Mrs. Fourth dropped her mop and ran to answer the door. The loud, rapid pounding made her assume the worst, but when she opened the door, it was only Mrs. Seventh. She was in her robe and slippers, and her hair was half wrapped in tin foil. Shaking and out of breath, she didn’t wait for the invitation.

“Help me wash this stuff off!” she said as she headed to the bathroom, and Mrs. Fourth rushed behind her.

“What happened?”

“Miss Third is crazy,” she said as she ran the shower head over her hair.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“She sees people that aren’t there. She was talking to someone. Now, can you please help me get this crap off?”

Mrs. Seventh was a rational woman, and it took a lot to faze her. Seeing her this flustered worried Mrs. Fourth. So, she helped her wash off the dye and offered whatever comfort she could. It was only after they cleaned up and poured the coffee that Mrs. Seventh was ready to talk.

Mrs. Third, the recent addition to the building, used to own a hair salon. After her husband died, the business went under, and she had to operate from her home and make house calls. So, when she approached Mrs. Seventh with an offer she couldn’t refuse, Mrs. Seventh agreed to have her roots redone.

“Everything was going well, and we were even hitting it off,” she said. “We were talking about how she could transform the room into a salon-like space, stuff she should get, how she could advertise, and then out of nowhere, she mutters, the ghost in my attic is not for sale.”

The Ghost In My Attic Is Not For Sale