Under the ebon archway of despair, where light doth fear to tread, lurked Gerald, the hapless specter who dabbled in improvisational hauntings.
"Boo?" he questioned the unsuspecting widow, who instead offered him a cup of tea and a biscuit. The spectral bewilderment was palpable.
Here lies the stage of the damned yet comedic: where skeletons forget lines and tombstones wobble in fits of inexplicable mirth.
Venture into the Corridors of Echoes