An Effective Marketing Campaign

Business was dying at Chill of the Beyond Creamery.

This was a complicated statement, because Oyuki was technically dead and took issue with sloppy metaphors.

Still, the numbers were bad.

She floated behind the counter in the blue-white gloom of her ice cream parlor, staring at the empty tables with the stillness of a ghost contemplating vengeance against foot traffic. Fog drifted low across the black-and-white checkered floor. Frost feathered the corners of the glass display case. From the freezer vents came the usual faint whispers of the afterlife, though lately even they sounded bored.

Behind the glass, her flavors waited in perfect, haunting rows.

Phantom Fudge Ripple.
Lavender Grave Mist.
Midnight Vanilla.
Spectral Sherbet.
Butterscotch Oblivion.

Each one had been made with care. True care. Oyuki did not simply scoop ice cream; she composed temperature. She balanced sweetness against cold, texture against memory, presentation against dread. Her waffle cones were crisp enough to make customers stop mid-conversation. Her sundaes had architectural integrity. Her sorbets tasted like moonlight regretting something beautiful.

And yet, by three o’clock on a gray Thursday afternoon, she had sold one child-sized cup of Midnight Vanilla to a man who had asked if she had “anything less emotionally involved.”

Oyuki had stared at him until he tipped.

Now she hovered in the silence, her long dark hair drifting around her face, her expression serene in the way storm clouds were serene before removing a roof.

The bell above the door jingled.

No one had ever seen the bell move. It simply produced the sound when it felt the time was right.

Elara entered first, elegant as ever in a dark coat and gloves. Ramses followed, wrapped neatly against the chill, though cold meant very little to him. Fabian Flamingo came last, wearing a scarf that appeared to have been chosen specifically to be offended by fog.

“Oyuki, darling,” Fabian said, stopping just inside the door and taking in the empty parlor. “You look like a haunted Victorian governess whose engagement was canceled mid-séance.”

Oyuki did not blink.

“That is almost accurate.”

Fabian’s expression softened. “Oh no.”

Elara approached the counter. “Slow day?”

“Slow month,” Oyuki said.

Ramses looked around the room, where a single spoon sat abandoned on one table like evidence of a vanished civilization.

“It is very quiet.”

“Yes,” Oyuki said. “Like a graveyard.”

She paused.

“I do not mean that in a positive way.”

Fabian drifted to the display case and peered inside. “But your flavors are gorgeous. Look at this. Butterscotch Oblivion? That sounds like dessert and a warning label.”

“It is one of my best,” Oyuki said.

Elara nodded. “Your ice cream is excellent. People know that.”

“Apparently knowing and entering are different acts.”

Ramses folded his hands in his sleeves. “Have you considered a promotion?”

Oyuki’s eyes shifted toward him.

“I have considered several.”

“That sounds promising,” Elara said carefully.

Oyuki floated a little lower behind the counter. “Frozen poetry nights.”

Fabian tilted his head. “Lovely in theory.”

“Three people came. One misunderstood the theme and recited a parking dispute.”

Ramses nodded. “Art is vulnerable to interpretation.”

“Bury-Your-Own-Sundae Thursdays.”

Elara paused. “Bury?”

“A shallow decorative grave of cookie crumbs.”

Fabian’s face brightened. “Actually, I could see that.”

“The children became too powerful.”

“Ah.”

Oyuki continued. “A flavor naming contest.”

Ramses looked toward the display. “What happened?”

“There was a shouting match over whether Minty Cold Despair was too long.”

“It is,” Fabian said.

Oyuki’s gaze turned to him.

He lifted both wings. “For signage, darling. Emotionally, it’s correct.”

Elara rested one gloved hand on the counter. “What else have you considered?”

Oyuki was silent for a moment.

Then her eyes drifted to something beneath the register.

“I have one idea left.”

Ramses waited.

Fabian leaned in.

Elara looked wary.

