Shortly after moving in to her new townhouse and a day or so after she found moving boxes inexplicably rearranged, Janine answered the door. It was the couple that had moved out before her. In a hurry. They explained the house was haunted. They recommended she get out while she could. Janine didn’t tell them she wasn’t moving because she wasn’t afraid or didn’t believe. No, she told them she wasn’t moving because she couldn’t afford to move. The rent was cheap. “For a reason!” the former tenants  exclaimed, imploring her to leave while her sanity was intact.

She thanked them and hoped their new place was ghost free. She closed the door and a plate flew past her face and exploded against the far wall. Janine sighed, and set to unpacking.

Janine died a week later.

It had nothing to do with the townhouse. It had everything to do with the drunk driver going the wrong way on the freeway. When Janine woke up in her bed for the last time, she didn’t feel the covers or the pillow, or anything. But it was the last time because movers took her stuff away. Janine watched her sister go through her things, never not crying, and Janine couldn’t do anything to assuage her mourning. And then all Janine’s stuff was gone and the townhouse was quiet – they hadn’t started showing it yet.

“So, it’s all ours now?” the voice behind her startled her. She spun to see tall overweight white man in zebra striped MC Hammer pants and a stained Van Halen shirt.

“Who the hell are you?”

“’Who the hell are you?’” he imitated her in a falsetto. “I’m your damn ghost housemate. Duh.” He sat heavily on one of the stairs.

“You’re the asshole who moved around all my shit? Who broke my plates? Who woke me up in my house at all hours of the night?”

“Whoa, sister, I’m gonna stop you right there….”

“I am not your sister!”

“Okay,” he held out a hand in defense, “that was culturally insensitive of me.” He paused for a moment and then yelled, “Girlfrieeeeend!”

Janine took two long steps across the carpet and slapped him hard with a backhand.

“Oww!” he said grabbing at his face. “That hurt! I didn’t know you could hurt me!”

“Look here,” she stood a foot away from him, her finger pointing in his face. “I am not your sister, your girlfriend, or whatever else your cracker-ass thinks I am. I’m dead and I’m pretty damn pissed about it. What’s worse, the ghost I lived with – who I’m now apparently stuck with – is a wise-cracking, white-assed, man-boy and I frankly liked you better when all you did was smash my dishes. I don’t have to like you, and I don’t expect you to like me. But if we’re resigned to this townhouse for the afterlife, you’re damn well going to show me some respect. Because if that slap got your attention,” she took a step closer so she was mere inches from his face, “know that I’ve got a mean right cross and I am not afraid to kick your lily-white ass. Do I make myself clear?”

“I liked you better alive.”

“I liked you better when I didn’t have to deal with you.”

“Why didn’t you move? I gave you enough reasons.”

“What is your name?”

“Tony.”

“Tony? I’m Janine. And I couldn’t afford to move. Yes, you were annoying, and you broke my good dishes, but the paranormal seems to be the only sort of rent control the powers that be can’t stop.”

“That bad out there?”

“When did you die?”

“1986.”

Janine shook her head sadly. “Worse than you can imagine.”

“But at least you’ve got flying cars, right?”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“It’s 2018, right? I figured you’ve got to have flying cars by now.”

“No,” Janine said flatly. “No flying cars. People drive so badly now – I was killed by a drunk driver! Can you imagine what it’d be like with flying cars?”

“You make a good point.”

“Don’t even get me started about those self-driving cars…”

“You have self-driving cars?!” Tony exclaimed.

“Yes… no…. sort of… it’s complicated,” she said. And then leaned against the wall and let herself slide down until she sat on the floor holding her knees.

The quiet fell over the townhouse again. After long minutes Tony said, “Janine?”

“Yes Tony?”

“I’m sorry.”

She looked up at him with curiosity.

“For being a dick earlier. I’m not used to… you know, communicating with someone. I’m used to being obnoxious to try to get them out.”

Janine shook her head. “I couldn’t afford to move when I was alive, and it sure looks like I’m stuck here when I’m dead.”

“Looks like it.” He hauled himself to his feet and stood over Janine and held out his hand. “Let’s start again. Hello housemate ghost, I’m Tony. You must be…”

Janine smiled for the first time since she died. She shook his hand, “Hi Tony. I’m Janine. I’m recently deceased and I guess we’re housemates.”

Just then the door knob rattled. “Oh no!” Tony said, his face draining of color.

Janine hurried to her feet. “What? What is it?”

The door opened and a woman in a gray pantsuit led a more causally dressed woman, a teenage girl, and an adolescent boy into the house.

“Take a look around,” the pantsuited lady said.

“I like it already,” the woman said. “What do you think, Suzie?”

“I don’t know,” the teenage girl shrugged and pulled out her phone.

“I’m gonna go pick out my room!” the boy screamed running past Tony and up the stairs.

“Oh my god. I’m so afraid!”

“What, Tony, what?!” Janine implored.

“Tenants!”

