After ten years at war and another nine years trying unsuccessfully to get home, Odysseus had reached a conclusion. It wasn’t that the gods were angry with him, it was more that the universe itself was a bit miffed at his continued existence.

The rain pelted his bronzed face as he stood gazing at the empty docks of the port town of Mezapos. “Any sign of life?” He cried out to his travelling companion who was busy scouring the flotilla of abandoned boats rocking in the tidal swell.

Eurylochus shook his head. “Negative captain, empty as a president’s brain.”

Odysseus turned to the sign which read ‘Ferry to Ithaca delayed due to adverse sea serpent conditions’. He stared at it with a hollow expression, here he was a man who had once blinded a cyclops, a man who had survived the song of the siren and yet, he continued to be thwarted by inclement weather.

Eurylochus handed him a crumpled timetable. “It says here the next crossing should arrive by noon.”

Odysseus looked at the empty harbour. “It is nearly sunset.”

“Perhaps noon tomorrow?”

“That is not how timetables work.”

They sought shelter from a nearby vendor. The tent was not large and was already full of weary travellers. Among them were heroes, merchants, pilgrims and one extremely angry oracle. She was busy telling anyone that would listen that she had tried to warn them about the large number of sea serpents in the bay.

The vendor offered them cockles, whelks and something black and slimey that looked unsure as to its particular state of existence.

A ferryman emerged from a nearby tent carrying the defeated posture of a man who had explained the same thing a thousand times already. “Right,” he announced. “Quick update regarding the Ithaca crossing.”

The crowd stirred hopefully.

“The ferry Sea Nymph remains delayed following an incident with Scylla.”

A woman raised her hand. “What sort of incident?”

The ferryman consulted a clipboard. “She ate the rudder.”

The crowd groaned collectively. The Oracle proclaimed that she had foreseen such an event.

Odysseus pinched the bridge of his nose. “I have fought monsters,” he muttered darkly. “I have crossed the underworld. I once spent six months trapped on an island listening to a bard who only knew two songs,” he grimaced, “and one of them was about stuffing olives.”

The ferryman continued. “We are currently awaiting replacement parts from Corinth.”

“When will they arrive?” shouted someone.

The ferryman shrugged with terrifying calm.

The oracle suggested, “Between dawn and the inevitable collapse of civilisation.”

A fisherman laughed bitterly. Odysseus stepped forward.

“I am Odysseus of Ithaca.”

“Yes,” sighed the ferryman, “and, what’s that got to do with the price of fish?”

“I am a king.”

“Oh congratulations...”

“I am favoured by the goddess Athena herself.”

“That’s nice...”

“I have been attempting to return home for nearly a decade.”

The ferryman nodded sympathetically. “Did you get lost then?”

Odysseus looked moments away from committing fresh mythology.

Eurylochus gently pulled him away and whispered. “Remember what Pythia said.”

Odysseus inhaled sharply. “I don’t care what the stupid Oracle of Delphi said.”

“Really,” Eurylochus said with disdain.

Odysseus took a breath, “Okay, okay,” he glanced up at the heavens, “she told me to think before I speak, to use my words first and not my sword.”

“Exactly.”

Odysseus turned back toward the ferryman with the rigid restraint of a volcano attending etiquette lessons.

“I need to advise you of my sense of frustration,” he said carefully.

“Entirely valid.”

“Because every time I attempt to reach Ithaca, some new obstacle appears.”

“Yes.”

“And now I am being delayed by…ferry administration.”

The ferryman nodded. “To be fair, King Odysseus, ferry administration delays all men equally.”

Nearby, the oracle suddenly screamed. Everyone turned.

“What now?” groaned the ferryman.

The oracle pointed dramatically toward the sea.

“The tide carries doom! Scylla the great serpent of the sea has come to claim our souls.”

“Our souls?” said a merchant from Venice. He looked around expectantly.

The tent was silent. A dock worker squinted into the distance.

“Oh. No. That’s just a string of floating lobster pot markers that have come loose in the bad weather.”

The red faced oracle turned away.

A young man approached the ferryman handing him a small scroll. Their conversation was brief.

