Tia Ramelan thought she'd finally caught a rhythm.
The toilet no longer screamed. The plumbing mostly obeyed gravity. She had four five-star reviews, one unverified ghost-blog mention, and DJ Deadbeat's mixtape had inexplicably gone viral on TikTok under the hashtag #SpectralSlaps.
But peace was a fragile thing in a house where the curtains whispered gossip and the toaster had opinions.
Especially when Lana Graves came back.
It started at 2 a.m.
The front door creaked open, seemingly of its own volition. Tia was half-asleep in the living room, drooling into a bowl of ghost popcorn, when she heard it.
Footsteps. Lace boots. The scent of patchouli and unresolved trauma.
She peeked through the dusty curtains and nearly dropped her snack.
Lana Graves stood in the moonlight, draped in black velvet, eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass. She carried three vintage suitcases and a taxidermy raven.
"I've decided to extend my stay," she announced, gliding in like she owned the joint. "I've written 4,000 words of poetry since leaving, and one of the ghosts kissed my dreams. I require a creative retreat."
Tia blinked. "You booked online?"
"No," Lana said. "I communed with the house."
The front door locked itself behind her with an ominous click.
The next morning, Lady Eugenia was Not Pleased™️.
"She's wearing my era!" Eugenia hissed, flitting through the wallpaper like a jealous storm cloud. "My corsets! My mourning gloves!"
"She's not even really dead," DJ Deadbeat pointed out, watching Lana pose by a weeping candelabra. "She just dresses like it."
"I founded the weeping aesthetic!" Eugenia snapped. "She's performing haunt culture!"
Ellis held up a sign that read:"Eugenia has a crush. Confirm or deny?"
Eugenia exploded into a flurry of ghostly pearls and indignation.
"I do not! I merely detest her presence with the intensity of a thousand candlelit deaths."
Mr. Floofers coughed up a heart-shaped ectoplasm blob.
Tia sighed and sipped haunted coffee. "Great. Ghost drama."
To make things worse, Lana insisted on co-hosting.
"I've brought engagement," she said sweetly, handing Tia a printed analytics report and a stack of business cards that read:
Lana Graves, Grieffluencer.
She had ideas:
Offer a "Cemetery Picnic Package."
Turn the west wing into a goth poetry lounge.
Film a docu-series titled "My Roommate, the Banshee."
"She's filming everything," Tia whispered later, eyes twitching. "Even the stove. The stove, DJ."
DJ Deadbeat shrugged. "The stove's hot. Can't blame her."
Jealousy thickened in the air like overcooked fog.
Lady Eugenia staged increasingly dramatic hauntings—floating teacups, chandelier tantrums, a full Shakespearean monologue from inside a mirror.
Lana loved it.
"Your house is alive with feminine rage," she cooed. "I feel so… seen."
"I'm going to drop a harpsichord on her," Eugenia muttered.
"Please don't," Tia groaned. "We just got the insurance policy approved."
And then the psychic arrived.
Tia had almost forgotten the Thursday Paranormal Group Discount, which she'd created in a moment of desperation and poor judgment. Now she regretted everything.
The psychic's name was Madame Vesperine, and she wore a cape. A sequined one. Her hair defied logic. Her crystal ball glowed even in direct sunlight.
"I have sensed a romantic disturbance in the ghost field," she announced, the moment she entered. "Also, your toaster wants a raise."
Tia poured herself something stronger than coffee.
Ba'zaroth appeared around noon just to gloat.
"Oh look," he said, sipping tea made of shadows and pettiness. "Tensions rising, jealousy blooming, spectral chaos brewing. What could go wrong?"
"You're just mad people like us," Tia shot back. "And that our breakfast Yelp rating is higher than Hell's Kitchen."
Ba'zaroth's eye twitched. "You'll regret that."
Then he vanished in a puff of glittery spite.
That night, everything exploded—figuratively, mostly.
The séance Lana organized in the drawing room backfired when Madame Vesperine accidentally summoned a Victorian ghost horse named Buttercup. The horse was polite but deeply confused.
DJ Deadbeat tried to freestyle over the hoof clomps. Lady Eugenia sobbed into a lace curtain. Lana declared it was "her most haunted day yet" and tried to adopt the horse.
Gary (yes, Gary returned) just calmly recorded the entire thing with a GoPro and asked if there were any open dates in May.
In the middle of the chaos, Tia climbed onto the dining table and yelled, "ENOUGH!"
Everyone—and everything—froze.
Mr. Floofers paused mid-air, still tangled in a ribbon.
"I appreciate the creative energy," Tia said, panting. "But I am one human. ONE. And this house is very haunted, and possibly sentient, and definitely on the verge of unionizing."
She turned to Lana. "You can stay. But co-hosting privileges are revoked."
Lana blinked. "Even the cemetery picnic idea?"
"Especially that."
Eugenia smiled faintly. "Tia, my dear… thank you."
Later that night, the house was quiet.
Ellis drew ghost comics in the corner. DJ Deadbeat hummed spectral lullabies. Lana wrote sad poems in the attic with Buttercup.
Lady Eugenia floated beside Tia and offered a cup of ghost tea.
"I misjudged her," Eugenia admitted. "She's quite dedicated."
"She's dramatic," Tia replied. "So are you."
Eugenia smiled, faint and wistful. "You're not so different, you know. Running this house, commanding chaos. You'd have made an excellent Victorian spinster with a secret."
Tia chuckled. "Thanks. I think."
The chandelier above them sighed contentedly.
Ba'zaroth didn't return that night.
But Tia knew he wasn't gone. He was plotting. The paperwork demon always had a plan.
Still, she felt ready.
Because this house—her house—wasn't just haunted.
It was home.
And she had a weird, ghostly family behind her.
Even if one of them was a horse.