<strong>Malcolm Wade -- Happy Endings</strong><br/><br/>Thunder roared outside the open window, and tendrils of rain lashed hard into the room through the wildly swinging shutters. A bolt of lightning crashed to earth and split an ancient, gnarled oak tree into three pieces in the middle of the yard. The dogs yowled in their pens, and the horses kicked up a ruckus so loud in the nearby stables it almost competed with the weather. But that was nothing compared to the storm that was raging in the attic of 11254 Gemside Avenue.<br/><br/>Books, chairs, side tables, lamps -- anything that wasn't nailed down, really, and even that wasn't a guarantee -- whirled and flew about in hurricane-strength winds, generated by the former owners of the house, a Mr. and Mrs. Tilley. Screams of rage and anguish echoed throughout the house. The dusty floorboards rattled and shook, and within the center of the impossible cyclone floated the apparitions of the Tilleys, their ectoplasmic hands wrapped about each other's ethereal throats as they screamed their hatred in each other's faces.<br/><br/>"It's always heartwarming to see an old couple that still has passion in their relationship," Malcolm mumbled to himself as he stood in the doorway, one shoulder leaning against the frame. The spirits were ignoring him for now, and that was fine with him; he'd be bruised for days from the last time he got their attention. Another spectre hovered just in front of him, her perky -- ahem -- smile appearing completely unruffled by the phantasmic throwdown going on behind her.<br/><br/>"Cathy, any luck in finding out what it's going to take to lay these two to rest? Please tell me they want something simple; it was hard enough bringing them into solidity-" One of the smaller chairs bashed against the wall next to Malcolm's head and exploded into a pile of splinters; Mal barely managed to duck his head away and cover his eyes with one hand before continuing. "Also, remind me to tack on another two hundred when this is over; this is worth way more than a measly $250."<br/><br/><em>'yougotitbosslikeiwassayingitlookslikemrandmrstilley werereallyangryaboutsomethinginlifefromwhati couldgathereachonethoughtheotherstoleabigchunk oftheinheritancethatwassupposedtogototheirchildren butneithercouldeverprovetheotherwasguiltysothey bothwoundupmurderingeachotherinordertoreplacethe missingmoneywiththeirlifeinsurancebenefitswhichisnt reallysuchabadplanisawsomethinglikethatonatvshow onetimebuttherewasthisotherpersoninvolvedtooithink thehusbandintheshowhadamistressorsomethingbuti didn'tgettofinishwatchingitbecausewegotcalledupon anothercaseyouremembertheonewiththemissingkid whoturnedouttobehidingintheparkallthetimebutwe foundoutthathismotherwasactuallyplanningtousehim asasacrificetosummonademonandbecomesomekindof superwitchheybosshaveyoueverthoughtaboutgoingto hollywoodibetyoucouldgetyourlifestoryturnedintoatv showthatwouldbesocooliwonderwhotheydgettoplay meimeanyoudhavetodescribemetothemyoudbetter tellthemimhot-'</em><br/><br/>Malcolm sighed and closed his eyes as he leaned a little heavier on the doorframe. "I don't deserve this, you know. I really don't." As Cathy droned on in her usual style, Mal reached up and snapped his fingers through her left eye. "Cathy! Focus, sweetheart. The Tilleys. Murdered each other? Let me guess, they each want an admission of guilt, right?" Dammit. It could never be easy, could it?<br/><br/>"Well, we're never going to get them to talk to us. At least they won't be going anywhere for a while. I'm gonna go back down and talk to Greg some more; maybe he can shed a little light on things. Stay here and keep an eye on these two, will you? Come get me if they start fading back into the Deeps again."<br/><br/><em>'rightbossgoaheadillkeepwatchdonttaketoolong thoughbecausetheywontstaysolidformuchlongerand thenwellhavetobringthembackalloveragain'</em><br/><br/>Mal rolled his eyes as he turned away, waving Cathy off and trudging down the stairs. The sound of his sneakers squeaking on the hardwood floor brought professional fratboy-for-life Greg Tilley, the house's current owner and youngest son of the former owners, out of the kitchen, where he had apparently been nursing a few rounds of scotch. 'And he didn't even offer to share,' Malcolm thought with a slight shake of his head. Not that he could blame the fellow. After all, how much can it suck to learn you're being haunted by your own parents?<br/><br/>"Greg, I've found out what the spirits are after," he said gently, using 'the spirits' instead of 'your folks'. No need to shake him up any more than he was already about to. "It seems that they had a small fortune tucked away for you and your siblings, but before they...passed on, the lion's share of it was stolen, and they each blamed the other. I think if we can find out what happened to that money, maybe they can forgive each other and move on. Did you know about the inheritance? Do you have any idea what might have happened to it?"<br/><br/>At the mention of the inheritance, Greg went pale as a sheet. Malcolm narrowed his eyes, suspicion lancing through his thoughts, and a familiar tingle started to build in his fingers. Without waiting for an answer, Mal reached into the inside pocket of his oversized trench coat and pulled out a small white notepad and a charcoal pencil. As his fingers absently put pencil to paper, the circumstances of the missing money practically fell into place without effort. He kept his eyes on Greg, moments away from a total breakdown, until he felt his fingers stop moving. He glanced down with a sigh and read the sign in the image he'd drawn. "Blue Acres. The racetrack. Dammit, Greg, you<em>asshole</em>."<br/><br/><em>'heybossithinkmaybeweshouldleavetheytilleysare comingdownstairsithinktheyknowwhathappenedtothe moneyandtheylookreallymad'</em><br/><br/>Mal looked up just in time to see the Tilleys floating downstairs, arm in arm, parental disappointment mingled with mindless, murderous rage. "Sonny boy, it looks like you're about to get a spanking," Mal said. He stepped away from Greg and grabbed his worn-out fedora from the coatrack, gave the heavy-set man a nod, and bolted for the door.<br/><br/>As he walked through the still-pouring rain, new screams erupted from within the house, filled with fear and pain. Malcolm stopped a moment at his car and stared back at the Tudor style three-story, now filled with smoke and flickering light, and shook his head before sliding into the front seat of his beat-up Oldsmobile. Cathy manifested in the passenger seat right beside him, chattering away endlessly, and the rusted out engine coughed to life with the third turn of the ignition.<br/><br/>"Man, that's another one I'm not getting paid for."