The job ad went live at 2:07 a.m., three days after they'd first discussed hiring help.
Mindy, bleary-eyed but victorious, slapped her laptop shut and declared, "Boom. Posted. Let the weirdos come forth."
"Could you maybe not call them weirdos until after we hire one?" Lulu said from her perch on a stool, wrapped in a thrifted blanket and sipping what could only barely be called tea (courtesy of Mindy).
Mindy waved a hand. "Weirdo is a term of endearment in this household."
In truth, the job ad had taken far longer than either of them expected. Trying to thread the needle between "open-minded administrative assistant" and "please don't sue us for trauma from supernatural experiences" was a feat.
But the job ad was up, the website for Lulu's business had gone live a couple of days ago, and—more importantly—the payment system Lulu envisioned was finally fleshed out.
Mindy had fought that one hard.
---------------
Two days earlier…
"So let me get this straight," Mindy had said, pacing with a pencil stuck through her bun like a deranged librarian. "Your plan is to let people prepay for ghost-related services by locking cash and instructions into safety deposit boxes—and give you the access code after they die?"
Lulu nodded absentmindedly from the floor, where she was meticulously whisking her high-end matcha powder to cleanse her palate from the earlier 'tea crime' Mindy had inflicted upon her. "Exactly."
This business model had been inspired by her experience with Amelia.
"And the bank just... lets us in?"
"Well, they'd have to name us as authorized individuals before they pass away," Lulu replied. "But yes—post-mortem access instructions. If they don't fully trust me while alive, they can leave everything secured for their afterlife self to handle."
Mindy had blinked. "You're aware of how bananas that sounds, right?"
"Bananas. But brilliant," Lulu said serenely. "Plus, it worked for Amelia."
Mindy made a noise halfway between a groan and a strangled laugh. "It worked for Amelia because she was paranoid, refused to tell anyone the codes, and because nobody was watching you closely back then to trace your sketchy income source."
"But this is legal now… I think. Plus, customers seem to love the idea," Lulu said, holding up her phone. "We've had several new inquiries today alone."
By the end of the week, those inquiries turned into a deluge.
People loved the morbid creativity of it. The idea that they could lock away confessions, heartfelt messages, last wishes—or dramatic parting shots? Irresistible. Especially when even the payment method came with a touch of paranormal flair and they wouldn't actually be out of pocket until they died. And if they were dead… well, it's not like they'd need the money anyway.
This safety deposit setup lent their services a kind of otherworldly legitimacy.
And people ate it up.
They wanted to book a "certified medium" to communicate with them post-mortem so badly that Mindy nearly had a breakdown.
---------------
Back to present day…
Mindy was juggling a headset, two ringing phones, three support tickets, and an aggressively blinking group chat from curious prospective clients.
"Why did we agree to this payment model?!" Mindy shouted from the kitchen, surrounded by energy drink cans and a warzone of Post-it notes.
"You didn't agree at the beginning," Lulu called back mildly. "But you changed your mind because it 'sounded fun' and you were 'bored.'"
"That does sound like me," Mindy admitted, rubbing her temples. "But I was a fool. A beautiful fool. I'm being crushed under a flood of inquiries."
A phone rang again. Then another.
"Okay. That's it. You need to start interviewing assistant candidates. I am but one woman, Lulu. A single, radiant rose wilting under the hot sun of your tyrannical leadership!"
"You're being very dramatic."
"I'm talking to dying people like a call center worker, Lulu! One guy told me I had the voice of an angel and then flatlined mid-sentence!"
Lulu winced. "...Did he say anything important before that?"
"Yes. He said he wanted to amend the post-death message to his brother who he hadn't spoken to in 10 years due to his wife, to say—quote—'You were right about Karen. She is the worst.'" Mindy dropped into a chair. "I wrote it down on a napkin."
Lulu stifled a laugh. "Okay, okay. I'll start reviewing applications."
Mindy perked up. "There are applications?! It's only been a few hours!"
"There are twelve," Lulu admitted. "And two voicemails. One guy insists he can talk to birds. Likely unhinged. But his resume is actually very organized and weirdly impressive."
Mindy grinned, exhausted but triumphant. "I don't care if they belong to a Satanic cult... JUST. HIRE. SOMEONE."