Oyuki slowly reached below the counter and lifted a neatly coiled garden hose.

Its brass nozzle gleamed under the blue parlor lights.

For several seconds, no one spoke.

Fabian’s beak parted.

Elara’s eyebrow rose.

Ramses looked from the hose to Oyuki.

“No,” he said.

Oyuki’s expression did not change. “You have not heard the idea.”

“I saw the hose.”

“That is not the whole idea.”

Oyuki placed the hose on the counter with great care. “Customers enter. They order. I spray them in the face with freezing water.”

Elara closed her eyes briefly.

Fabian let out a laugh so sharp it almost cracked into a honk.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You want to assault your customers with municipal water pressure?”

“Spectral water pressure.”

“That makes it worse in a more theatrical direction.”

Oyuki tilted her head. “Unexpected. Refreshing. Mildly terrifying. On brand.”

Ramses considered this with grave patience.

“It sounds objectively terrible.”

“Terrible experiences are memorable,” Oyuki said.

“So are injuries.”

“It would be carefully aimed.”

Elara looked beneath the counter. “Is it connected?”

Oyuki stepped aside.

The hose ran from beneath the register, through a tasteful hole in the back wall, and disappeared into a frosty brass fixture labeled:

EMERGENCY CUSTOMER ENGAGEMENT LINE

Fabian stared.

“You had Zephyrus install plumbing for this?”

“I had a vision.”

Elara looked at Ramses.

Ramses looked at Fabian.

Fabian whispered, “This is why no one should let ghosts renovate unsupervised.”

Elara turned back to Oyuki. “Try something else first.”

“I have tried several things.”

“Try more things.”

Fabian nodded quickly. “Yes. Promotions that do not involve blasting Philip’s jaw into the topping bar.”

“Fine. I will try more things.”

For one week, she did.

The first attempt was a simple buy-one-get-one-free offer. Three confused tourists came in, argued over whether ghosts could legally honor coupons, and left after one of them asked if the fog cost extra. A possum wandered in shortly afterward, took a nap under the napkin dispenser, and contributed nothing to revenue.

The second attempt was a loyalty punch card.

This failed because people immediately became uncomfortable with the phrase “ghost punch.”

“Is it a punch from a ghost?” a man asked.

“No,” Oyuki said.

“Is it a punch for a ghost?”

“No.”

“Is it a hole punched by a ghost?”

“Yes.”

The man stared at the card.

“I need to think about this.”

He did not return.

The third attempt was a limited-time flavor flight called Five Stages of Frost. It included denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and raspberry. Critics praised the concept, but customers found it “a little emotionally busy for a Tuesday.”

Fabian helped design posters.

Elara suggested a reading night paired with themed scoops.

Ramses proposed a sensible subscription program with prepaid monthly pints and clearly defined cancellation terms.

Oyuki listened to all of them. She nodded. She tried. She adjusted. She even briefly considered softening the parlor’s atmosphere by reducing the volume of the freezer whispers, but they revolted almost immediately.

At the end of the week, she had made eleven dollars and one man had paid in arcade tokens.

On the eighth day, just before closing, Oyuki stood behind the counter in the empty creamery and watched fog roll over the floor.

The hose waited beneath the register.

The bell jingled.

Philip and Brenda entered.

They were in the middle of a conversation and did not immediately notice the danger.

“I’m just saying,” Philip said, stepping inside, “if a movie advertises itself as ‘the most terrifying experience of the decade,’ it should not have a raccoon sidekick with emotional subplots.”

Brenda pulled off her scarf. “The raccoon was the best part.”

“The raccoon had too much narrative agency.”

“That’s because he knew where the amulet was.”

“That is exactly my problem.”

Oyuki’s gaze lowered to the hose.

Brenda waved. “Hey, Oyuki. Slow night?”

“Yes.”

