The apparition was terrible to behold. Its chest was filled with bullet wounds, which oozed monochromatic blood, and his face was contorted in pain. He floated over the foot of my bed, making terrible, gurgling gasps.

"You are not welcome," he wheezed. "Leave this place! I died here, and here I will stay!"

"The hell you did," I replied testily.

There was a long moment where the two of us stared at each other.

"I did so," he said finally, but the fire had gone out of him.

"During what? A costume party?" I pointed a shaking hand at his clothes. "Circa... what? 1920s?"

"1924," he admitted.

"OK," I said, "and this house is victorian-style. It was built in 2004, on previously undeveloped land. So you... what, drove out in the middle of the woods and got gunned-down?"

"No," he replied sullenly.

"OK then, where did you actually die?"

He sat there, oozing and gurgling, with a sour expression, for what seemed like several minutes. "Gas station," he muttered.

"Then why don't you go haunt the gas station?" I demanded.

"C'mon, fella," he replied. "What sort of ghost would haunt a gas station?"