March 11, 2026

Ghost Jam
​by Daniel Scott Tysdal

A young musician finally has the space to create again—until a relentless midnight knocking begins to unravel her life. Exhaustion, frustration, and desperation push her to search for a solution. Blending humor, heart, and the supernatural, Ghost Jam is about creativity, resilience, and the surprising possibilities that can emerge when we stop fighting the unknown and start listening to it.

Listen to this story on the Kaidankai Podcast.



        Fittingly, the story of how our band started begins with a ghostly knocking in the night. This was back before I knew Emi. But I heard her tell the story enough that even though I can’t do her voice justice I feel confident I can share the truth.
            Emi had just received a modest arts grant and used the money to move downtown. She totally fell in love with her new apartment. How much? She was so enamoured with her sweet little place that she actually enjoyed working at Coffee Nut. Yup, that’s love. With a genuine smile on her face, she happily served entitled customers, dealt with jerk supervisors, and wore that ugly mustard-coloured vest and visor with the grinning, creepy nut logo.
            What was the reason for this love?
            For one, she could walk to and from work. No more hours wasted in unreliable public transit. And she found the downtown bustle and action, the energy of being at the centre of it all, inspiring. 
            On top of that, she had her own, full kitchen. Sure, the kitchen wasn’t much bigger than a coffin, but it had everything she needed to cook her favourites—oden soup, double chocolate chip cookies, a full roast chicken dinner—which topped her previous apartment’s microwave and hotplate. This kitchen also came with a refreshing lack of what she didn’t need, unlike her place before the studio, which had roommates who left the kitchen filthy, stole her groceries, and told her to cook more chicken dinners and less of her “stinky Asian food.”
            More than the enjoyable commute and perfect kitchen, though, Emi loved her new apartment because, for the first time since graduating from university three years earlier, she could finally make music again.
            She turned her living room into her dream recording studio. The building’s walls were thick enough that, if she played at a reasonable level, she didn’t disturb her neighbours, and covering the walls, doorways, and windows in thick blankets she picked up at Goodwill gave her solid sound recording quality. 
            She described her music making station, by which she meant her desk, floor, and couch, as a cornucopia. Instead of overflowing with fruit, gourds, nuts, and flowers, though, her cornucopia overflowed with instruments, cords, mics, and notebooks—a large synth on a stand and a small one parked atop her laptop; a drum pad on her desk and claves, a tambourine, and other simple instruments piled in a plastic storage container; an electric guitar properly stored in its case and an acoustic guitar half-buried under notebooks on the couch.
            Every day after work, she would giddily rush into her apartment, hang up her Coffee Nut vest and visor on the hook beside the door, and get to work creating. She would break to let ideas percolate while cooking a sustaining feast and then continue making music.
            Every night before bed, she would visit her defunct Streamify account Emifalaso and look at her disappointing musical pinnacle: twelve tracks, six followers, and three hundred and forty-eight streams. She used this to fuel her. She knew she was capable of so much more.
            Every night before bed, she also had another ritual: pray the ghost would leave her alone. 
            She always told this part of her story like it was an old cartoon. Emi idyllically slept snugly in bed, snoring softly, a smile curling on her lips as she meandered in dreamland. On her nightstand, an oversized mechanical alarm clock read 2:59AM. The seconds hand ticked, ticked, ticked around to twelve, the clock struck 3:00AM. The faint, erratic knocking began. Emi’s eyes fired open, saucer-wide and bloodshot.
            Her prayers were never answered. 
Each night the ghostly knocking returned. 
And each day, Emi deteriorated.
            This part of her story she would tell like a dramatic, cinematic montage.
Emi, exhausted, struggled to maintain a smile as she served a complaining customer. She stumbled home, battling through the crowd. She played her big synth, messed up, then restarted the recording. She returned to playing the synth, messed up again, then hit the keys in frustration. She tended to a simple, one-pot meal. She laid awake in her darkened bedroom. She watched her alarm clock: 2:59AM. 3:00AM hit. The erratic knocking began, louder. Emi moaned.
The cycle repeated for weeks, Emi spiralling into exhaustion. She spent as much time at work getting reamed out by her manager as she did scowling at crummy customers. She shuffled zombie-like into traffic, almost getting hit by a turning car. She fell asleep on the couch, acoustic guitar falling from her lap to the floor, forgetting about the pot of canned soup she left boiling on the stove. The soup burned. Emi’s fire alarm blared. She shot up in a panic and then stopped. She looked down at her foot. She had stomped it through her acoustic guitar.
