“No. I’ll not do it.” The man upstairs almost slammed the door off its hinges.
Peter made more marks on the pen he had been chewing than on the income column in his accounts. He stared at the roaring fire he’d set to welcome his guests. He thought, maybe, it was roaring for his business plan. The man upstairs had stopped playing ball, and now the ghost party tip-toed into Peter’s isolated joint. They chattered about the moonlit frost surrounding his historic inn and eyed dark corners for apparitions. The inn stood desolate on the misty Yorkshire Moors, and the camera-ready guests ooohed and aaahed at the silvery romance and the prospect of a good haunting.