The ferryman addressed the waiting crowd, “I need to advise you all of an additional, complication.” The crowd booed pre-emptively, “due to unforeseen circumstances tomorrow’s sailing has been cancelled. In fact the service has been suspended indefinitely.”

He made to leave but was accosted by the oracle, “They’ve gone on strike haven’t they?”

The ferryman nodded reluctantly, the oracle turned away suddenly reaffirmed of her abilities. “You see, I’ve not lost it.” She sneered to anyone who would listen.

Odysseus stopped the ferryman from leaving, “May one enquire as to what exactly is going on?”

The ferryman hung his head, ““The Ferryman Guild has announced strike action.”

“What for?” shouted one of two gentlemen of Verona.

The ferryman checked his parchment. “Long hours, inadequate sea monster protections, and dissatisfaction with the new uniform.”

The vendor nodded solemnly. “The uniforms are dreadful.”

Odysseus shook his head. Troy had been easier than this. At least in war you could stab the problem.

“Sire,” Eurylochus pulled his king to one side and out of earshot, “Good news.”

Odysseus brightened slightly.

“There’s another route to Ithaca.”

“Excellent.”

“It involves something called a temporary replacement cattle cart service, it leaves at midnight.”

Odysseus closed his eyes. In the distance thunder rumbled ominously.

Sir Gerwain of Rothscar had imagined many things when he ordered a dragon.

He had imagined soaring across crimson sunsets with a winged shadow beast of death, beneath him. He had imagined the ballads sung by wandering minstrels, the battlefield glory, and the enemies surrendering at the mere sound of the leathery wings that beat overhead. He had even imagined that in the lull of his post epic conquests that he might take his chainmail off and, sit by a river gorging himself on toasted marshmallows fed to him by the fair maiden he had recently rescued.

He had not imagined sitting in his castle pantry on hold for forty-seven minutes while a lute played Greensleeves quietly down the crystal communication orb.

“Please hold, your call is very important to us,” said the enchanted voice for the twelfth time.

“It bloody well ought to be,” muttered Sir Gerwain, as somewhere behind him a small dragon carefully reheated a mince pie left over from the recent Christmas celebrations.

At last the orb crackled.

“Good afternoon, thank you for contacting Dragons-R-Us customer support, my name is Shantell, how may I assist you today?”

“I wish to complain,” snapped Gerwain. “The dragon you sent me doesn’t fly.”

There was a pause. “I’m terribly sorry to hear that, sir. Could I first take your order reference number?”

Gerwain squinted at the vellum scroll. “DRU-0123.”

More crackling.

“Yes, I see your order here. One medium drake with smoke-resistant scales. Under the section regarding temperament you wrote ‘friendly but capable of light intimidation.’”

“That’s the one.”

“And what seems to be the problem?”

“The problem,” said Gerwain slowly, “is that dragons traditionally, you know, occupy the sky.”

Behind him, Embers looked up from the pie and gave a small apologetic snort. A puff of warm cinnamon-scented smoke drifted across the room.

Shantell cleared her throat.

“But sir, you specifically ordered a drake.”

“Yes?”

“So…male dragons do not generally fly, hence why they are significantly cheaper…would you like me to quote for a dragoness?”

Silence settled over the pantry. Sir Gerwain opened the household casket, the coffers were pretty bare. He glanced over to where Embers was sitting next to the kitchen fire. He was snacking on a charred rat that he had caught the night before.

“Erm, I see…” Sir Gerwain’s voice has lost its edge. “…I did not know that there was a difference…” His voice dropped to something barely above a whisper.

“It’s all detailed in the product documentation, sir.”

“But I received no product documentation.”

“It was attached to the saddle in a small envelope.”

Gerwain frowned. “I thought that was a decorative tassel.” He paused, “So…what good is a male dragon then?”

“Well they make excellent companions and are fiercely loyal. They can even be trained to do simple tasks such as fetching your slippers. Also, they are extremely good at getting rid of vermin. Rats are after all, their preferred source of protein.” Shantell paused, she no longer needed to read her script, she had gone through this exact conversation a hundred times before, she added, “They are also excellent water heaters, they are a boon to your kitchen and, don’t forget the lady of the castle, who I’m sure would appreciate a nice hot bath at the end of a long day.”

Embers looked at his master, his amber eyes fixing him with a soft gaze, while his forked tongue flicked the air.