Philip approached the counter, looking into the display case. “I’m thinking ecto-mint with two scoops, maybe waffle cone, maybe—”

Oyuki lifted the nozzle.

Elara, Ramses, and Fabian were not there to stop her.

This mattered.

Philip looked up.

“Is that a—”

FWOOOOOOOSH.

The blast hit him square in the face in a cold, concentrated, supernatural jet of water with the force and conviction of a haunted fire department.

Philip’s skull snapped backward. His hood flew off. His bony fingers clamped around the edge of the counter as the water blasted through his eye sockets and out the back of his skull in two clean streams.

Brenda screamed.

Then immediately started laughing.

The hose kept going for three full seconds, which in a crisis is a lifetime.

When Oyuki released the trigger, the creamery fell silent except for dripping water and the faint whisper of a freezer vent saying what sounded like, “Finally.”

Philip stood motionless.

Water ran down his ribs.

His jaw hung crooked.

One sleeve of his hoodie had been turned inside out by pressure alone.

Brenda stared at him, one hand over her mouth.

Oyuki lowered the hose.

Philip slowly lifted one hand and adjusted his jaw.

“That,” he said carefully, “was deeply upsetting.”

Oyuki remained still.

Philip blinked in the strange way skeletons sometimes managed despite anatomy.

“And…”

Brenda leaned closer. “And?”

Philip’s voice dropped.

“…kind of thrilling.”

Oyuki’s eyes brightened.

Brenda stepped to the counter, wiping water from where the splash had caught her bangs.

“That was the dumbest thing I have ever seen.”

Oyuki waited.

Brenda pointed at the hose.

“Do me next.”

The next morning, Bay Chats released a twelve-minute emergency mini-episode titled:

WE GOT HOSED AT THE GHOST ICE CREAM SHOP

By noon, the line at Chill of the Beyond stretched down the block.

People arrived in ponchos.

They brought towels. Goggles. Waterproof makeup. One man wore scuba gear and was turned away because Oyuki found it disrespectful to the purity of the experience. Children bounced on their heels. Adults pretended they were there ironically. Teenagers dared one another to order slowly.

Oyuki floated behind the counter, serene and terrible, the hose coiled beneath her hand like a domesticated serpent.

A young man stepped forward.

“Hi, do you do root beer floa—”

BLAAAASSST.

He slammed backward into a padded wall Oyuki had installed at dawn.

The crowd roared.

He sat up, drenched and laughing.

“Worth it!”

Next came an artist in a beret.

“I am interested in something delicate. Perhaps one scoop of—”

SSSHHHHWWAAAAMP.

The spray caught him at an angle, spun him completely around, and deposited him gently into a booth, where he immediately shouted, “I saw my childhood!”

A tourist approached with a trembling smile.

“May I inquire about toppings?”

FOOOOOOM.

She skidded across the checkered floor, hit the padded wall, slid down slowly, and raised one hand.

“Sprinkles!”

Oyuki nodded. “Good choice.”

Business did not improve. It detonated.

By day three, Chill of the Beyond had become the most talked-about destination in town. People were not simply buying ice cream; they were buying the moment before the blast, the icy violence of it, the laughter afterward, the right to stagger out dripping and tell people they had survived the hose.

Fabian arrived on the fourth day wearing a couture rain cape and a look of open jealousy.

“This is insane,” he said, watching a man in a bow tie get launched into a fog bank while shouting “PISTACHIO!”

Elara stood beside him under a black umbrella. “It is certainly popular.”

Ramses, holding a small towel he had brought from home, studied the line with deep concern.

“She has created a spectral water-based performance economy.”

Fabian watched two customers exit laughing, soaked, and carrying waffle cones.

“She is monetizing surprise assault.”

“Apparently,” Elara said.

“Why does it work?”

Ramses looked at the crowd.

“Perhaps people enjoy controlled disaster.”

Elara’s eyes flicked toward Snowdrift Bay at large.

“That would explain several elections.”