When Danny “Slumlord” Wilson died, no one went to his funeral. The word “slumlord” is there because not only was that what everyone in the neighborhood called him – behind his back as well as to his face – but he wore the moniker as a badge of pride. Though no one went inside Abbott and Sons funeral house to pay their respects to Danny, many of his tenants – current and former (though his rate of unjust evictions made the former outnumber the current by two to one) – had gathered at Jaspers, the bar across the street. More than one person described it as a wake where the dead wasn’t welcome or invited.

The revelry burbled out through the open bar door and a patron would occasionally step out to make an obscene gesture or two at the funeral house across the way. By no coincidence, the drunkenness and lewd catcalls aimed in the direction folks imagined the body was laid in the building built to a crescendo shortly before the viewing hours were to draw to a close. Five minutes before, though, a ripple ran through the bar. “Shh!” and “There she is!” and “I didn’t think she was coming!” and “I didn’t think she was still alive” pinballed through the crowd as the din dropped to a whisper and silence as an old woman walked bent over down the sidewalk towards the funeral home. She wore a black sweater pulled over her black dress and her gray hair spilled out from beneath a black pill box had complete with a veil. She leaned heavily on a wooden cane, her black-gloved hand holding tightly with every slow, methodical step. By the time she reached the door of Abbott and Sons the jukebox across the street had been silenced and everyone at the bar held their breath.

John Abbott Senior watched her approach from inside and opened the door for her when she came near. “Is it too late to pay my respects?” she said with a quiet voice that held a trace of an indistinct European accent.

“No, ma’am,” he said looking at his watch. “You have time.”

“Excellent,” a smile creased her face as she walked into the viewing room.

“Friend of the deceased?” he asked. She turned and regarded him steadily without saying a word. When the stare drew on for an uncomfortable amount of time, John Abbott added hastily, “He had no family besides his son who is in the south of France and, well, didn’t want to bother coming for the viewing – his words, not mine.”

“Yes,” she said, though it came out like a cat’s meow. She stood in front of the casket. In the dark mahogany and silk-lined box lay Danny Wilson. “How did he die?”

“Ma’am?” the words were so quiet John Abbott couldn’t quite make them out.

“Death,” she focused her piercing glare on him and said louder. “How? Was it slow and painful? Or did it catch him abruptly so he didn’t even know he stopped breathing?”

John Abbott’s brow furrowed at the question. “Umm,” he stammered. “Heart attack. In his sleep.”

“Hmm…” was all she said and turned back to the body.

After several more awkward moments, John Abbott said, “I will give you some time alone. If you need anything I will be in the lobby.” The woman remained quiet as if he hadn’t said a word. He took that as his cue to leave.

When the woman was alone with Danny, she removed one glove revealing her liver spotted, gnarled fingers and then removed the other glove and placed them in her purse, then stooped to place the purse on the floor. Then she began to chant slowly, quietly, barely perceptibly. She waved her free hand in smooth movements, tracing arcane letters in the air. Her chanting built in cadence and volume, though never loud enough to escape the room, to draw the attention of John Abbott. When her chanting built to its peak, she rapped the floor three times with her cane and fell silent and still.

Danny Wilson sat up in the coffin. Or, at least a Danny Wilson sat up. His body remained laying in the satin, but Danny Wilson stared around as if awoken from a deep sleep by a loud noise.

“Hello, Danny.”

“What? What the hell? Where am I?”

“Do you remember me?”

He blinked to try to orient himself and focused on the figure of the old woman. “Yeah, I know you,” he said. “You’re that damn gypsy I evicted a dozen years ago. Ya deadbeat!”

The old woman’s smile broadened. “When you insulted me, disrespected me, when you threw my belongings in the street… do remember what I said to you?”

“Yeah. You said you’d cause me an eternity of suffering. I remember. But joke’s on you, lady. Life has been good!”

“How’s death?”

Danny’s brow furrowed and he looked around. “What the fuck?” As he finally noticed the coffin his face went white. “No way. No way…” he looked at the old woman who nodded behind him. He slowly turned and regarded his body laying beneath him. “Holy shit! Oh my god! What did you do?”

At that moment John Abbott came into the small room. “Ma’am,” he started, “we’re going to have to close the casket now in preparation for the burial.”

“Burial? No fucking way! What the hell! Hey, Mister, get me out of here! Lady, come on!” Danny Wilson struggled, but couldn’t extricate himself from the casket.

“That’s fine,” she said amused.

He took a step to the casket and started to lower the lid. Danny yelled profanities and pushed at the lid, but John Abbott didn’t notice and slowly closed the casket over the struggling Danny Wilson.

“Get me out of here! Get me out of here!” Danny’s panicked voice came out muffled by the satin and mahogany.

“Are you going to attend the burial?” John Abbott asked as Danny continued his muffled screams.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” she said, pulling her gloves back on.

Oh, what a great trip! Camping one night in Big Basin, bartended a birthday at this gorgeous house overlooking the ocean in Pescadero, and then I introduced Fern to the Santa Cruz that I still so dearly love. What a great weekend. However, between Big Basin and Pescadero I had no internet service, so I’m backdating this one, and publishing two stories tomorrow to catch up. For now, this is what good cooking can do…

I think Becky saw the ghost first – sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast waiting for the bus, she said she saw an old woman all in white – long white sleeping gown, totally white hair, looked translucently white –  wander from the hallway, into the kitchen, through the kitchen and right past Becky, and then around to the family room. When Becky got the nerve to go look for this lady in white, she was gone. I don’t remember when I saw her, but I felt her first – doing the dishes I got the shivers and turned and saw the same old woman all in white drifting through the kitchen. Dougy kept saying “Mommy, who da wye wady? Who da wye wday?” confirming he was seeing the lady in white, too!

