A Haunting We Will Go

“Pon my word, you rapscallions won’t get a wink of sleep if it’s the last thing I do!” I declared to the packed lobby, my refined accent at odds with the radical, chill vibe. With an aristocratic harrumph, I sent the concierge desk crashing to the floor, to the shock of trendy guests sipping their pour-overs.

A wisp of ectoplasm myself these days, I was positively gobsmacked to manifest within the once grand interior of my family’s Victorian manor, only to find the place converted into a frightful den of hipster hogwash called “Hipster Hollow Hotel.” Needless to say, I was not chuffed in the slightest at this development.

“Odds bodkins!” I exclaimed in dismay, surveying the posh parlour now replaced with a rather garish imitation of a public house, replete with an expansive bar slinging peculiar potions like “artisanal moonshine” and “velvet fernet.” The floral wallpaper was stripped away, the elegant drapes replaced with thrift store rags, and families of taxidermied animals positioned about the place like macabre decor.

I drifted around in increasing dismay as the posh Persian rugs were swapped for paint-splattered canvas tarps and the antique furnishings discarded in favour of grubby armchairs and an overabundance of suede pillows. My once stately abode was well and truly gutted of any refinement. In the library, my leatherbound books had been cleared away to make room for common board games and a giant blacklight poster proclaiming “Just Chill” in lurid neon lettering. The music room, formerly hosting soirees and recitals, now contained a collection of eccentric instruments like the hang drum and didgeridoo.

Upstairs, the guest quarters were outfitted with bunk beds made of rough-hewn logs and bedding that resembled an explosion at a Guatemalan textile factory. Oddments like antlers, vintage snowshoes and taxidermied animals adorned the walls. But most distressing of all was the backyard, my beloved garden paved over to make way for a garish pool and a collection of tiny wooden sheds they had the nerve to call “luxury cabanas.” An assault on the senses it was!

As I floated about, sputtering in indignation, a lanky young chap with a waxed moustache approached. “Namaste, friend! I’m the manager here at Hipster Hollow,” he proclaimed with the enunciation of minor royalty. “I’m Reggie Harris. Are you, like, enjoying the ambiance we’ve curated to align with the chakras of our guests?”

I drew myself up to my full spectral height. “Sir, you have defaced my ancestral estate and filled it with flippant youths,” I informed him sternly. “I am Horace Percival Forbes, son of this house, and I must ask you to vacate the premises at once!”

Reggie’s caterpillar eyebrows shot up. “Woah gnarly, we have a real life ghost on our hands!” He turned to the trendily-dressed patrons. “Dudes, this is amazing! Let’s all just chill and send Mr Ghost some positive vibes.” Tie-dyed hoodlums making peculiar hand symbols and murmuring about cleansing my aura promptly surrounded me.

I attempted a haunting or two to rattle them, sending the occasional teacup and saucer crashing to the floor, fluttering papers about the lobby and causing the occasional disembodied moan to echo from the walls. But confound it, these infernal hipsters seemed to interpret my paranormal parlour tricks as entertainment laid on for their amusement. Requests came flooding in for me to appear on command and perform spectral feats.

When I focused my energy on levitating the barstools, whoops and giggles of delight ensued. An attempt to splash patrons with liquor merely prompted delighted cries of “so authentic!” I briefly took corporeal form and sat down at the piano, pounding out a haunted ballad, only to have enthusiastic guests clamour for an encore.

Exasperated, I hovered before Reggie once more. “Hellfire and Damnation! Just what does it take to get through to you impertinent whelps?” I enquired in vexation. “Kindly depart at once before I become truly perturbed!”

Reggie laughed. “Dude, your whole Victorian vibe is awesome! Our guests are stoked. This is amazing publicity.” With that ridiculous statement, he sauntered off, leaving me sputtering in vexation. Right, that settled it. I would have to take more drastic measures if I wished to reclaim my home from these below-stairs knaves.

As opening night approached, I began my campaign in earnest. While trendily-dressed guests mingled in the lobby, sipping elderflower spritzers, I stealthily set my plan in motion. The antique candelabras flickered ominously, their single flames flaring up in great gouts of blue and green. As an ominous pipe organ refrain echoed through the halls, chairs slid back from tables of their own volition.

