All the cool kids want to go to the haunted playground. They enter the place of historical tragedy sniggering and pushing each other in the rough-and-tumble way children do. They don’t acknowledge or even notice me, of course. I’m not one of the cool kids. Unbeknownst to them, I’m a regular here, for reasons far beyond their comprehension. It’s all a group dare; a chance to show off; to prove how grown up they are. The cool kids think they can laugh off their genuine fear and return to school the myth-busting heroes.

All the cool kids are idiots.

It always follows the same routine.

Their laughter staggers to a stop as the first of them, typically the largest one - in both personality and stature - passes quite rudely through an unnaturally cold patch. Their face and body shutter and slump as they withdraw into themselves. The others mill around, placing concerned arms over their shoulders and sharing worried glances with others above their head. The gaggle of them utterly baffled at the mighty change in their leader.

Then, the annoying ‘comedic’ sidekick, uncomfortable with silence and being stuck with their own self-deprecating thoughts, takes the lead. The fool will use a funny voice and stumble up the nearest piece of playground equipment.

This one today clambers up the short rock wall and stands, far too tall and triumphantly, within head-whacking distance of the plastic spires. Before any witty commentary can emerge from their mouth, however, they go still. Their eyes stare unseeingly above and past their friends below. Their mouth opens silently in terror. They are seeing the ghost-equivalent of a burglar alarm. Cosmic and nightmarish horrors rooted in real history. Real history that happened right here, you insensitive fucks.

Depending on the individual group, there may be other characters that appear and have a go at conquering the ‘urban myth.’ At the very least, every group of cool kids that come through swiftly make a dramatic exit after their leader and fool have been made victim of the site.

I watch this group of kids leave from my sedentary position on the only functioning swing. Good riddance. Thankfully, I won’t see them for another week when the new school year commences. Now I can actually go about my usual business in peace.

Standing from the aged plastic seat, I stretch my arms above my head before heading over to the flaking yellow spiral corkscrew ladder. As I move closer, the bright, amorphous blob sharpens into a ghostly apparition. At least this one is human. Animal ghosts are always so difficult to communicate with, and there are only so many hours in a day for me to squeeze in a childhood around these liaison jobs.

This ghost is a kid younger than me. Maybe about 9 or 10 years old? Briefly, I acknowledge and swiftly mourn the appearance and disappearance of the existential crisis within my mind upon the realisation I’m talking to a dead child younger than me. As odd as it may sound, I miss the days when interactions like these would lead me down an extended existential spiral. Now, those feelings are fleeting, then disappear in a heartbeat. Surely this apathy is far more concerning in this situation for a 15 year old such as myself. Not like I can talk to a mainstream psychiatrist or general mental health professional about this. Over many generations of tragedy, my family has finally learned that to stay safe, our talents cannot be known by anyone else, no matter how genuinely and deeply we may trust them.

Anyway, dead kid. Younger than me. My brief, fleeting emotions of existentialism have long since disappeared, and I’m ready to be a professional. I cast my eyes over the figure to analyse the situation and client.

The kid’s leg is hooked unnaturally (go figure) over and under two of the metal spirals. His dark, cropped hair has been buzzed on the back and sides. I note with some amusement the flame decals shaved around the area. Now, THIS is a...