"Ghosts?" Agatha Fusney stared down her nose at the sweating salesman on the doorstep. "Don't talk to me about ghosts! The house crawls with them. Keep me up all night, what with their moaning and their rattling and their creaking the floorboards and their shrieking to wake the dead. They wake me well enough. Woman from bloody Morris Realty said nothing about ghosts when she sold me the place. Now I'm rubbing elbows with unwanted house guests. And don't think any of them have a mind for me. They'd be just as glad to see me off, they would."The salesman slid his thumbs beneath his suspender straps and grinned at her. "Now that's just what I'm talking about, Mrs. Fusney. Mice and roaches have nothing on ghosts. Ghosts are pests disembodied, if you'll excuse the pun." He reached a sweaty hand into his breast pocket and produced a damp business card.