“The main house was built in 1774 and has four hidden rooms. We use them to rest after haunting humans. And to hide from the cats.”
Cats could see ghosts. More to the point, cats judged ghosts. Only one life, and then carry on working after that? Cats had loftier ambitions.
Mr Giles led the new girl round the room, showing her various trinkets they’d stolen from humans over the centuries. She nodded politely, clearly wondering why death hadn’t saved her from fusty old men.
Mrs Banks looked up from the newspaper she’d stolen from the recycling bin. “Listen! The humans are going to be building on top of the old swamp. Perhaps that poor chap has a chance of finding peace now.”
There were murmurs of assent. ‘That poor chap’ was Pete, who modern humans now classified as a Neanderthal and whose remains, preserved in peat, kept him tethered to the earth. How he ended up in Mirth Manor he wouldn’t say.
The new girl smiled politely, eager to be taken out of Mr Giles’s orbit to some more interesting conversation. “Sorry, have I met the gentleman in question?”
Mrs Banks looked at her over the rims of her unnecessary glasses. These were not an affectation; they’d been necessary in life and could not be removed in death. Now overcorrecting her death-provided perfect vision, she was forced to look over, under, and round them at all times. Her eyeball strain was famous in the house.
“Ginger chap, brawny. You may have seen him in the paddock. Still fascinated by horses.”
“Still looking for mammoths, you mean.” Said Mr Giles.
There was a scratch at the door, and they all turned to stare at it. It was one of the cats, unable to gain entrance but knowing they were there.
“Shall we let him in?” Asked the new girl.
“Under no circumstances are the cats allowed in our rooms. We’re all allergic.”
“We’re all dead.”
“It’s psychosomatic, I’ll grant you.”
Mrs Banks went back to the paper. “You should let Pete know, Mr Giles.”
“Why? Even if they find his remains, there’s no guarantee they’ll let them age. They might preserve them. They like doing that to the other species. Anyway, it will take decades for him to disappear even if they do let it happen.”
“Still, the circus must build its tent.” Said Mr Macmillan, not looking away from the door.
Mrs Banks smiled at him politely. Mr Macmillan was head of their group, but his remains were nearly gone and, with them, his grasp of reality. Still, they tended to follow his lead, or at least its general vibe. “That settles it.” Said Mrs Banks. “You tell him, Giles.”
Mr Giles narrowed his eyes at being given an order. Mrs Banks pretended not to notice.
“The poor cat really does want to see us.” Said the girl, catching the sudden tension.
“It will see us plenty tonight when we do our rounds.” Insisted Mr Giles, looking away from Mrs Banks pointedly. He will tell Pete, but not because Mrs Banks told him too. Obviously.
“Were you a pet lover in life, my dear?” Asked Mrs Banks.
“Yes. Cats, dogs, horses, ferrets, snakes. Don’t let those last two near each other.”
“No risk of that.” Said Mr Giles.
“You’ll find pets are more trouble than they’re worth when you’re dead.” Mrs Banks said. “They can spoil a good haunting.”
“But doesn’t it help that they stare at us when the humans can’t see us? It used to freak my mum out!”
“We don’t need their help to be terrifying, my dear.” Sniffed Miss Moran from the back of the room.
“No, I only meant-“
“She knows what you meant.” Said Mrs Banks. She had very little patience for Miss Moran, who had arrived at the manor only two days after Mrs Banks and was forever – or until their bones dissolved – snapping at her heels.
“I fancy a visit to mummy.” Said Mr Macmillan.
“Oh, is his mother also haunting?” Asked the girl.
“No, he means Mummy, capital M. One of the museum ones. They came over with their remains.” Explained Miss Moran, trying to appear nicer than her previous statement had made her out to be, and if at all possible, nicer than she actually was.
“Do they speak English?”
“They’ve been around a while. They speak any number of languages, most as dead as they are.” Said Mr Giles.
“I could do with a night in London.” Said Mrs Banks. “Just the mummies, mind. I’m not going grave visiting.”
“Don’t you want to meet the queen?” Said the girl excitedly.
“The queue’s dreadful.”
“It really is.” Agreed Mrs Giles.
“Still, there’s no harm in it.” Said Miss Moran. “We’re not in a hurry, are we?”
“You want to stand in line for four hours with Mac?” Asked Mrs Banks.
All eyes turned toward Macmillan, who was watching the door again. Miss Moran was forced to concede the point.
“How about Sting, then? Let’s go meet Sting.”
“He’s still alive, Mr Giles.” Said the girl.
“Oh. Let’s go haunt Sting, then!”
“Yes, all right. Never liked his music anyway.”
“Museum, then Sting?”
“Yes, let’s. It will tired Mac out, too. We might get a good day’s rest out of it.”
Arkin Prose 
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