He believed in ghosts to the extent that they were good for business. His colleagues thought he was crazy, but he always had an alert out for ghost stories and haunted houses.
He’d buy them cheap, wait a while for the story to die down, and flip them for huge profits.
Things were going well until one night, he found a spectral figure standing at the foot of his bed.
“I’m your twelve o’clock,” they said.
“What do you want?”
“You made a tidy sum selling my abode.” The ghost raised a bloody cleaver and grinned. “I want my cut.”

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