Ghosts

An old, frail woman lay on the bed, taking in her final breaths. Around her, a large group of ghosts sat in a sorrowful silence. "It won't be long now." A man who looked to be in his early thirties spoke softly. He wore a suit and tie but had no pants on for reasons he had yet to reveal. "At least she's comfortable." Another commented. This ghost was a woman who appeared to be in her early thirties, but her 1920s jazz attire suggested otherwise. A scout leader decked in his uniform with an arrow lodged in his neck, attempted to lighten the mood by pointing to his arrow and joking, "There's definitely worse ways to go." "Mm, Amen." The second ghost agreed. Along with a chorus of agreement from the other ghosts in the room. "Dysentery was no party." An American Revolutionary man with his hair tied back in a blue ribbon chimed in, the woman beside him, who wore a dress which accentuated the time period she was from (the 1800s) and her curly red hair pinned back nodded her head. They were silenced when a member from a Lenape tribe, who showed no clue as to how he died and wore dark brown clothing with a feather tied into his hair, lifted his arm and spoke, "I think it's happening" whilst staring intently at the old woman who had been bedridden for weeks. The 1920s ghost perked up as a light bulb appeared in her head. "Oh, I should sing something to ease her transition." The red head, whilst maintaining her upper-class image, attempted to cut her off by telling her and looking her dead in the eyes, "Or perhaps don't make this all about you." The 1920s ghost either didn't hear her comment or chose to deliberately ignore her and began singing, "Ama-zing grace. How sweet, the sound." Whilst the ghost was singing, a strange glow began to appear and encase the body. Each ghost held a different emotion. Some were excited and hopeful, others were full of curiosity about what would happen next. The spirit began to free itself from the clutches of its old body until it was finally free. The spirit rose as the glow slowly got brighter. Once the spirit of the old woman could see every ghost, who were all stood watching in wonder, she found her voice and asked the first question that came to mind. "Who are you?" She asked with fright in her voice. And she had the right to be. She had never seen any of these people before, yet here they were, standing waiting to welcome her into the afterlife. The 19th century red-haired was the first to speak. "I am the ghost of your great great grandmother, Hetty Woodstone." A hippie with untamed hair, tye dye clothes and sunglasses stepped forward and introduced herself. "Hi, I'm Flower. I wandered over to your property during a music festival in the 60s, and then I tried to befriend a bear," showing the large claw mark on her right shoulder, which had been part of her untimely demise. "Dr**s were involved." "I am Thorfinn." A burly viking man stepped forward and yelled, causing the American Revolutionary to jump due to the viking yelling extremely close to his ear. The viking went to continue but couldn't find the right words. "Um.......I like...herring," "She doesn't need the whole roster." The American Revolutionary interrupted. He looked up at the woman and smiled, explaining that, "We are ghosts! Whilst most spirits pass onto the afterlife, we are the unfortunate few cursed to spend eternity..." But was cut off by the woman's ghost ascending to Heaven. "Oh, and she's gone." A chorus of 'awws' travelled throughout the group of ghosts. "Good for her." Commented the scout leader. Thorfinn, however, was not as pleased. "So unfair! She goes up, we stay here! In Odin's name, WHY?!" "Yeah, it's a real drag." A ghost who appeared to be a 50s 'greaser,' with a huge amount of hair gel clearly used and a big, red line across his next, hinting at his cause of death, agreed. "Now, what's going to happen to the house?" The 1920s ghost questioned with worry. "This house was my pride and joy. Now, it could get sold to God knows who. M**derers, p**verts," Hetty took a pause before saying the last word with distain, "irishmen." "Well, there's no use milling about up here." The Revolutionary man said. "Shall we go mill about downstairs?" "May as well." Hetty agreed. "Yeah, sure." spoke the 1950s ghost. One by one, each ghost began to leave the room. "I just hope someone interesting moves in." The scout leader spoke optimistically. "Y'know. Like a ballplayer or an astronaut. Who's life are you guys hoping to watch next?" He questioned the group, even though it was only really him, Thorfinn and the guy with no pants left in the room. "Oy, please be quiet." The guy with no pants requested as they both left the room. ******************************** The next morning in NYC: "Oh my God!" A woman's voice spoke in disbelief."This is the house?!" "Woah ho. So we just own this now?" The man next to her, dressed in a generic shirt, jacket, and pants with his hair shining in the light due to his use of product that day, asked the realitor in front of them. Not believing this to be a truly good thing, he asked, "What's the catch?" The realitor answered, "There's no catch. As I explained to your wife on the phone, her relative passed away and left her this estate." Referring to the image on the iPad that the woman was holding. The title below read 'Woodstone Estate'. The woman, blonde and dressed in pink, couldn't believe her eyes. "Great aunt Sophie? I think I met her when I was a kid, but I-I thought she died years ago." The woman admitted, with a slight feeling of guilt beginning to show. "No, no, she just passed." The realitor assured her. "But the good news is, you're her next of kin." "Didn't she have a son?" The woman asked, puzzled. The realitor, realising the confusion, simply answered, "Well, more good news: he actually did die years ago." "Oh, OK!" The woman responded. "Yeah, that's not..um. How much do you think we can sell this place for?" Her husband asked, not really liking the entire thing. "Assuming we want to sell." The woman cut in. "Uh, yeah. We are not moving into a 300 year old house in the middle of nowhere." Whilst facing the realitor, in his peripheral vision, his wife gave a smile that her husband knew all to well as a sign of say what you want, this is happening. Continuing to try to make his point, he laughed, "Cos that would be....huh... Right, Sam?" He asked as his wife refused to look at him. "Well, it's just we don't know the facts yet, and obviously, yes, we're probably gonna sell." She said with a forced smile. "He thinks I'm a little impulsive." Her husband held up his thumb and index finger which only had a small gap so his fingers were almost touching and made a weird noise, attempting to get himself out of the hole Sam dug for him. "Well, there are limited number of buyers for a property this size," the realitor began, "you have your bed and breakfast operators." The woman interrupted with a gasp, clutching her husband's arm and staring him in the eyes whilst saying, "What if we opened a bed and breakfast?!" Her husband looked at her as if she was crazy then gave a short, dry laugh stating , "Here we go." "Aren't you sick of the city?" "No." He answered all to quickly. "We work insane hours to live in a shoebox we can barely afford, we have a daughter who could definitely experience life away from New York and somebody is offering us a mansion!" His wife reasoned. "Sam, we don't know the first thing about running a B&B." "You're a chef. That's like half of the B's right there." Sam responded, with a slight twinkle in her eyes. "Plus, I can right freelance articles from anywhere, so we'll have income while we're getting up and running. That is an annoyingly strong argument. You have to admit. Plus, I want Cassie to see a world away from all this traffic and noise and skyscrapers. I want her to live and be free! Not boxed in like some experimental rat." "OK, let's do this." Her husband reluctantly agreed. "We haven't seen this place, so, we'll go up there for the weekend and then we'll talk about it." "Yes!!! Thank you!" "It is a really nice place." "It is. And it's ours. For FREE!" "There's got to be something wrong with it." Her husband said once again. "Babe," Sam began exasperated, "it's so charming." She said, looking down at the photo again. "What could possibly be wrong with it?"