Inside, Oyuki was unstoppable.

She had refined the system.

There were now three hose intensities:

MIST OF UNEASE
STANDARD APPARITIONAL BLAST
THE FULL BEYOND

Customers could choose, but only after signing a waiver. Most selected Standard. Thrill-seekers chose The Full Beyond. One elderly man chose Mist of Unease and then complained it was “coward water,” so Oyuki upgraded him without charge.

He came back the next day with friends.

She also added a menu pairing:

Phantom Fudge Ripple paired with Standard Blast.
Lavender Grave Mist paired with Mist of Unease.
Butterscotch Oblivion paired with The Full Beyond, because, as Oyuki explained, “the sweetness needs violence.”

The line grew longer.

WSDB arrived that afternoon.

Chomp McAllister stood outside the creamery with a microphone, wearing a rain poncho over his suit.

“For viewers just joining us, Chill of the Beyond Creamery has experienced an eight hundred percent revenue increase after introducing what owner Oyuki describes as an immersive hydration-forward ordering model.”

Behind him, Beekeeper Jones stood in her beekeeper suit beneath a clear umbrella. Droplets from recent blasts misted the veil.

“Customers appear enthusiastic,” she said.

A drenched man staggered out behind them holding a cone.

“Best date I’ve been on in months!” he shouted.

A woman followed, also soaked. “We’re not dating!”

“Still true!”

By the end of the week, the creamery had signs posted outside:

PLEASE KNOW YOUR ORDER BEFORE APPROACHING THE HOSE.

NO RUNNING FROM THE HOSE AFTER REQUESTING THE HOSE.

SPECTATORS MUST STAND BEHIND THE FROST LINE.

THE HOSE IS PART OF THE EXPERIENCE. DO NOT ARGUE WITH THE HOSE.

Spike came in on day seven, mostly because Brenda had said he was afraid.

“I am not afraid,” he announced, stepping to the counter in a rain poncho covered in cactus print.

Oyuki looked at him. “Order?”

“Spectral Sherbet.”

“Intensity?”

Spike leaned in. “Full Beyond.”

The crowd murmured.

Brenda, standing nearby with Philip, whispered, “Oh, he’s going to regret that.”

Philip nodded. “This is what pride looks like before it becomes wet.”

Oyuki fired.

The blast hit Spike dead center.

Because he was a cactus, several things happened at once.

The water ricocheted off him in eight directions. His poncho flew backward. His spines vibrated like a plucked instrument. A perfect fan of water sprayed the crowd behind him, soaking three teenagers, a woman with a purse, and Philip, who shouted, “I wasn’t even ordering!”

Spike remained standing.

Barely.

His eyes were wide.

His flowers, which had not been there a moment earlier, bloomed from stress.

Oyuki lowered the hose.

Spike took one stiff step back.

Then nodded.

“Respect.”

The crowd erupted.

Fabian, outside watching through the window, placed both wings against the glass.

“She’s made it aspirational.”

Elara smiled. “You sound bitter.”

“I am literally soaking in envy, darling.”

Ramses checked the day’s numbers on a small notepad Oyuki had allowed him to review.

“This is more revenue than some shops make during a festival week.”

Fabian turned slowly. “How much more?”

Ramses told him.

Fabian stared.

Then he looked through the window at Oyuki, who was calmly blasting a businessman backward into a booth while he cheered and tried not to lose a loafer.

Fabian’s voice was flat.

“She is making more money than my last three gala packages combined.”

Elara watched the businessman crawl out from under the table, laughing.

“She found her audience.”

“She found a hose.”

“Sometimes that is the same thing.”

Ramses closed the notepad. “I no longer understand commerce.”

“None of us do,” Elara said.

Inside, Oyuki floated behind the counter like a ghost queen presiding over an ice-water coliseum. The parlor was full again. Every table had customers. Every booth was damp. Laughter bounced off the frosted windows. The freezer whispers had become lively, almost approving. The display case gleamed with flavors finally being ordered, eaten, discussed, and occasionally screamed about.