That night, lights on, Emi stood on her bed, scanning the ceiling. 3:00AM arrived. The knocking returned, louder and wilder. Emi scurried around her bed, the floor, her dresser, tracking the sound’s source. The knocking moved around the room, as though running from her.
            The next afternoon, Emi returned home from work, dead on her feet. She took off her work visor and vest. She attempted to hang them on the hook beside the entrance, but they dropped to the floor. She shuffled a few steps before finally registering her uniform’s fall. She glanced back, that creepy bean logo grinning at her, and then continued to her desk.
            Sitting, Emi pushed the mini-synth and a mess of cords out of the way. She pulled her laptop forward and opened it. The browser was still opened on her defunct Streamify page. Her metrics remained unchanged: twelve tracks, six followers, and three hundred and forty-eight streams. She scoffed, closing the page.
            She typed in the search bar: “how to get rid of a ghost.” 
She clicked the first result.
The website title, “Ghost Be Gone,” appeared at the top in big, gaudy letters, bookended by strobing red crucifixes.
When Emi scrolled down the page to read more, a video popped up and played.
Pastor GBG, a white guy in his fifties, walked smiling towards the camera on the perfectly manicured lawn of a large house. A lawnmower engine roared. The pastor wore cowboy boots, jeans, a short sleeved light blue shirt, that, of course, revealed his large biceps, a clerical collar, and cowboy hat. He held against his chest a large, leather-bound Bible with a crucifix on the front.
Emi always had a blast mimicking the pastor. I’m not sure what listeners got a kick of out of more—the ridiculousnesses of the man or the energy of Emi’s impersonation.
“Great heavenly day, friends,” the pastor shouted over the lawnmower. “I’m the Wise and Mighty Reverend Ghost Be Gone, but you can call me, Pastor GBG.”
The pastor reached a generic white dad slumped on a ride lawnmower, jammed unmoving against a tree. 
“Like this poor fella here,” Pastor GBF shouted, “is a ghost making a mockery of you, tormenting your family, and keeping you all from truly accepting into your hearts our dear saviour Jesus Christ’s suffering and love?”
The ad cut to two kids crying as a ghost—that’s right, a man in a sheet—mockingly pointed at them.
“Is a ghost,” the pastor continued in voiceover, “making your already soft and disappointing offspring softer?”
The ad cut to a generic white wife clutching her head and bawling hysterically as the ghost broke dishes on the floor.
“Is a ghost messing with your wife’s kitchen so she can’t cook you a proper meal?”
Suddenly, and this was where Emi could hardly keep it together, the ghost and wife were curled up in bed, the wife lovingly stroking the ghost’s chest and the ghost smoking a cigarette even though he didn’t have a mouth hole in his sheet.
“Heck,” Pastor GBG continued, “has a ghost got you so worn down that you no longer have what it takes to be a real man and he’s seducing your wife?”
That was when Emi closed the site and stared at the screen, jaw dropped. 
She modified her search: “how to get rid of a ghost non-religious.” 
At this point in her telling, Emi would deflate. She couldn’t stop the frustration and dread of that time from resonating in her voice as she described clicking the first link, the second, the third, fourth, fifth, and fiftieth. They were all the same: too expensive.
Take as an example a standard trades-looking site like “Five Star Ghost Exterminators,” the business name written in star-filled letters with the services highlighted beneath, each word bookended by a star: “Removal. Disposal. Protection.”
The misery amplified when Emi scrolled down, and a banner popped up, offering something like, “Discount Removal Services! Starting as Low as $499.99!” 
Then another popped up with, “No Tax on Full RDP Packages! Save Up To $750!”
Then another: “Sign Up for Our New Elite Members Subscription Service! Only $299.99/month! (Must sign up for five years.)” 
Emi finally slammed her laptop shut.
She stood, catching herself before stepping on her broken acoustic guitar again, and laid down on the couch. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and opened Instagram. 
She searched: “ghost removal DIY.” 
Hopeless and defeated, she scrolled through the results.
Noticing a pattern, she perked up. 
More and more preview images contained a bright golden jam, or people holding or making this jam, much of the media stamped with text praising “Ghost Jam.”
Emi tapped on a video that read “[heart eye emoji] Why We <3 Ghost Jam! [heart eye emoji].”
The video was a cut of people sharing why they loved ghost jam. The footage and sound varied in quality and polish and the people were diverse in age, gender, race, and ethnicity. What did not vary was the genuine enthusiasm and dynamic energy with which Emi repeated the testimonials.
“I love that the ghost jam recipe is free.”
“I love that ghost jam is eco-friendly.”
“I love that making ghost jam has levelled up my cooking skills.”
