"Pass me that Woman's Weekly, would you?"
"The magazine. Pass it to me."
"No. The one with Nanette Newman on the cover holding a washing up liquid bottle and a knitted uterus."
"Here you are-"
* c r r e e e e e e e a k *
Three seconds into the fallen silence, someone whispered: "What was that?" We all looked around wildly, searching for the source of the chilling creak. Suddenly, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle sat up straight and tutted.
"Oh, crap" he said as the door at the far end of the room opened fully.
"Wha-" Sir Isaac Newton began before this happened:
"Shit. It's Yvette Fielding and the Most Haunted crew." Marie Curie rolled her eyes. "We'll never get any peace now. Go on" she said, glaring at me. "It's your turn to frighten them off."
"But... But, I'm not even properly dead!" I hissed.
"But-" I tried again but was cut off.
"Look. You've been hanging around with us ghouls for long enough to pull your weight when it's needed. And it's needed now. We're bored of scaring off that wailing, shrieking harridan.
"I-" I began.
"No excuses. Just get rid of her" Marie paused, a look of diabolical evil lit up her ghostly face brighter than the radiation that lingered from her life, "or we'll revoke your haunting license."
"Yes" Rod Hull interrupted. "We know you've 'amended' it from haunting to stalking. That poor boy..."
"Oh, OK, then" I sighed in blackmailed resignation.
"Be careful of her monstrous hair" John Inman warned. "Beryl got trapped in it last year and we haven't seen hide nor hair of her since."
"And she had a lot of hide, the fat cow" Sir Arthur sniggered.
"Hey! You shouldn't speak ill of the dead" Rod exclaimed, horrified.
"I don't see why not - She hated me, and I'm just as dead as she is. P'raps even deader."
"Shut up, you two" Marie scolded. "C'mon, let's go to the cinema while IDV gets rid of Yvette."
"Star Trek? Really? I thought that had died a death years ago?"
- - -
And that's how come I haven't seen Star Trek yet. Maybe next week?