A businessman stepped forward, adjusting his tie with solemn courage.

“Hello,” he said. “I’ll have the Mocha Mourning with—”

FWWWWWAAAAAAMMM.

He flew backward into a booth, hit the cushion, bounced once, and raised both fists.

“Yes!”

The crowd cheered.

Oyuki made a small note on her pad.

“Mocha Mourning pairs well with impact.”

By closing time, the floor was wet, the towels were exhausted, and the cash drawer was so full Ramses had to help organize it by denomination while muttering about “liquidity.”

Elara, Fabian, and Ramses joined Oyuki inside after the final customer staggered out, dripping and delighted.

Fabian looked around the creamery: the puddles, the fog, the padded wall, the satisfied customers visible through the window still laughing in the street.

He shook his head.

“Oyuki, I owe you an apology.”

Oyuki looked at him.

Fabian took a breath.

“When you first described spraying customers in the face with a garden hose while they ordered ice cream, I thought it was the worst promotional idea I had ever heard.”

“It was,” Ramses said.

Fabian pointed at him. “I am apologizing.”

Ramses nodded. “Continue.”

Fabian turned back to Oyuki. “I failed to account for the fact that this town is full of people who will pay extra to be surprised, inconvenienced, and briefly humbled by plumbing.”

Elara smiled. “Beautifully said.”

Oyuki inclined her head.

“I accept.”

Ramses glanced toward the hose. “Will the promotion continue?”

Oyuki looked around her parlor.

For the first time in weeks, every empty table felt temporary instead of accusing.

“Like all things, this trend will eventually die,” she said. “But for now, it continues.”

Fabian folded his wings. “Ghosts with hoses. The future of commerce.”

Elara picked up a towel and dabbed one drop of water from her sleeve.

“I suppose when you run a haunted ice cream shop, refreshment is a flexible concept.”

Outside, a small crowd was already gathering around the posted hours for the next day. Someone pressed their face to the window and called, “Will you be open early?”

Oyuki floated to the door, opened it just wide enough for fog to spill around her, and regarded them with frosty calm.

“Ten o’clock.”

A cheer rose.

“And no scuba gear.”

One man in the back lowered a snorkel.

Oyuki closed the door.

The bell jingled, though again no one saw it move.

The next morning, Chill of the Beyond opened to its longest line yet.

By noon, the phrase “getting hosed” had become local shorthand for bravery, poor planning, and dessert. By three, Mayor Llama had asked whether the hose could be adapted for civic engagement, and Elara had strongly advised Oyuki not to answer. By five, Pierre had performed an entire silent routine outside the creamery in which he ordered an invisible cone, was blasted by an invisible hose, and slid down an invisible wall in spiritual renewal. People applauded and then joined the line.

At sunset, Oyuki stood behind the counter as another customer stepped forward, trembling with excitement.

“I’ll have one scoop of Butterscotch Oblivion,” the woman said.

Oyuki’s eyes glinted.

“Intensity?”

The customer swallowed.

“The Full Beyond.”

The creamery went quiet.

Oyuki lifted the hose.

A mist curled around the nozzle.

The customer braced.

Outside, Fabian watched through the window, arms folded, still jealous but now respectful.

Elara stood beside him, amused.

Ramses held a towel.

The hose hissed.

The blast hit.

The customer vanished backward into the padded wall, slid down in a wet, delighted heap, and gasped, “That was beautiful.”

Oyuki lowered the hose.

For one perfect second, the parlor was silent.

Then the room exploded into applause.

Oyuki allowed herself the smallest smile.

Chill of the Beyond was full again. Colder, stranger, wetter, and more successful than ever.

And somewhere deep in the freezer vents, the whispers of the afterlife seemed to murmur in approval.

Or possibly ask for towels.