When Becky and I were at the kitchen table together and we both watched the Wye Wady (as we all, naturally, took to calling her), that finally put me over the edge to actually try to do something. I think before that I could chalk it up to… I don’t know, power of suggestion?

I called Tony, my landlord. He told me his first tenant when he started renting the place was an older woman – Valarie. She was nice, lost her husband a few years before, adult kids visited all the time – they had Sunday dinners at the place. Even insisted Tony join them when the old woman discovered he was recently divorced. She lived there for about five or six years and eventually died in the house – natural causes, no foul play or nothing.

Died in the house? Old lady? I was convinced I’d found our ghost! My girlfriend, Janice? She said her friend, Sandy is a psychic. Called her up, she agreed to come over. I made a lasagna, and didn’t even have the garlic bread out of the oven when Sandy says she’s in contact with the ghost. Well, she said she could sense the ghost, but the ghost wasn’t saying anything. Just… there. I described what Becky and I saw and that was the ghost.

Well, shit, I thought. Now what?

Sandy loved the lasagna and I made her a plate and she was so grateful, which was wonderful – I told her I wanted do some investigation and probably call her back.

I talked to Tony who gave me Valerie’s oldest daughter’s phone number. Disconnected. I had a name, though, and Janice’s husband, Dave, ran the name through the DMV database at work and, boom, current phone number and address!

Called her – Debbie – and explained I lived in her mom’s old place. That got her talking about how much they loved Sunday dinners, and when they found her… I’ll spare you the details, suffice it to say her mom died in her sleep and Debbie found her when she came to take her to the orthopedic surgeon for an appointment the next day. I told her we’ve been seeing a ghost and we think it’s her mom. Debbie says, no, she’s sure it’s not her mom – she actually saw her mom’s ghost at the house a couple days after the funeral when she was going through her stuff, but then she had a dream that her mom was saying goodbye and opened the door and it was bright and Debbie said she felt warmth and peace and believed her mom passed over. She was cleaning out the place for the next three weeks and no ghost. I describe the ghost and Debbie says it sounds like her mom, but… her mom passed over, right?

I invite her over for dinner and ask if it’s okay for the psychic to come. Debbie says sure, but she’s a vegetarian. I said no problem, I make an amazing vegetarian manicotti with spinach and mushrooms, but is cheese okay? She ate cheese, so we were good.

Night of, and the manicotti was a hit. I put Dougy to bed and told Becky to go do her homework, but she insisted she wasn’t going to miss this for the world. Fine. Sandy holds Debbie’s hands, closes her eyes, and after a few minutes smiles and says, “Hello, Valerie! I’m here with your daughter in your old house!” And she’s having this conversation with her! Telling Debbie her mom is sorry she didn’t get to say goodbye, she loves her. We’re all crying, even Becky! Then Sandy’s face goes pale. “I don’t know. I felt it before. It’s not you?”

“What? What?” I asked.

Sandy’s eyes open. “Valarie says she sees the ghost. And it’s her… but it’s not her.” Sandy said Valarie freaked out and left – left where? I don’t know! She’s a ghost, right? But she’s not the ghost! Sandy is scared. Like, scared. And then the Wye Wady shows up. Like she’s fucking right there in the doorway.

“Mom?” Debbie breaks the silence. Oh shit, she shouldn’t have done that…

The Wye Wady locks eyes on Debbie and gets this look of hatred and starts towards her across the room, like fast. Then there’s a scream, but it didn’t come from any of us. We didn’t have time to scream. No, Sandy is a pro. She’s a boss. She whips out this crucifix from her purse and is all “be gone, wraith!” In my memory she’s all “The power of manicotti compels you, be gone!” but I think that’s just memory getting crossed with that scene from “The Exorcist” and that vegetarian manicotti – which turned out really well despite the lack of meat! But, no, she just said “Be gone, wraith!” – Becky confirmed that.

And who carries a full-on crucifix in their purse? I guess when you talk to ghosts…

But that scream? The ghost… or wraith… or whatever. The Wye Wady. Scream, poof. Gone. Debbie was inconsolable, you know? I gave her the leftover manicotti, and told her to call me if she needs to. Sandy gave her number, too. I gave Sandy my lasagna recipe but invited her back a week later and I’d make it again. And that was that! When I made Sandy lasagna the following weekend she said the house was clean of energies – it felt it, too! To be on the safe side, Sandy burned sage around the place, but no more Wye Wady!

But just last night I was making that same vegetarian manicotti again and I heard footsteps in the hallway. Becky was there, too, heard the footsteps and we just looked at each other. I checked the hallway and there was nothing. I’m not about wasting food, but I am not ashamed to say I threw out that tray of manicotti and we ordered pizza.