I’m going to sell my house, but I’m worried that nobody will be able to afford it. I’m sure that everybody would want my house. After all, you’d be crazy to pass up a ten-lane bowling alley, a full theatre with surround sound, an Olympic sized swimming pool, archways made of real gold and a kitchen that always smells like cookies. If not for the ghost that stalks the halls, (which, mind you isn’t something I have to report according to the Sale of Land Act 1962) I would be staying here. The ghost shouldn’t be a problem for anyone else. He used to be quite friendly. I think he just got sick of my constant jazz music.
I don’t know why he hates jazz so much. I’ve tried talking to him about it, but all I get are grunts and snide remarks about how contemporary orchestra is much better. But I tried playing contemporary orchestra, and he pretended not to like it, saying that it “wasn’t contemporary enough”. I have to rub my temples to fight a headache just thinking about it. I need to make sure I get some property transfer advice in Melbourne because I am worried that the ghost will just follow me to my next place. He’s a sneaky guy. I wouldn’t put it past him to put a transfer of ghost clause in the paperwork.
After all, he’s threatened to do it before. “I’ll just follow you, wherever you go,” he whispers in my ears while I try to sleep. “You can’t escape me. I will haunt you for the rest of your days. You will regret ever playing jazz in my house.”
He even comes with me to my performances, booing the whole time, while I try to please the crowd with my smooth jazz. He just won’t go away. I’ve tried an exorcist, but it hasn’t worked. The ghost came with this house though, so selling it seems to be my only hope. That is, if somebody can even afford a house for a hundred million dollars.