The late Johnny White sulked. He barely had enough spirit to make the temperature dip.
“Hey, Boo!” Jessica said, sliding through the wall. “How’s the haunting?” She looked around the empty ruined house. “Oh.”
“You’re lucky,” Johnny said. “Your house gets lots of visitors. Nobody even knows I died.”
“My husband did brutally murder me,” she said sympathetically. “Look, if I ever manage to write in blood, I’ll say ‘Go down the road three miles. It’s super scary.’”
“You don’t think we could . . . co-haunt?”
Jessica looked skeptical. “That’s sweet, but I’ve only known you a few centuries. Maybe next millennium.”
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