing fingers, and she licked her lips as if in anticipation. She threw her head back, smiled, and moaned.

—monks, all translucent, taking no notice of the mortal witness, chanting silently as they marched from the dormitory to the now ruined cathedral, walking on the ancient path, now buried under centuries of rubble and earth, without effort wading through three feet of ground. Or, even more intriguing, the ghost might be a recognizable person, like the old couple in the convenience store—

“Look at me,” she repeated, pulling up her skirt and twitching her panties to one side to reveal the plump, glistening promise of her pussy. “Mm, I’m so wet. I want you so much. Don’t you like me? Don’t you like to see me like this, begging you?”

—convenience store still wearing the clothes they wore in life, complete to spectacles. Why did ghosts even need glasses? It made zero sense. But the man and his wife were revenge ghosts. This was different. Now he confronted a horny ghost, the ghost of a twenty-year-old girl who had died before 1900, had died a virgin. She evidently still harbored Earthly yearnings, and he just didn’t—

“I’ll remove these garments for you. See?” She peeled off the stretchy top and dropped it, paused to pinch and pull her ripe nipples, now taut with desire, and then unfastened the skirt and let fall. Looking directly at him, she pushed her panties down to her ankles and daintily stepped out of them. She hugged herself, fully displaying her whole body to him while he stood there, eyes wide. “Ohh, take me, please. I ache for you.”

—just didn’t know what to do. The Journals were clear and the rule was strict: Never have sex with a ghost. Never.

“Look at me,” she purred, turning from him. “Look at what I offer you.” Dipper’s throat felt dry. With the grace of a ballerina, she bent over and grasped her own ankles, her shapely ass like a Valentine, displaying to him her rosy asshole and her wet pink slit. But, and it was a beautiful butt, she then let go of one ankle, opened her thighs, and began to masturbate, her hips gyrating, her middle finger vanishing into that delectable pussy.

Dipper balled his hands into fists. Never. Have. Sex. With. A. Ghost.

Complication: back in the convenience store, the old guy ghost had possessed his sister, Mabel. And now this ghost, which appeared at the stroke of midnight in the cold, dark, dilapidated bedroom, had played the same trick.

Now she turned, still fingering her pussy, her eyes half-closed in desire. “Dipper, please. Please make love to me. Any way you want. Mouth, pussy, asshole, anything. Fingers. Feet. All of them. Please. I have to have you.”

Except in this case the ghost had possessed the body of—

“Pacifica,” Dipper groaned.

Let’s pause here and rewind.