Margie Hutchins had lived at 47 Sycamore Road for thirty-two years, directly across from Pineville Cemetery, and she had notes.
"The Hendersons are at it again," she announced at the monthly town council meeting, slamming a spiral notebook onto the table. "Third time this week I've had to ask them to keep it down."
Mayor Webb pinched the bridge of his nose. "Margie, the Hendersons died in 1987."
"Which is exactly why they should know better about making racket at 2 AM."
The thing about living across from a haunted cemetery in West Virginia was that after a while, it just became a zoning issue. The ghosts weren't scary—they were annoying. They had boundary disputes. They left their ectoplasm on her lawn. Last Halloween, someone's great-great-grandfather had toilet-papered her oak tree, and she'd had words with him about respecting the living.
The real problem started when the new family moved in next door. The Pratts were from Ohio, which explained everything.
"Oh how charming!" Mrs. Pratt had gushed on moving day. "A historic cemetery! So quaint!"
Margie had tried to warn them. She'd brought over a casserole and a list of rules (Don't make eye contact with Colonel Ashby after midnight, never whistle near the mausoleums, absolutely no Ouija boards). The Pratts had smiled politely and nodded the way people do when they think you're senile.
Two weeks later, Mrs. Pratt was at Margie's door at 3 AM.
"There's a Confederate soldier in my kitchen eating my potato salad!"
"That'd be the Colonel. I told you about the whistling."
"I DIDN'T WHISTLE!"
"Your husband did. I heard him yesterday while trimming the hedges." Margie tightened her bathrobe. "Did you offer him a beverage?"
"What?"
"Common courtesy. He'll leave once he's had a beer. Preferably a local one—he gets testy about imports."
The Pratts learned quickly. Within a month, they'd established a solid relationship with most of the permanent residents of Pineville Cemetery. Mr. Pratt played chess with a judge from 1843. Their daughter practiced French with a woman who'd died on the Titanic (long story—she'd wanted to be buried in her hometown).
The only ongoing issue was the Henderson situation. They'd formed a spectral barbershop quartet and insisted on practicing at ungodly hours.
"We're dead," Old Man Henderson's ghost had argued when Margie confronted him. "Time is meaningless."
"My sleep schedule isn't."
Finally, the town council reached a compromise: The Hendersons could practice twice a week, but they had to perform at the Fourth of July picnic. It was actually pretty good, if you could get past the whole "transparent and occasionally flickering" thing.
Mrs. Pratt brought it up at book club: "You know, Ohio never had anything like this."
Margie smiled into her coffee. "That's because Ohio doesn't have character."
Everyone nodded. Even the ghost of Prudence McCarthy, who'd been sitting in on book club since 1952 and still had opinions about the ending of Pride and Prejudice.