“Pardon me, madam,” I intoned in sepulchral tones as a spritzer glass floated through the air, propelled by unseen forces. Shrieks began sounding as guests were mysteriously splashed by their own drinks. Candles were abruptly snuffed out, plunging the room into darkness.

A thunderous knocking resounded from the walls as all the paintings fell to the floor with a tremendous crash. The pothered patrons were in a proper tizzy. I materialised amongst the assembled morts, exclaiming, “Avast, you mutton shunters! Perhaps this will encourage you numps and muffs to seek lodgings elsewhere!”

The pièce de résistance was the grand piano in the corner springing to life, its keys pounding out a haunting refrain all on their own. Cacophonous notes rang out as the stupefied hipsters gazed about in shock, their bravado well and truly extinguished.

“Begone!” I declared, and with that, I promptly vanished in a puff of smoke with a cackle, leaving the nancy boys and Charlies positively gobsmacked. The entire do seemed in a right gulliver’s travails, the gang of hapenny buffleheads well and truly beggared by my phantasmagorical capers. I vanished, leaving the place in pandemonium.

The night was a thrashing success, with distressed guests fleeing into the night, demanding refunds and vowing never to return. Even Reggie seemed unnerved, making apologetic noises about contacting paranormal experts to banish the supernatural scourge. But I would not be banished! This was my ancestral home and I would brook no further intrusions.

In the weeks that followed, I was unrelenting in my persecution of the hipsters. In the yoga and meditation wing, I systematically untied the complicated woven mats, leaving the patrons flailing about upon collapsing fabric. I turned up the heat during classes, bringing the sweating, complaining yogis to the brink of exhaustion until they staggered out clutching their eco-friendly water bottles, parched and panting.

During restorative sessions I rustled papers, knocked over tranquility fountains, and wafted in scents of sulphur and rotten eggs, disrupting any hopes of a zen state. Crystals were mysteriously rearranged into less harmonious patterns. Malfunctioning speakers blared jarring heavy metal rather than soothing whale songs. By the end, the place was in a proper uproar.

In the guest quarters I made a right nuisance of myself, engaging in spirited banter with the spirit boards and expressing my opinions by hurling books about the room. As hipsters slumbered, their plaid beanies pulled down over their man buns, I yanked away blankets, leaving them shivering in the night. Dark shadows fell over their trendy lounge chairs by the pool, accompanied by wails of doom in their ears.

By checkout time most guests were in a proper state, tossing their belongings haphazardly into vintage suitcases and making a mad dash for the exit. My great delight knew no bounds as occupancy plummeted. Reggie grew increasingly perturbed as negative reviews piled up on travel websites alongside photos of levitating objects, spectral orbs, and unexplained viscid substances dripping down the walls.

Just as I was beginning to think I had triumphed, one morning I awoke to find a strange vehicle parked out front. EMF Detectors Ghost Hunters was emblazoned on the side, striking dread into my spectral heart. I watched anxiously as a crew trooped inside laden with peculiar equipment—electromagnetic field readers, infrared thermographic cameras, recording devices and such.

Clearly that confounded Reggie had called in the experts to dispel me. And the leader was none other than Randall Wraith, prominent phantom hunter and host of the television program Wraith Chasers. I observed nervously as Randall stalked about pointing various devices, hoping to capture evidence of my haunting on film.

As Wraith waved some sort of infrared scanner about, I heard footsteps behind me. “Blimey Uncle Horace, what’s all this then?” came a familiar voice. I turned to see young Lucy, my 12-year-old great grand-niece peering about. She had evidently come to investigate upon hearing reports of my rambunctious haunting. I had always had a soft spot for the child, impish as she was.

“Why my dear, I am simply defending our ancestral home from these uncultured hipster squatters,” I informed her, drawing myself up in a dignified manner.

Lucy’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “Coo, that’s a right brilliant prank, Uncle Horace! But seems a shame for these innocent folk to suffer your haunting too.”

I frowned severely. “Now see here, young lady, my intentions are most noble. These blackguards have overtaken our home and transformed it into a den of nonsense. Would you simply let them ransack our heritage?”

