The plastic guns were bright orange. The ghosts emanated from a record of haunted house sounds that was played on a small, self-contained record player that was very similar to this one:
This was in Wells, ME and I played this game with another kid whose name, I think, was Matt. We would put the record on and, as ghostly sounds filled the room, we’d shoot at the air, yelling over there and duck and watch out and got it and we’d run around the room and throw ourselves on the floor away from invisible enemies and shoot at specters until the record ended—the needle, out of grooves schg-ghg schg-ghg schg-ghg schg-ghg until we picked it up, turned the vinyl disc over, and started all over again.
I don’t remember what Matt looked like. I don’t remember any other play activities that we did, and we must have done many others, I don’t remember the first time we shot at ghosts or whose idea it was or when we stopped. All I remember are those bright orange guns and the thrill of having a friend who I trusted completely to watch my back when the ghosts attacked.