“I love how ghost jam helps you kill two birds with one stone. Just spread the jam on any old junk you’re ready to get rid of and the ghost’ll hop right on it!”
The praise went on and on: ghosts couldn’t resist it; the ingredients were at the grocery store; you’ll feel at home in my home again; you’ll have the energy you need to succeed at work; you’ll finally have time to do the things you love.
Emi, giddy, stood and pocketed her phone. She started forward. A loud crack stopped her. She looked down. She had stepped on her acoustic guitar again, breaking it further. She overcame her indignity with the hope her discovery inspired. She continued to the front door.
In this phase of her telling, Emi used the ticking clock, like she was a spy building the device that would stop the bomb from exploding at 3:00AM.
7:45PM: Emi strode down a busy sidewalk, pulling her empty grocery wagon. She did her best to manage the pedestrian traffic while looking up the ghost jam recipe.
8:37PM: Emi desperately scoured the shelf for an ingredient, her cart full.
9:51PM: Emi rushed into her apartment, her wagon overflowing.
11:03PM: Ingredients neatly arranged on the counter, Emi added a powder to a mixing bowl and stirred. The bowl steamed. She coughed and choked at the foul stench, dry heaving. She dumped the contents into the garbage can, tossed the mixing bowl in the sink, and opened the kitchen window. She took a fortifying breath and washed the bowl.
12:57AM: The kitchen in slight disarray, Emi tended to a pair of boiling pots on the stove. She picked up one, poured its goopy contents into the other, and the concoction exploded, covering her, the stove, and counter in a sickly green. Emi’s face hardened in focus as she started again.
2:14AM: The kitchen now in total disarray, Emi was at the same stage again, two pots boiling in front of her. She grabbed one pot with confidence and poured it into the other. As the pot emptied, she closed her eyes, waiting for it to explode. She opened one eye. The mixture turned an appealing, shining gold.
2:50AM: Emi pushed through the blanket that hung in front of her kitchen entrance. She held a bowl full of golden ghost jam. She quickly scanned her living room, her eye moving from object to object. She smiled, hurrying over to her broken acoustic guitar.
Emi entered her bedroom. She cradled her ghost jam-covered acoustic guitar on her forearms, holding it away from her body. Her alarm clock read: 2:59AM. She looked up at the ceiling, waiting. 
Her clock struck 3:00AM. 
The dissonant knocking began. 
Emi carefully extended the jam-covered guitar up to the ceiling, in the direction of the sound. The knocking grew quiet, then almost rhythmic, then louder, then more rhythmic still. Emi watched the ceiling, hopeful.
The guitar shook in her hands. 
The knocking slowed, quieted, hitting a soothing rhythm joined by a stilted melody from the guitar’s remaining strings. Emi lowered the guitar, bringing it closer to her ear. The ghost was in the guitar.
Emi celebrated, dancing around her bedroom. The knocking and strumming fell into rhythm with her dancing. Emi continued her celebration out of her apartment, into the hallway, down the rear stairs, and into the alley, the guitar’s knocking and strumming joyful and rhythmic.
She tossed the guitar in the dumpster. The knocking and strumming continued. Emi raised her hands in celebration.
She returned to her apartment, crawled into bed, and smiled up at the quiet ceiling. She closed her eyes and slept through the rest of the night.
The next day, though Emi was exhausted, she served customers with genuine happiness. Her vision of nights of peaceful sleep and days of making music buoyed her.
Walking home from work, she paused when she reached her building. She peered into the alley. The end of the guitar still stuck out of the dumpster. Emi smiled wide at her success, but her smile faltered a little. She considered her reaction then forced a smile. She hurried into her building.
Emi entered her apartment, hung her uniform on its hook, and hustled over to her music making station. Opening her laptop and popping on her headphones, she fell into the flow as she returned to work on a new track. She paused her groove, listening close. Something was missing. After an “a ha” moment, she grabbed her drum pad. She hesitated, staring at the drum pad, deep in thought.
Taking a break, Emi surveyed her messy kitchen then started to clean up. As she moved to scrape the remaining ghost jam out of the mixing bowl into the garbage, she wavered. She studied the unused portion, deep in thought. She broke out of her spell and transferred the remaining ghost jam into a Tupperware container.
That night in bed, Emi laid on her side in the dark, watching her clock.
3:00AM hit. 
Emi flipped onto her back. Her eyes closed, face scrunched, and body tensed, she braced for the knocking to return.
Her bedroom remained silent. She opened her eyes and listened. Her body relaxed. A smile spread wide across her face. The silence remained.
Still smiling, she closed her eyes to sleep. Her smile fell. Her eyes opened again. Her face clenched in concern.
Wearing a housecoat over her pyjamas, Emi pushed through the steel door at the base of the rear stairs and stepped cautiously into the alley. Confirming she was alone, Emi shuffled over to the dumpster. 