Sensing a commission based opportunity Shantell continued, “On that very subject, we have just added a brand new product to our retail range…dragon fired hot tubs. They are simply all the rage with our more…in-vogue customers…and we are currently running an introductory offer with free next day delivery included in the price.”

The cart arrived the following day. The workmen installed a screen around the bathing area while Embers lay next to the copper boiler. Within minutes several members of the castles retinue where happily immersed in the warm water.

Gerwain patted Embers on the head as he sniffed the air, “Dragons,” he said to no one in particular, “are wonderful around castles, and the staff smell nice too.”

The End

Lord Rupert Farquharson, known to his friends as Bertie, had always believed that excellence was not so much a virtue it was more a minimum requirement. In life he had cultivated it with the sort of quiet determination usually reserved for orchid propagation and grudges. In death, he saw no reason to relax his standards.

The Farquharson castle sat in a fold of the Aberdeenshire Highlands like a brooding thought. Dark and ‘Gothically’ imposing, it had been in the family for centuries, accumulating draughts, portraits, and a reputation for penny pinching.

Bertie’s ghost had been wandering around the castle for several months since his demise. He had tried to make his presence known without much success. His greatest moment culminated in the hiding of a set of car keys. The new owners however deemed this a ‘mild inconvenience’.

“Mild inconvenience,” Bertie muttered, drifting through a wall with the air of a man entering a room he already owned. “I will not be a mild inconvenience.”

It was shortly after this declaration that he learned of Innocent.

Innocent, formerly a Pope and presently something far more entrepreneurial, operated out of a discreet corner of the Underworld, where the damned and the undead conducted business with the sort of polite efficiency rarely seen among the living. He was known, in certain circles, as The Broker, which suggested both respectability and a willingness to overlook paperwork.

Bertie scoured the Ether’s marketplace. He asked questions in the darkest places until he secured himself an introduction.

“You wish to improve your haunting,” said Innocent. With practiced ease he steepled his fingers, the same fingers that, in life, had been very good at blessing things.

“I wish,” said Bertie, “to be the greatest ghost my castle has ever known.”

Innocent inclined his head, as though acknowledging a sensible investment opportunity. “A noble cause and dare I say a measurable goal…so…refreshing.” He paused briefly, “This will, of course, require escalation.”

“I should hope so.”

“There may, of course be unexpected…consequences.” Innocent added, almost as an afterthought.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh I’m sure that there is nothing to worry about. Now, there is someone you ought to meet.”

The meeting was brief, largely because the Devil preferred his negotiations like his coffee: strong, hot, and concluded before they became tedious.

“You’re offering what remains of your soul,” said the Devil, glancing at a document that appeared to write itself. “In exchange for one wish stone.” He pushed the contract across the desk, “Very well. Initial here…and here.” He sighed, “I need to make you aware that there is a section in the small print that exempts me from any liability for unplanned repercussions. It is pretty standard these days, you just can’t be too careful.”

The stone was unremarkable to look at. This, Bertie felt, was either reassuring or deeply insulting.

He returned to his castle and holding the stone in the palm of his ghostly hand he made his wish.

At first, the progress was modest. It began with the rattling of chains. Then Bertie began to develop his skills, his approach became more considered. He experimented with tempo, resonance, and emotional timbre. A careless clank became, under his guidance, a symphony of impending doom.

He moved on to wailing. He employed the services of a banshee vocal coach having realised that it was more about a specific technique and bespoke breathing exercises. Within a week, he could produce a sound that caused milk to reassign itself into cottage cheese.

The new owners of the castle were pleasant people with a regrettable fondness for boho shabby chic living. But even their ‘one life, live it’ approach could not save them from Bertie’s activities. They began to show signs of strain.

“Did you hear that?” one of them whispered, at three in the morning, which Bertie considered peak haunting hours.

Bertie redoubled his efforts.

Footsteps echoed where there were no feet. Doors opened with the sort of deliberation that suggested they knew something. Portraits watched. Candles lit of their own volition before randomly blowing themselves out with professional enthusiasm.

Finally, Bertie revealed himself.

