The manor on the hill had been abandoned for nearly eighty years—or at least, that’s what the townsfolk whispered. Its shutters dangled like broken teeth, the iron gate leaned on rusted hinges, and vines choked the old stone walls as though the house itself were being reclaimed by the earth. To human eyes, it was a ruin. To the residents inside, it was home.

Inside the great hall, lanterns glowed faintly blue, drifting in midair like fireflies with nowhere else to go. The wooden banister moaned when touched, not because of rot, but because the staircase liked to complain. The drawing room still smelled faintly of pipe tobacco, though the pipe’s owner had passed long before tobacco was fashionable. This was a place of murmurs, rattles, and soft laughter that echoed without lungs to make it.

For the ghosts of Blackthorn Manor, it was paradise. They floated through faded wallpaper and cracked mirrors with ease, gathering in parlors to swap stories of their earthly lives, playing chess with spectral pieces that clicked but never toppled. The air carried a comfortable chill, like a damp autumn evening, and the world outside could be ignored.

Until, of course, the humans came.

It began with a low rumble—tires crunching gravel, headlights slicing the mist. Then the telltale creak of the iron gate opening. The ghosts knew the signs. Phantasmagoria, the oldest of them all, dropped her embroidery hoop with a groan.

“Not again,” she muttered, her voice like the scrape of silk across stone.

A chorus of moans echoed around her. Mortimer, the skeletal gentleman who favored the billiards table, slammed down his cue. “It’s Thursday! They never come on Thursdays!”

“They’re getting bold,” whispered a childlike spirit, clinging to the chandelier. “Flashlights. Tripods. Recorders. Always recorders.”

The ghosts scurried—or rather, drifted—into their hiding spots. Some pressed themselves into cracked portraits, eyes blinking unnaturally from painted faces. Others vanished into the stone foundations, muttering about damp boots and footprints on polished floors.

The front door groaned open.

“Oh wow, it smells so creepy in here,” said a human voice, shrill and eager. A beam of light swept across the great hall, cutting through the ghostly haze.

“Quick, pretend you’re dust!” hissed Mortimer. He flung himself into the air, dispersing into a cloud so fine that one of the humans sneezed violently.

“Did you hear that?” another voice gasped. “It’s a sign!”

“It’s a draft,” muttered Phantasmagoria, now lodged in the drapes.

The humans moved from room to room, their gadgets chirping and beeping, red dots blinking like tiny eyes. Every time one of them gasped—at a door creaking, a floorboard groaning—the ghosts winced as though they themselves were the startled ones.

In the library, a man tapped on the wall. “Knock twice if you’re here!”

The wall, annoyed, groaned on its own. The humans shrieked.

“Look at this! I think we got something!”

The ghosts rolled their eyes.

Later, in the cellar, one of the humans lit incense to “draw the spirits out.” The smoke wafted up into the beams where the Blackthorn children liked to play hide-and-seek. The little ones coughed dramatically, then giggled at their own performance, which only made the humans gasp louder.

By the time the visitors finally packed up their cameras and recorders, the manor’s residents were exhausted. The air hummed with too much flashlight residue, the kind that left the spectral world shimmering uncomfortably. Doors sagged after being slammed too often. Even the staircase had gone silent, sulking from overuse.

When the cars at last rumbled down the gravel path and the iron gate clanged shut, a sigh of relief rippled through the house.

Phantasmagoria floated back to her embroidery hoop and picked it up with trembling hands. Mortimer re-formed himself by the billiards table, chalking his cue with exaggerated care. The chandelier children tumbled down in glowing somersaults.

“Why do they insist on coming here?” Mortimer muttered.

“Because they think it’s our fault the place is haunted,” said Phantasmagoria. She stitched a neat line of spectral thread through a faded hoop of linen. “As though it’s us making all the noise.”

“They don’t understand,” whispered one of the children, still giggling faintly, “that this is just where we live.”

Silence settled again over the halls, the manor groaning back into its familiar rhythms. Outside, the mist swallowed the last trace of headlights. Inside, the ghosts tried to reclaim their peace—soft chess pieces clicking, embroidery needles passing through cloth that never tore, the fireplace whispering old warmth.

For them, this was not a haunted house at all. It was simply home, and the humans were the intruders.

The ghosts were just trying to live in peace.