WITH HORROR, Grace realized at that very moment that she was dead, and that she was now a ghost, and that she would be doomed to haunt the dark, dank, dusty halls of the decrepit Chuffnuttington Manor, for all eternity. What would become of her darling children? What of her dear husband, who had not the least idea of how to order dinner?

"Dear maman," said her suddenly-appearing twin children, Catherine and Carlos. "It is we who have passed on to become phantoms and not you." They stood before her, pale and calm, just as eerie in death as in life, for they had since birth a penchant for playing with each other's feces. "Do not fear," they chimed in unison. "We are ever so happy here. We can play all the day, and our laughter will fill your dreams."

"How awful," said Grace.

But then suddenly bursting into the locked room was her husband, Barley, his eyes ringed with dark circles, seaweed covering his pants. "Darling, darling," he uttered. "How silly you are. It is not you who is the haunting spirit, but I. And before I ascend to the bright light, I'd like you to take note of a few things, such as how to work the boiler, and that I squandered your family's fortune on Internet gambling and femdom porn."

"Ah, Barley!" said Grace.

"Nonsense!" came a voice, spiteful, resonant, and hinting of evil and apricot brandy. It was the voice of Barley’s boss, Lord Chuffnuttington, master of Chuffnuttington Manor. He glided into the room in his cape and patent leather mandals. "I am the true ghost who haunts Chuffnuttington Manor! All the guests have been tricked into coming here by my missive from the Other Side!!! You know, where I live. "

Just then, all his other guests filed into the bedroom, slowly, ponderously behind him. "No, no, it is us," said the young ethnic couple who needed only some trauma to reaffirm their love for one another. "We died eating Paula Deen's food. Or we should have." Just then the sarcastic parapsychologist with curly hair spoke up, "Boy, do I hate being right all the time!" And then, in the back, almost hidden in the shadows, came the voice of the diminutive psychic: "You're all wrong. I feel it. I can feel it! I am the one who has died, and you are all just figments of my mental powers."

"Oh please. I don't believe any of this," said the comely-yet-duplicitous real estate developer who cowered behind the heavy velvet drapes from IKEA.

"Oh. Oh. You're right," said the diminutive psychic. "I'm not a real diminutive psychic. I just get really sensitive sometimes. I'm a Virgo."

"FOOLS!" came the snarling voice, with it geographically-unplaceable accent, of Carla Van Carla, the maid/chef/groundskeeper/mechanic/masseuse. She had a face as crooked as Republican logic and a serious hangnail on her left pinky. "I've reached back from the Darkness to haunt you all for your sins!"

"But then who made the hors d'oeuvres?" said Grace.

"She's got pretty nimble fingers for an apparition," said Barley. "The canapés were to die for."

"This can't be," pronounced Lord Chuffnuttington. "We can't all be ghosts."

"Wait, I know!" said the diminutive psychic, who had dropped out of Smith. "It's the house!"

Just then the doors creaked, a microwave dinged, and an ancient clock in the parlor downstairs chimed sonorously, like a forewarning of malevolence.

“The house is a ghost! The house is a ghost!" sang the twins, like a nursery rhyme. 

"That explains the lack of wifi," said the male half of the young ethnic couple who needed only some trauma to reaffirm their love for one another.

"There is an old Indian burial ground below the library," said the comely-yet-duplicitous real estate developer. "But maybe that can be turned that into a little casino room."

Just then the old Rottweiller, who had been missing for days after chewing up Barley's anal plug, appeared on the bed and barked: "Silly humans! Hear me, Rugtug Catkiller, for that is my true name among my people. I passed into the Great Nap many months ago, but I have brought you here to hear my plea from the Eternal Yard of Light."

"Get down, you demon hellhound," said Barley, who, like all the other humans, had not understood a word the dog had said.

And then, in the stillness that followed, they realized that they were all alive, that none of them was a ghost, or apparition, or poltergeist. Things seemed to go well after that, until Grace suggested a game of charades. The others quickly overpowered her, cooked her, and ate her like livestock. The twins particularly enjoyed her shins. "Maman is a tasty maman," they said, giggling in French.

Afterward, at midnight, their bellies filled, their mouths greasy, they all sat round the dark, cavernous library with its cavernous fireplace, and, realizing after all that there was nothing else to do, began a ripping game of charades.

"First word. One syllable."