Jerry Lee Lewis’s Ghost and the Great Balls of Fire

September 11, 2001. A crisp morning turns into chaos as the unthinkable unfolds in the skies above New York City. In the ethereal plane just beyond human perception, a familiar figure watches the tragedy with a mix of disbelief and sorrow.

Jerry Lee Lewis’s ghost, clad in a shimmering suit of spectral gold, floats above the clouds. His slicked-back hair glows faintly in the sunlight, and his spirit guitar dangles from a strap on his back. Though his body still lives, his spirit has wandered here, drawn by the enormity of the event.

He sees the first plane hit the North Tower, the fiery explosion sending shockwaves through the city. His translucent jaw drops.

Jerry Lee: (to himself) “Well, I’ll be damned… What in the Sam Hill’s goin’ on down there?”

As the second plane strikes the South Tower, the ghostly musician recoils, his hands instinctively reaching for his guitar. Flames and smoke billow into the sky, creating a hellish scene that reminds him of his own wild performances—the piano ablaze, the crowds roaring. But this is no stage, and the fire is not for show.

Jerry Lee: (shaking his head, eyes wide) “Goodness gracious… great balls of fire.”

He strums a few mournful chords on his spectral guitar, the sound resonating through the heavens. The notes carry a mix of sorrow and disbelief, echoing the collective grief of a world in shock. Jerry Lee’s ghost watches as people leap from the towers, their desperation piercing even his untouchable soul.

Jerry Lee: (whispering) “Lord have mercy on ‘em. They didn’t deserve this.”

The ghostly figure drifts closer to the city, his golden boots barely skimming the smoke-filled air. Below, the streets are chaos—screams, sirens, and the unrelenting roar of destruction. Jerry Lee feels a pang of helplessness, an unfamiliar sensation for a man who once commanded stages with raw power.

Jerry Lee: (clenching his fists) “Ain’t no music in this madness… just pain.”

He turns his gaze to the sky, where the towers stand ablaze like twin torches of despair. The flames lick higher, consuming steel and glass. Jerry Lee’s ghost feels the weight of history pressing down, the enormity of what this day will mean for the living.

Jerry Lee: (softly, almost to himself) “The devil’s playin’ a hell of a tune today.”

As the South Tower collapses, the ghost watches in stunned silence. Dust and debris cloud the air, shrouding the city in a choking fog. He grips his guitar tightly, his fingers trembling on the strings.

Jerry Lee: (with a heavy sigh) “Great balls of fire… but where’s the redemption in this?”

For the first time in his wild, defiant existence—both living and spectral—Jerry Lee Lewis feels small. The world he once lit up with his music seems darker now, overshadowed by an act of unimaginable cruelty. He strums one final chord, a haunting echo of his famous song, before fading into the ether.

The city below continues to burn, and the world is forever changed. But somewhere in the great beyond, a ghostly voice lingers, whispering a refrain that captures the chaos and fire of that terrible day.

Jerry Lee: (fading) “Goodness gracious… great balls of fire.”