He had practised this moment extensively. There was a certain angle, he found, at which translucence suggested both presence and absence in equal measure. He appeared at the foot of the bed, pale, aristocratic, and extremely well-composed for a man technically decomposed.

The scream was everything he had hoped for.

Within a fortnight, the castle was empty.

Bertie drifted through the silent halls, listening to the echo of his own excellence. He had achieved perfection. The chains hung still. The air, once thick with dread, now lay about like an abandoned idea.

There was, he realised, no one left to appreciate it.

For a while, he maintained standards. The chains were rattled on schedule. A wail was produced at dawn, more out of habit than conviction. He even manifested in the great hall to an audience composed entirely of dust encrusted furniture.

“Oh woe,” he said, to a chair that declined to engage, “is me.”

Existential dread, he discovered, was considerably less satisfying than terror.

It was during one particularly under-attended haunting that he thought of Spanker.

Spanker, the Duke of Wanthorpe to those who enjoyed titles, was currently serving as the Chief Executive Officer of Rent-A-Ghoulies, a firm dedicated to matching spectral talent with suitable venues. If anyone could provide an audience, it would be him.

The arrangement was made with brisk efficiency.

A new family arrived.

They were, Bertie noted, very modern. Devices glowed in their hands. They spoke in abbreviations. They walked into rooms without noticing the oppressive atmosphere, which Bertie had spent weeks refining.

He began, cautiously, with a chain.

“Oh, that’s brilliant,” said the woman, holding up a phone. “Do it again.”

Bertie obliged, slightly thrown. Within hours, he had a schedule.

“Right, Lord…” the woman paused, “…ever so sorry, what was it again?”

“Farquharson,” said Bertie, who had not spent centuries cultivating a name to have it mislaid.

“Right, Lord F. We’re thinking we should go for more short-form content. You know, sixty seconds max. Can you do the wail thing, but maybe with added…I don’t know…oomph?”

“I do not oomph,” said Bertie. “I culminate into a crescendo of malevolence.”

“Oh I love that. Say it again, but to camera this time.”

And so it went on.

The chains were now rattled on demand. The wail was performed in takes, with notes. Lighting was adjusted. Angles were discussed. Bertie found himself developing a signature look, which he felt was beneath him but also, irritatingly, effective.

“#greatestghostever,” said the smallest of the family, tapping something that seemed to control reality.

Bertie considered this. He had wanted to be the greatest ghost his castle had ever known. This, it seemed, had been achieved, monetised, and given a posting schedule.

“Again,” said the voice behind the glowing rectangle.

Bertie straightened, gathered what remained of his dignity, and rattled the chains with impeccable timing.

Somewhere, deep in the Underworld, Innocent smiled the small, satisfied smile of a man whose investments had matured exactly as expected.

The End

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Lord Canterville sighed. He had heard good things about Rent-A-Ghoulies and he expected a more imposing office space. He walked over to the reception desk behind which sat a rather surly looking woman. He determined that they would have been of a comparable age at the point of their respective deaths.

She smiled brightly. “Hello, my name is Minty Muff, welcome to Rent-A-Ghoulies, how can I help you today?”

“Lord Canterville, I have a 10.30.” He glanced down at a business card, “…with the former Duke of Wanthorpe.”

Minty smiled as she escorted him to his appointment.

The Duke enthusiastically greeted Lord Canterville. “So Stiffy, it’s lovely to meet you at last.”

Lord Canterville recoiled. He hadn’t heard is old moniker in the three hundred years since his death. Minty offered him some tea. Stiffy harrumphed involuntarily as he took his seat.

“So…” The Duke remained oblivious to Stiffy’s discomfort, “How can we help you? Are you looking for some work?” He paused briefly, “Oh and please call me Spanker.”

Stiffy looked at his feet. “Actually,” he hesitated, “I need some advice.”

Spanker nodded, Minty took notes.

“The new owners moved in last week, following months of renovation work on my old castle.” Stiffy bit his lip, “They’ve only gone and laid proper, deep shag pile carpet throughout.” He hesitated as he composed himself, “They’ve insulated the walls with sound reduction panels.” He took a deep breath, “Even the doors and windows have been refitted snuggly with draught excluding tape to improve its passive house credentials.” He sniffed.

