“So, this might sound a little crazy, but I swear that it’s true. A few months ago, my great uncle died. We weren’t particularly close or anything, but I guess I was the nearest thing he had to an heir. He ended up leaving me his entire estate. Most of it was the usual stuff: a few bank accounts, his house, his car, but one oddity jumped out at me. He had, apparently, in a game of chance, won the deed to an old bed and breakfast out on the East coast.
“The place hadn’t been operational in years, and he had owed some money in taxes. I went out there to check it out, maybe fix it up a little bit and make a quick profit. I figured that I’d stay there a week. When I got there, I saw the inn had good bones; it really just needed a few patches here and there and a couple coats of paint.
“That first night, I heard strange noises. I dreamt I saw a man in colonial garb walking down the hallway. I didn’t think anything of it; it’s an old building, the floors would creak, the place would settle. But each night, the dreams got more vivid. By night three, the man introduced himself to me as Reginald Smithe. He was so beautiful. By the fifth night, I started to realize, I was falling in love.
“Well,” the doctor said, “the test results came back: you have ghost herpes.”