Gerald had been haunting his Victorian terrace for 112 years, and he was good at it. Doors slammed, light fittings rattled, groans curled through the walls like cigarette smoke.
So when the house was converted into an Airbnb, Gerald expected screaming. Fainting. At the very least, swift refunds.
Instead, the first guests left a review:
“Five stars! Such a spooky vibe. The ghost really commits to the theme. Would stay again.”
He tried harder. At 3 a.m. he howled so loud the rafters shook. The guests clapped from their beds.
“Brilliant sound effects,” they wrote. “Authentic atmosphere.”
A honeymooning couple giggled when he dragged chains through the hallway.
“Exciting ambience—like living in a horror film!”
Gerald was livid. This was his non-life’s work. Terror! Dread! Instead, he was entertainment.
His final gambit: materialising fully at the foot of the bed, eyes black pits, mouth a shriek of eternity.
The guest sat up, took a photo, and uploaded it: “Cosplay staff go above and beyond. Best Airbnb ever.”
The bookings multiplied. Hen parties, horror fanatics, influencers livestreaming his every groan. He rattled pipes until rust bled from them; they called it “industrial chic.”
He hissed curses through keyholes; guests recorded them into translation apps and marvelled at the “attention to linguistic detail.”
Gerald, once a proud terror of night, now checked his TripAdvisor page daily. Five stars, five stars, five stars. His legacy reduced to “quirky décor” and “immersive theming.”
He tried silence, retreating into the cellar. Immediately, a guest complained:
“Bit disappointed—no paranormal activity this time. Not as authentic.” Four stars.
That hurt more than any exorcism ever had.
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