“Ah.” said Spanker. “I see your problem. No floorboards to creak, no wailing through walls and definitely no windows to rattle.”

“What am I to do?” Wailed Stiffy, “and what’s worse, they have a six year old daughter who can see me…my reputation is ruined.”

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The Ghost of Canterville House had endured many indignities across his long and storied afterlife, but none, he felt, quite matched the quiet, suffocating insult of wall to wall carpet.

It did not creak. It did not sigh beneath the weight of history. It lay there, flat and untroubled, inviting you to walk around barefoot and unabashed. It, he had decided, was not dignified flooring.

“I cannot,” said Stiffy, hovering a precise six inches above the woven woollen fibres, “work with this.”

“It’s very popular,” said Minty, “and easy to maintain.” She placed her hand on a radiator, “And they’ve installed central heating.”

“I am not attempting to maintain it,” said Lord Canterville. “I am attempting to haunt it.”

She nodded in the vague manner of someone who had long since stopped distinguishing between complaints. She opened and closed windows testing for creaks and rattles as Spanker shouted from the room next door, his voice barely audible.

The Rent-A-Ghoulies visit had served only to confirm Stiffy’s previous observations.

They heard the sound of the living by the front door. The inhabitants had arrived back earlier than expected.

Before they could react a child ran along the hallway shouting, “Ghostie, ghostie, are you home.” She squealed with delight as she saw the three ghosts standing next to the kitchen door. “Oh there you are?”

Minty stepped forward and spoke with the child as the boys melted through the wall and out of sight.

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Back in the office the following morning, Minty admonished both Spanker and Stiffy.

She handed Stiffy a card. On the front was a hand drawn, rather smudged picture of a flower and, if you squinted your eyes, a dog. The back side had some words ‘etched’ in crayon, ‘Dear Ghostie, will you be my friend?’

Stiffy shook his head. ”I, I can’t talk to children.”

Minty reached out to hold his hand, “Well it’s about time you learned…come on, she won’t bite you.”

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Stiffy was late for the following week’s review meeting. He arrived with lipstick on his nose and eye shadow on his cheeks. There was a hair clip above his left ear. “So sorry I’m late,” he said breathlessly, “Sophie found her mummy’s make up box.”

Minty smiled as she casually removed the hair clip and cleared the marks off his face with her handkerchief.

“So,” Spanker began as he glanced up at the wall clock, “you are quite happy with how things have turned out then?”

Stiffy’s face flushed, “Well, she really is a charming young lady and…” He hesitated, “the house is lovely and warm with absolutely no cold draughts anywhere.”

The End

“Shall we?” Clare placed the wok on the coffee table.

Not a cauldron, not even something that could be generously described as ’cauldron...ish’ but a perfectly ordinary, slightly dented wok with a wooden handle and the faint, lingering scent of the previous night’s sweet and sour.

“It’s all about intention,” she said, placing it in the centre of the table with the sort of reverence usually reserved for sacred relics or particularly successful soufflés. “You have to commit.”

Jen casually leaned back in her chair and raised an eyebrow. “It’s a bloody wok.”

“It’s a vessel,” Clare corrected. “All great magic begins with a vessel.” She flung her arms into the air with melodramatic passion. “C’mon, aren’t you a tiny bit interested to see if it works?”

Jen sighed, “I remain unconvinced.” She moved to sit next to Clare.

Martha said nothing. She closed the book she was reading before folding her hands neatly in her lap, she watched her two friends with a small, thoughtful expression, as though she were waiting for a cue only she could hear.

Clare produced a sheet of paper.

“I’ve printed it out,” she announced. “It’s the authentic wording.”

Jen peered at it, she scoffed, “Double, double toil and trouble…my arse!”

“It’s a classic,” Clare snapped. “Now I know we are not here to workshop Shakespeare but...”

Jen shrugged. “Look, I’m just saying, if you start chanting about trouble, you can’t be surprised when…”

Clare gave her a withering look as she shook her head in mild irritation. She reached into a canvas tote bag and began laying out ingredients with increasing theatricality.

“First,” she said, holding up a small jar, “eye of newt.”

Jen leaned forward. “Is that—”

“No!” Clare said quickly. “It’s an old traditional name for mustard seed.”

“So not an actual eye.”

