You know the hardest part about haunting a house for a hundred years? Keeping it clean.
You pesky kids break my windows to sneak in and do your sordid acts of rebellion. You get candle wax and chalk dust all over my nice hardwood floors. And then some man with a toolbelt and a sticky wad of tobacco comes by. Does he repair the windows properly? No. He just nails a couple of boards across the front, like that’s going to help with anything.
All that does is let the bugs in, you jerk.
And then. AND THEN! The spiders come to manage the bugs, which would be okay except they leave icky spider webs everywhere. Everywhere….
Then leaves come in between the window boards in the fall. And then you stupid, annoying teenagers break in the cellar door and track mud all over my nice Persian throw rugs. They used to look so nice, and now they’re nothing but faded and threadbare.
And on top of ALL OF THIS, my poor Victorian doll collection is propped up in the sitting room, just collecting dust. Decades of dust and grime coat everything, from my grandmother’s tea set to the collection of spell books in the library—that I lovingly collected and kept immaculately clean my entire corporeal life, thank you very much!
God, this place is a mess. If only there were a child who could sense my distress and bring me what I need!