She cocked her head thoughtfully. “Point taken, but two wrongs and such, right?” I hemmed and hawed as she continued. “Anywho, I best be off before Mum and Dad notice I’m missing. Chin up Uncle Horace!” And with an impish wave, she scampered off, leaving me quite conflicted.

Before I could ponder further, a small explosion sounded from the monitoring equipment. Randall Wraith let out a triumphant cry. “I’ve got visual confirmation of the entity!” He held up a tablet excitedly, replaying footage of a gauzy shape that was undeniably yours truly.

Confound it all, my haunting days were numbered if this Nosferatu lookalike broadcast proof of my lingering presence. But what more could I do to defend my home and heritage? I recalled dear Lucy’s reproach and pondered. As Randall packed up his gear, I made myself scarce, retreating to the attic to cogitate.

Several days passed during which I kept a low profile, only occasionally rearranging paintings and causing the odd book to topple from a shelf. Reggie approached me sheepishly one evening just as I was debating giving the piano a good thumping.

“Er hello, Mr. Forbes,” he began formally, twisting his waxed moustache nervously. “I wanted to apologize for our previous interactions. Randall shared your story with me, and I realize we should have honoured your legacy here rather than erasing it completely.”

I squinted at him suspiciously. “Indeed, you could have spared a thought for the family who resided here for generations.” 

“Too right, totally bogus of me,” Reggie affirmed sincerely. “I’d be stoked if you could advise us on how to restore some of the heritage and maybe integrate it with our hipster vibe?” He gazed at me hopefully.

I considered briefly, then inclined my head. “I shall grant you an opportunity to make amends,” I allowed. “Do not squander it.” I extended a ghostly hand, which Reggie shook eagerly, sealing our pact.

In the weeks that followed, Reggie made a clear effort to redeem himself, soliciting my input on decor and engaging in lengthy discussions about my family’s history. I found myself regaling him with tales of my ancestors and traditions of the house. Gradually we settled into a sort of rapport. Randall Wraith even returned to conduct a respectful interview with yours truly that he assured me would cast my haunting in a positive light.

Yet it seemed my days at Hipster Hollow were numbered nevertheless. Word of my haunting had spread too widely now, leaving Reggie little choice but to sell the property. I observed anxiously as a parade of potential owners tromped through, peering about and occasionally shrieking at a well-timed spectral trick from yours truly. But none passed muster in my view.

Finally, when I had nearly abandoned hope, a lovely mature couple arrived to tour the premises—Simon and Daphne Worthington-Smythe. “Simply splendid! The house is quite charming,” Daphne declared as she lovingly ran her hand along the ornately carved banister I had spent many childhood hours sliding down.

“Quite right, my dear,” Simon agreed. “And the ghost is jolly good company to boot!” As I listened eagerly from a shadowy corner, they discussed plans to carefully restore the home to its original Victorian splendor.

I popped into view and executed a deep bow. “Your vision aligns splendidly with my own,” I declared approvingly. “I do believe we shall suit each other admirably as housemates.”

Daphne clapped her hands in delight. “Capital! We shall make a proper home for you and us both.” I quite warmed to them as the paperwork was swiftly drawn up.

Within a few months, the Worthington-Smythees had worked wonders, stripping away the hipster stylings to uncover the refined historical bones of the place. Antique furnishings filled the rooms, floral wallpaper returned, and the garden was carefully restored. The place oozed gentility and comfort.

At long last I could rest easily, surrounded by congenial companions who appreciated tradition and heritage as deeply as I. No longer did I yearn to torment guests with spectral tricks (although the occasional harmless prank remained tempting). A sense of profound peace and belonging settled over me.

The Worthington-Smythees welcomed my lingering presence with good humour. In return, I did my utmost to be a thoughtful phantom houseguest. On occasion, indulging me, they would even host old-fashioned tea parties and seances that I was able to attend in spectral form.

These small gestures of mutual understanding meant the world to me. So you see, even a lost soul like myself merely yearned for the familiar comforts of home and family that had sustained me in life. In this house where my weary heart remained, at long last I found the eternal rest promised to spirits like me who linger out of an abundance of love. For there is no force greater than the bonds of home to both soothe restless souls and revive faded hopes. And this charming little haunted manor had room enough for both.