Shit girl. Well at least I got a solid base tan before we died. Can you imagine ME in the afterlife looking like some clammy goth bitch. No. Don’t even.
It was everything the brochure said it would be and more. Seaside view, queen-sized bed, complimentary dry-cleaning… A bit surprised that it failed to mention the dead hooker ghosts…
‘There there. You see, Tobias? I told you it was only the pigeons nesting in the attic. Nothing to be afraid of. Now get these chains on, make those eyes red and float yourself down to Mr. Dickerson’s study.’
Every night, as the clock strikes two, you can hear the distant echo of the ghostly voice cry out from beyond the grave - “Let’s getter done! It’s Mardi Gras motherfuckaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh!
‘Why yes Mitsy-Belle, it sure is dark in this “haunted” cemetery. And I have “no idea” who just unhooked your bra. Must be the “ghost”. Heh heh heh- Wait… what do you mean you’re not wearing a bra today? And why do your nipples feel like worms?’
‘Well Myrtle, down at the tea room they’re saying that Mr. Grady’s spirit is restless - doomed to wander the earth until his remains are given a proper Christian burial. Well I never saw that dirty old pervert in a church in my life. I think he just likes peeping into other people’s windows.’
Another night of crying on the stairs in the east tower. After twenty decades of this, Virginia was starting to wonder if the little premature-ejaculating bastard was worth taking that hemlock for. Where WAS whatshisname’s ghost ANYWAY?
If socialite Bethany Hume had one regret in life, it was ordering raw onions on her salad the night she died at Chez Pieter. Having to listen to the ever-changing kitchen staff refer to her ghost as “Bad Breath Beth” was simply mortifying.
Horace had always taken a twisted pleasure in convincing his grandchildren that his own flatulence was caused by the whoopee cushion of an invisible evil clown. That was to change forever, one fateful evening, with a series of horribly ironic events.
