“It’s your turn, buddy.”

“No it’s not. I did it last  time.”

Ted chuckles as Jim protests. Truthfully, he doesn’t know whose turn it is. Curious passersby have been coming to visit in droves lately. It feels like they’ve been interrupted every ten minutes or so this afternoon.

“C’mon, just get it over with.”

A huff precedes Jim’s next move. He lays down an eight of spades with wavering confidence. Ted smirks and plays his ace, claiming victory of the round.

“Dammit, Ted.”

“Hey, it ain’t my fault that I’m lucky.”

“Tell that to the bullet hole in your chest,” Jim says flatly. An exasperated sigh escapes him as tapping comes at the windows. Excited murmuring follows through the rotting walls. It grows louder and more insistent as they continue playing, dragging out their endless War.

“Jim,” Ted’s brow wrinkles, “they’re kinda askin’ for it.”

“Oh, fine.”

Jim resigns with a grunt and stands from the table. His translucent limbs fade to nothing about two inches from the floorboards, still dripping with water from the lake he’d drowned in. Drifting nearer to the windows, he lets out a ghoulish, Hollywood-worthy moan. The investigators outside stop bustling and quickly scatter. Ted snickers once more.

“Nicely done. Real dramatic, too.”

Cards are collected and reshuffled for another game. Jim frowns as he reclaims his seat.

“You know,” he laments, “haunting houses just isn’t what it used to be.”