If there was a world record for "fastest way to inherit a haunted house," Tia Ramelan would have shattered it in under thirty seconds.
It started with an envelope. A real one. Thick paper, wax seal, her name written in calligraphy like she'd just been accepted to ghostly Hogwarts. Tia had found it wedged under the door of her fourth-floor walk-up apartment in East Bay City, next to a stack of pizza coupons and a suspiciously chewed sock.
"Ms. T. Ramelan," it read. "Immediate Attention Required."
Naturally, she opened it while brushing her teeth with one hand and holding her phone in the other, mid-scroll through "Apartment Hacks for the Chronically Broke." Inside was a letter, brittle and yellowed like it had time-traveled from a steampunk dimension:
"Congratulations, you are the sole heir of Ramelan House. Please do not burn it down. The ghosts will be upset."
It was signed in chicken-scratch calligraphy by someone claiming to be her Great-Uncle Reuben. Tia had never heard of him. But the letter came with a set of old iron keys, a map drawn in ink and possibly blood, and a photo of a very dramatic-looking mansion. The back simply said:
"It's yours now. Good luck. Also, don't feed the cat."
Most people would ignore a letter like that. Most people didn't have three part-time jobs, $27 in their bank account, and a landlord who once tried to charge them for "air usage."
Tia wasn't most people.
The mansion sat just outside the city, on a cracked road that wound past a cemetery, an abandoned ice cream factory, and a field of corn that rustled when there was no wind. As she drove up in her borrowed car (her friend Sasha's mom's old hybrid), she saw it looming at the top of the hill—tall, gothic, and uncomfortably proud of how many turrets it had.
Paint peeled like sunburned skin. The shutters hung like crooked teeth. Vines strangled the porch. It was perfect.
Tia got out and approached the front door. The keyhole growled.
She blinked. "You... uh. Growled?"
The door, in response, rattled ominously. Then it creaked open a few inches—enough to whisper:"Don't come in."
Tia considered this.
Then she said, "Look, buddy, I've lived in an apartment with three raccoons and a sentient mold patch. You're gonna have to do better than spooky whispering."
And she stepped inside.
The inside of Ramelan House smelled like lavender, regret, and something ancient trying to hide the scent of cheese. Dust floated through the air like confused snow. The grand staircase loomed before her, its banister shaped like coiled serpents. The chandelier overhead swung lazily, even though there was no wind.
And sitting in the middle of the room, sipping tea from a floating cup, was a ghost.
She was translucent, elegant, and visibly judging Tia's sneakers.
"Oh," she said, in a British accent so sharp it could cut cheese, "You're not what I expected."
Tia blinked. "You're dead."
The ghost sniffed. "So are manners, apparently."
Thus began Tia's haunted housewarming party.
Lady Eugenia Bexley was the self-proclaimed matron of the house. She died in 1893 of "fashion-related hysteria" and never left. She ran a tight ethereal ship, hosting séances every Thursday and banning all ghostly moaning after 10 p.m.
"I've kept this house in spectral shape," she said proudly, hovering a few inches off the floor. "Even the cobwebs are alphabetized."
Tia was still processing the fact that ghosts existed when another one walked through the wall.
He wore neon green parachute pants, sunglasses that glowed, and carried an actual boombox on his shoulder. He was also beatboxing.
"Yo," he said. "New roomie? Sick."
"Who are you?" Tia asked, bracing for anything.
"DJ Deadbeat," he said, spinning in the air. "I died at a rave in '89. Stayed for the afterparty."
He fist-bumped a wall. The wall groaned.
Then came Ellis.
Tia didn't notice him at first. He stood quietly in the corner, staring with large, unblinking eyes. No one knew how he died. No one asked. He never spoke, never blinked. Sometimes he levitated spoons. Occasionally, he organized her spice rack. He was… unsettlingly helpful.
"Hi?" Tia said.
Ellis said nothing. Then handed her a folder labeled "Property Tax Write-Offs."
And finally, there was Mr. Floofers.
He was a ghost cat. At least, Tia assumed so. He had no legs. He floated instead of walked. He phased through furniture. And he sat on her chest while she slept, staring into her eyes like he was trying to whisper eldritch truths directly into her soul.
When Tia screamed, he meowed and left a ghost hairball on her pillow.
By midnight, Tia had concluded three things:
The house was, undeniably, haunted.
She was, somehow, the new landlord of this supernatural soap opera.
The fireplace was whispering "taaaaaxes" every fifteen minutes.
Which led to the next big problem.
Ba'zaroth appeared in a puff of burnt cinnamon and legalese.
He stood six feet tall, wore a smoky pinstripe suit, and had horns like broken umbrella handles. His briefcase hissed. His tie was on fire. His business card read:
"Ba'zaroth of the 7th Infernal Finance Division – Property Reclamation & Soul Collection"
"Ms. Ramelan," he rasped. "You owe fourteen thousand spiritual occupancy units in back taxes, plus a penalty fee of one cursed item per month."
Tia stared at him, still wearing pajama pants and holding a half-toasted bagel. "I just got here."
"The debt comes with the deed," he said. "You inherit the estate, you inherit the obligation. And the souls. And the unpaid Netflix bill."
"Netflix?" she repeated.
"The ghosts," he growled. "Have been sharing accounts."
Lady Eugenia gasped. "They raised the subscription price! It's practically robbery!"
DJ Deadbeat nodded. "I tried to torrent 'Ghostbusters' once. The house got possessed."
Tia massaged her temples. "Okay. So what happens if I can't pay?"
"You forfeit the house," Ba'zaroth said, opening his briefcase. A thousand tiny contracts fluttered out like angry butterflies. "It will be converted into a Soul Storage Unit. Your tenants will be vacuumed and archived."
"You want to evict the ghosts," she said flatly.
"Legally, yes. Spiritually, violently."
Mr. Floofers hissed. Ellis handed Tia a chart titled "Demon Lawsuit Survival Tactics."
Tia looked around. At the ghosts. At the cracked wallpaper. At the cursed toaster that made burnt offerings. At her reflection—bagel crumbs on her face, a haunted cat on her head—and said:
"...What if I open a ghost-themed Bed & Breakfast instead?"
Ba'zaroth paused. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. I make this a legal business. Ghost guests. Paranormal packages. Spectral spa days. If the house earns its keep, no need to evict anyone, right?"
The demon's eye twitched.
"That is... not standard procedure."
Tia crossed her arms. "You want the house to be profitable. I want not to die. The ghosts want to stay. Win-win-win."
Ba'zaroth considered this. His briefcase growled.
"Very well," he said slowly. "You have thirty days. Turn a profit. Or I repossess the property."
He vanished in a puff of tax forms.
Tia stared into the dusty parlor, lit by flickering gas lamps and ghost-light. "Okay," she said to no one. "I guess I run a haunted Airbnb now."
Lady Eugenia fluttered beside her. "We'll need better drapes. And mints. Guests expect mints."
DJ Deadbeat whooped. "Let's gooo. Haunted rave nights, baby!"
Ellis handed her a color-coded spreadsheet. Mr. Floofers coughed up a ghost mouse.
Tia sighed. "This is my life now."
And somewhere, far beneath the floorboards, something ancient giggled.