Marcia decided that she finally had to do something about her situation, the night that she found the ghost had eaten a whole packet of her biscuits.
Her favourite ones! She took her phone, searching for the right number. There!
'Hello? Is this Rentaghost speaking?'
'This is. Unfortunately not Mr Claypole nor Mr Mumfort and I'm afraid not Hubert Davenport either, but we're the successors. Actually, no we're not, we just liked the name. What can I do for you, Miss?'
'You need to collect a ghost at my house.'
'Miss, I'm afrai-'
'It seeks employment.'
"Employment? Ah, well, that's a different matter entirely. Have they a CV they can submit?"
"CV? CV!" I thought. I hadn't considered that.
"The house... I mean the dog ate it!"
"I'm sorry, Miss, we don't take any old ghost. Wait a minute, we do. "
"What's the address?"
"It's the Colman Mausoleum at Shady Crest."
With a sigh, and perhaps a string of very creative explicatives, Marcia pocketed her phone, grabbed the last of her spare change, and headed to the corner shop, hoping she had enough for more biscuits.
Just past 5th Street her sense of irony belatedly came on line. "CV?" she thought. " 'Curriculum Vitae.' Vita, Latin for 'life.' Something a ghost left behind long ago. Tee hee." The Bodega on Gaff Street always had her favorite biscuits.