Inspiration 6.66

[Gemini Cricket]

Okay here it is.
I think I'm going to write a completely different second story about the same house...

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Evan Sent
by: GC

It was discouraging to Evan that despite not believing in ghosts while he was alive, that he was one now after death. He sat in an auditorium filled with fuzzy theatre chairs, his had a black stain on the seat. He knew that because he could see through his lap. Evan found himself surrounded by other spectral spectators, each one with the same confused look on their faces. Almost ever seat was occupied by one translucent ghost after another. Evan noticed a cluster of ghosts huddled together in one section of seats. Not one of them was older than eight years old. The chairs surrounded a small stage at the base of the auditorium where an old woman sat writing in a large leather bound book with a quill.

"Phil Nielsen." She croaked.

Phil, a balding man in his fifties, floated towards the old woman. He was amazed at how unnecessary his legs and feet now were.

"I don’t understand." He said. "I was eating a hot dog at Dodger Stadium and…"

"You choked and died. You landed face down near one of the concession stands. When they turned you over to administer CPR, you had popcorn stuck to your face."

Phil blinked blankly.

The woman handed him a pair of bronze colored keys.

"1519 Lancaster Avenue." She said. "It’s a house, there’s no apartment number."

"Huh?" Phil asked.

"Your new home. 3 bedrooms, not bad."

"Home?" He asked her.

"The post-living have to haunt for awhile before you move on." She said. "If you move on."

"Why wouldn't someone move on?" Phil asked.

"You ask too many questions." She said scratching her cheek with a crooked fingernail.

With that, a trapdoor opened beneath Phil and he floated into the ground. The door snapped shut again, just clearing Phil’s comb-over.

There was a collective murmuring throughout the auditorium.
A woman with a bad weave unleashed a yell, "When’s it my turn?! I’ve been waiting for hours."

"Where do you have to be, Mrs. Hughes?" the old woman asked.
A nearby ghost who laughed at just about everything… laughed.
The old woman surveyed the room and her glare silenced the remaining murmuring phantoms.

"Evan Moretti." She said scribbling something on her book.
As Evan floated to face the woman, he attempted a smile. He reached out a hand.

"Evan Moretti, ma’am. Glad to be here?" He joked.

The woman narrowed her eyes at him as he retracted his hand.
"No need for that. I see right through you."

The laughing ghost chuckled.

The woman exhaled through her nose.

"Ma’am?" Evan began.

The old woman surveyed her book once again.

"How did I die?"

"On stage." She answered him with a dash of laughter. "You died reciting Shakespeare and fell into a cardboard gazebo, center stage."

"I don’t believe it." Evan said. He tried to cover his eyes but he, of course, could see right though his hand. He saw the woman looking at him still.

"Well, you never believed in ghosts before today and ta-da!" She said waving her quill like a magic wand.

"Mr. Moretti, I don’t often do this but I’m giving you poltergeist status. That means you can pick up objects and throw them if you like." The old woman turned a page in her big book. "From what I gather, you’ve got quite the temper. That’s good."

The woman handed him a set of keys that swung from a leather tag.

"18 Lin Lane." She said.

"Why do I need keys?" Evan asked. "Can’t I just walk through the door?"

"Not the first time you enter a house. It needs to be unlocked, the house needs to grant you access."

"I see."

He grasped the keys. She did not release them.

"This one’s a personal job. This one’s for me." She said.

"What am I supposed to do? I…"

"You’ll know when you get there."

Evan took his place on the trap door.

"Some things can even scare a ghost, Mr. Moretti." She warned.
As Evan was lowered into the floor, he watched as the old woman winked at him.