Her broken guitar stuck out of the dumpster, the ghost inside releasing a plaintive, atonal combo of knocking and strumming. As she got closer, the ghost’s expressions remained atonal but grew more plaintive. 
Emi sighed. She retrieved her guitar. 
Back in her apartment, when Emi sat the broken guitar on her music making station, its expressions remained erratic but were now upbeat. Emi played a sweet, simple melody on her synth. The ghost’s knocking and strumming grew more rhythmic and melodic. Emi adapted to the ghost’s music.
Together they played what Emi always described as a haunting, hopeful song. Having played the song that arose from that session myself several times, I can second her description. 
At this point when telling her story, Emi would remove herself in the name of creating a suspenseful montage. 
The next morning, Emi’s bedroom was empty, her bed made.
Emi’s kitchen was clean, but various utensils and ingredients were arranged on the counter in preparation for cooking.
Emi’s broken guitar sat silent on her music making station, still glistening golden.
Though brighter in the daylight, the alley looked the same as it did the night before, except for one change. Atop the pile of garbage in the dumpster sat Emi's Coffee Nut vest and visor, the creepy bean logo hidden.
Emi happily strode past the alley toward her building’s entrance, her wagon full of groceries.
This next part of Emi’s story she described as creating her second cornucopia. She visited junk shops and goodwill stores until her wagon was full of broken, neglected instruments: a flute with a busted mouthpiece, a set of bongos with a batter head punched in, a partly melted, fire damaged keyboard, a stringless ukulele. 
But that was only the first step. She completed her new cornucopia by trekking across the city and visiting people she had found online distraught over unwanted hauntings. She messaged them each an offer: she could remove their ghost for free in return for a testimonial. The distressed, exhausted people agreed, welcoming her into their homes. She entered, carrying a broken instrument glistening gold with a fresh coat of ghost jam.
Once she had completed half-a-dozen jobs, she officially started her new business. She took branding inspiration from her competitors, while forgoing their high cost and higher cruelty. Five Star Ghost Rescue offered flexible pricing options and, instead of treating ghosts like garbage, promised to: “Rescue. Rehome. Renew.”
That was how I met Emi. I was one of her first paid jobs. I had been a young woman who did not want to leave this world but could not go on living in the one available to me, if that makes sense. The room I haunted had been a library when I died but was an entertainment room decades later when Emi showed up to rescue me, a smashed French horn covered in ghost jam in her hands.
I was there when Emi first started leading our chaotic spectral band. I did get to spend a few nights in that apartment, but with our members numbering nearly twenty already the landlord kicked us out due to noise complaints. The house Emi rented in the suburbs was much better anyway, freeing us to play whenever and however we pleased.
I was there each time Emi welcomed a new member into our home, each time she told them this story of how our band began.
I was there when Emi started her other new website: a Streamify page for “GJC (Ghost Jam Collective).” It’s hard to believe now, but there was a time when we had zero subscribers and zero streams.
I was there when those numbers exploded, there for all the rises and falls, the joys and struggles that came with our musical breakthrough.
I was there for a different breakthrough, too, the one that was for us the most important outcome of Emi’s work to empower us to express. Music making freed some of us to move onto the next realm. It broadened others. They could bounce between instruments or play within multiple instruments at once. And a few, like me, experienced the full return of our consciousness and speech.
I’m not sure what we would do at this difficult time without this breakthrough. And though I suppose this sounds self-aggrandizing, I do take my capacity to communicate verbally with you as sign that our ghostly orchestra is part of a bigger plan, guided by a larger hand. 
Hearing our story, I hope sways you to join us. With her work in this world done, when Emi died, she fully passed on. Despite our growth, we still need a gatherer, a leader, a guide, a friend.
Just think of the story you can tell when people ask how you joined. You can say, it all started the way you’d expect: a banged up French horn came knocking in the night.

                                                                            💀💀💀

Daniel Scott Tysdal is a writer, filmmaker, and teacher. He is the author of four books of poetry, the poetry textbook The Writing Moment: A Practical Guide to Creating Poems (Oxford University Press), and the TEDx talk, “Everything You Need to Write a Poem (and How It Can Save a Life).” His debut horror novel is forthcoming in fall 2027.
​FB: Daniel Tysdal / IG: @danielscottttysdal / T: @dstiz 

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