“No. Of course not!” Clare paused, “I can’t imagine that your average newt would be very happy if I went round cutting out its eyes with a fork…”

“Good,” said Jen. “Because that would have been a difficult line to cross for a Tuesday evening.”

Clare tipped a pinch into the wok.

“Next, toe of frog.”

Jen stared at her.

Clare hesitated. “Buttercup leaves.”

“Convenient.”

“It’s all metaphorical.”

“Right,” said Jen. “So we’re making a metaphor stew.”

Martha’s lips twitched, very slightly.

Clare continued.

“Wool of bat—”

“Is that also a herb?”

“…well it’s more a type of moss,” Clare said, with less conviction this time.

“And tongue of dog?”

“…a plant.”

“Of course it is.”

Clare glared at her. “If you’re going to be like this, you can leave.”

“I’m just trying to establish whether we’re summoning dark forces or making a slightly aggressive salad.”

“We are performing a ritual.”

“With basil.”

“It’s not basil.”

“It smells like basil.”

Martha stood up. “I can stir, if you like,” she said quietly.

Clare brightened at once. “Yes. Yes, that would help. Clockwise, please.” She glanced at her notes, “It has to be clockwise.”

Jen watched as Martha took the wooden spoon and began to stir. “Does anticlockwise do something different?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Clare. “It disrupts the flow.”

“Of the basil.”

Jen scowled, Martha stirred.

Slowly, evenly, the spoon traced a careful circle. The ingredients, such as they were, shifted and whispered against the metal.

Clare straightened, lifted her paper, and began, her voice dripping with theatrical intent, “Double, double toil and trouble…”

Jen joined in, a beat behind, her tone flat as a calm sea.

“Fire burn and cauldron bubble.”

“It’s a bloody wok,” Jen added helpfully.

Clare shot her a look and pressed on, louder now.

“Fillet of a fenny snake—”

“What the fuck is that?”

“…in the cauldron boil and bake.”

Martha kept stirring, she smiled.

There was a small sound. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a faint, almost polite pop, like a bubble deciding it had done enough.

Jen stopped. “…did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” said Clare, too quickly.

Martha said, very mildly, “It’s getting a bit warm.”

Jen leaned forward and peered into the wok.

“I thought you said we weren’t actually heating it.”

“We’re not.”

“Well,” said Jen, “it appears to be disagreeing with you.”

Another pop. This one a little more insistent.

Clare lowered her paper. “That’s…erm…” She hesitated,”…interesting.”

“Interesting,” Jen repeated, her face drained of colour. “Not ‘concerning.’ Not ‘unexpected.’ Just…‘interesting.’”

The contents of the wok were, undeniably, moving. Not boiling, exactly. They shifted with a purpose that had nothing to do with herbs or metaphor.

Martha continued to stir. “Still clockwise?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Clare faintly as another audible bubble burst forth from the contents of the wok.

Jen stiffened. “Right…well. I feel we’ve reached the part of the evening where we decide to stop messing about, wash the dishes and go to bed.”

“No one said anything about stopping,” Clare said, though she did not sound entirely convinced.

The air in the room felt thicker. Not oppressive, or heavy, just attentive, as though something had leaned in, out of idle curiosity.

Martha stopped stirring. “Oh,” she said. “There you are.”

“There you are…what?” Clare stammered.

Martha looked up. Her thoughtful expression hadn’t changed. But there was something behind it now, like a door that had been politely closed and was no longer entirely shut.

“I think that’s probably enough,” she said as she stopped stirring. The wok went still, completely still. No movement. No heat. No sign that anything unusual had ever happened at all.

Clare blinked.

Jen waited.

“…well,” Clare said regaining her composure. “That proves it, doesn’t it?”

“Proves what?” Jen’s face was still white

“That it’s all nonsense.” Clare threw her notes into the waste paper bin

Jen looked into the wok, then at Martha. “…yes,” she said slowly as she shrugged her shoulders. “I suppose it does.”

Martha set the spoon down. “Of course,” she added, “if we’d gone on a bit longer, something might have come through.”

Clare laughed a little too brightly. “Through what?”

“Oh you know, the usual sort of thing,” said Martha. “…like a portal to hell.”

There was a pause.

Jen frowned. “You’re joking.”

Martha met her eyes. “Mostly,” she said.

Another pause.

“Good,” said Clare. “Good. Because for a moment there…”

“Yes,” said Jen. “For a moment there…”

They all looked at the wok which sat, quiet and innocent, in the middle of the mid-century coffee table.

Clare clapped her hands. “Right! Tea anyone?”

“Please,” said Jen.

Martha smiled and returned to her armchair.

As Clare turned away, the surface of the mixture gave one last, very small pop.

Jen froze. “…did you…”

“…kettle’s on!” called Clare from the kitchen.

Jen looked back at Martha.

Martha tilted her head.

“It’s probably lost interest by now,” she said.

Jen stared at the wok.

“…probably?”

Martha’s smile didn’t change.

“Probably,” she said.

THE END

The Duke of Wanthorpe, known to his friends as Spanker, was murdered at half past four on a Tuesday, which he felt was unnecessarily midweek. In hindsight, the tea had been a touch vindictive.

His smiling daughter, now Duchess (provisional), was still arranging the drapes when Death arrived. Not dramatically, you understand. No thunder. No theatrical waving of a scythe. Just a polite cough from the corner and a figure with the air of someone already behind schedule.

“Your time, Your Grace,” said Death, holding out a chicken-shaped egg timer as it gave its final, resigned tick, “has come.”

“Yes, well.”
Spanker harrumphed as he examined his own corpse with mild irritation and something bordering on pride. His daughter had been very thorough. There was a certain craftsmanship to his demise.

He turned to the cloaked figure.
“Before we proceed to whatever ghastly eternity you’ve got pencilled in, I wonder if you might entertain a proposal. And do keep it down a touch, I have a splitting headache.”

Death did not sigh, but the room took on the distinct atmosphere of a place in which sighing had previously occurred.

“Briefly.”

“Splendid. I propose to remain. Temporarily. As a ghost.”

Spanker reached into his embroidered waistcoat and produced a scroll, which unfurled with the confidence of a document that had already won several arguments.
“A pilot scheme. Limited haunting services.” He moved his head from side to side before leaning in. He tapped the side of his nose, “There’s an untapped market with, quite frankly…enormous potential.”

Death paused.
“You wish to… linger.”

“Consider it more of a… wish to franchise.”

Three days later, Rent-a-Ghoulie was formally established with a modest but respectable charter, countersigned in a hand described by witnesses as “legally binding, if somewhat skeletal.”

Services included:

• Standard Nocturnal Lamenting (entry-level)

• Bespoke Apparitions (evenings and weekends)

• Cold Spot Installation (seasonal rates apply)

Spanker was appointed CEO (Corporeal Entity Organiser), and took particular pride in the paperwork.

“Haunting,” he explained to his first client, “is nothing without structure. Chaos is for amateurs and those dreary poltergeists.”

The trouble began with the recently deceased Lady Farnworth.

“I specifically requested melancholic wailing,” she said, clutching the contract.

“Clause seven,” said Spanker smoothly.

“What I received was… interpretive dance.”

“That falls under premium expression.”

“My wretched daughter-in-law sold tickets.”

Spanker paused.

“Ah,” he said. “Commercial interference.”

“She made an absolute killing,” Lady Farnworth added darkly. “Refreshments included.”

The complaint reached Death within the week, filed under Unresolved Existential Disturbance.

He arrived, again without drama, just as Spanker was drafting an invoice.

“You are in breach,” said Death, now fully materialised.

“Of which clause?” Spanker remained calm.

“Several,” said Death. “Provisionally.”

Spanker sighed.
“Did you read Article 999? Back of the document. Small print.”

Death looked down at the floor, then gave a faint rattle of the skull.

“Oh, come now. Nobody reads the small print.”

“Everyone,” said Spanker, “with or without a body, should always read the small print.” He adjusted cuffs he no longer possessed.

“Now then, regarding Lady Farnworth. I think we can agree not to employ Rudolph Nearenough’s dance services again.”

“I was under the impression you had engaged Rudolph Nureyev.”

“Well,” said Spanker, “that’s near enough.”

Somewhere, in a local churchyard, a coffin lid creaked open.

A voice drifted out into the evening air.

“It really isn’t.”